Chapter 10
Hannah
Hannah Morgan suffered a broken ankle on day one.
Not the welcome she was imagining, but is the construction too much for this LA influencer?
Maybe they should’ve hired a host who’s used to the roughness out here.
Dr. Whisperer
“I thought you wanted to leave today.” The deep rumble feels like it’s somewhere in my subconscious, pulling me from sleep. How am I dreaming of Dr. Sterling now? But as the voice keeps talking, it gets louder, more insistent.
“I guess I’ll come back.”
I snap my eyes open, and his body looms near the bed, backlit by the harsh fluorescent light in the hallway bleeding through the door.
My tongue feels like sandpaper as I open my mouth to speak. When did it get so dry? I close my mouth again, trying to work up some saliva.
“I thought—”
“You thought what, Miss Morgan?” he says as he steps closer, one dark eyebrow quirked. A hint of curiosity and amusement lace his voice.
I swallow, the movement painful in my parched throat. I don’t really want to tell him, heat creeping up my neck, but the words tumble out anyway. “I thought I was dreaming.”
“Nope, I’m very real.” There’s definitely a smirk now, the corner of his mouth lifting as he moves to the side of the bed. “And don’t worry… you’re not the first patient to tell me they’ve dreamt of me.”
I can’t believe I just admitted that, but he seems more tolerable today. The frown line between his eyebrows has smoothed out a little.
“Yeah, well, I’m sure that adds to your ego,” I mutter, running my thumb against the edge of the blanket. “Does it mean I get to go home?”
“Miss Morgan, you don’t look like you’re in any state to even move.
” He crosses his arms over his navy scrubs, studying me with narrowed eyes.
His gaze travels from my face down to where my hands rest on the blanket.
I’m suddenly aware that I probably look like absolute shit.
My hair feels like a bird’s nest, and I don’t even want to think about how my makeup from yesterday has worn off.
I probably have mascara smudges around my eyes, making me look like the raccoon who got me here.
As he checks my vitals, he asks, “How are you feeling?”
“You mean my head or my ankle?” The room spins a little when I try to focus too hard on his face. I have to close my eyes for a second to make it stop.
“Your ankle, Miss Morgan.” He pauses, and when I open my eyes again, his brow furrows with concern. “But what’s wrong with your head?”
I shouldn’t be surprised that he can read between the lines. He’s already proven he listens to what I’m not saying as much as what I am. “Just fuzzy. Like I’ve been on a big night out.”
“That’s from the anesthetic. You’ve never had one, so you don’t know what to expect.
” His tone softens just a fraction, and he uncrosses his arms. “It’ll pass.
Usually takes a while to feel more like yourself.
” He slips one hand into the pocket of his scrub pants. “So, did you sleep okay last night?”
“Define ‘okay’.”
“As in, you got a couple of hours of sleep.” The ghost of a smile plays at his lips. “I’m not asking for eight solid, comfy hours.”
“Then yes,” I answer, because I did, on and off, get a couple of hours of sleep in total, broken up by being poked and prodded by the nurses checking my blood pressure, temperature, and oxygen levels.
Which I’m not upset about. They were just doing their jobs. But I’m exhausted and running on fumes.
“Well, when am I going to feel good enough to leave?” I need to know the timeline. If there’s any chance I can get back on set today.
“Well…” He shifts his weight, and as a hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, the movement draws my gaze to his freshly shaved jaw.
His morning aftershave is heavy in the air.
It’s intoxicating… sweet, almost, with a hint of spice underneath.
Maybe I’m sensitive to it because I’m lying here looking like death warmed up and in desperate need of a shower.
“I came in a little early for you, thinking you might want to run away,” he says, and there’s something almost playful in his voice. “But I’ll give you a couple more hours.”
I begrudgingly admit that this is the best decision.
My eyes drag back up to his face, and I notice something different. “Hey, you’re not wearing your glasses.”
“I mainly use them for reading.”
“I like your glasses,” I whisper, but thankfully it comes out more as a barely audible mumble. Probably not a good look, telling the doctor I think he’s attractive with glasses on.
He doesn’t seem to hear me, already moving to the foot of the bed. As he carefully lifts the blanket from my injured foot, he adds, “The nurse said you did well last night, though. All your vitals were stable. I think you’ll recover nicely.”
“Yay,” I deadpan, though I’m genuinely happy. It’s just that the drugs are making everything feel distant and strange. I start to think about how I need to update my manager and see how I can get back to the show. But my thoughts vanish when his fingers brush my skin.
His touch is different today. I’m so numb I can barely feel his fingers on my skin, but I can see them moving carefully as he unwraps the bandaging. If I look closely enough, I see a tremor in his hands as they brush against my splint.
There’s no way he’s nervous. That doesn’t make sense. He’s operated on me. Why would examining my ankle make his hands shake? Or maybe it could be my eyes playing tricks on me from the anesthetic. Things are looking a little hazy right now.
Sleep tries to pull me under again. I’m fighting with everything I have to stay awake, but my eyelids are so heavy.
He tucks my foot back gently under the blanket, and I just watch him through half-closed eyes, blinking slowly.
“Well, I’ll give you a couple more hours. Maybe then you’ll be a bit more awake.” His voice sounds far away, like he’s speaking from a distance.
I try to say “okay,” but it comes out as another mumble.
I’m so exhausted.
As he turns to leave, I hear him say something else, but I can’t make out the words. I don’t even hear the door close before I’m pulled under again.
A few hours later, I blink my eyes open and check the time on the wall.
Nine. Shit. My stomach drops. I haven’t let Dain know where I am or what’s happened.
Panic flutters in my chest. I don’t know what to do.
Surely, Candace has sorted it out for me, called production, made excuses, but I’ll definitely be there tomorrow.
Rain, hail, or shine. I’ll be there, hobbling or not.
I’ll be there, drowsy or not. I have to be there.
I press my palms against my temples, trying to think through the fog. Can’t he reverse this? Give me something else to help clear my head faster?
As if on cue, the door rattles. I expect it to be Sterling, but it’s not. It’s Dr. Cooper. Hope blooms in my chest at the fact that maybe she could help reverse the anesthetic.
“Hey, I wanted to check in on my favorite patient.” I catch the smile in her eyes before it reaches her lips.
I smile back, though it feels weak. Being “special” means nothing if I can’t perform. But I don’t say that. “Is that what you say to all your patients?”
“No, but you are kind of special.” She moves closer to the bed, her gaze sweeping over me with a professional eye.
“Thanks. I was actually hoping to get out of here. My head is a little clearer.”
“That’s good to hear,” she says. There’s a “but” coming; I can sense it in her tone.
“But it’ll take a good couple of days for you to feel completely back to normal. And unfortunately, you’re going to have to take pain relief that will keep your brain a little foggy.”
My heart sinks. Oh my God, Dain is going to see it as confirmation that I’m not ready for this job. I force myself to nod, holding down the anxiety crawling up my throat. “Okay. I understand.”
“I’m sorry. I’m going to prescribe you some medication. Do you have someone picking you up?”
“Yeah, I do.” It’ll be Channing.
“I’ll get the medication brought up here. When you’re ready, you’re free to go on my end, as long as you don’t have any other questions for me. Here’s my card with my number. Otherwise, take care of yourself.”
“Thanks, Dr. Cooper. You’ve been amazing.”
She gives me a friendly smile, and I watch as she walks out, closing the door behind her.
One doctor down, one to go. I take a deep breath, steeling myself. I need to get out of here today. That’s the plan. I press the bell for the nurses and try to sit up. The movement makes my head swim for a moment, and the pain in my ankle screams, but I push through it.
On the bedside table, I notice there’s food—toast, cookies, juice, and flowers.
A massive, beautiful arrangement of white and pale-pink roses in a crystal vase with a white ribbon on the side table.
I don’t remember seeing them before. Who are they from?
I crane my neck, looking for a card, but can’t spot one anywhere. So, I leave it for now.
The nurse comes in a minute later. She’s young, maybe mid-twenties, with her dark hair pulled back into a neat ponytail.
“Hi, Miss Morgan.”
“You can call me Hannah,” I say.
“Okay, Hannah.”
“Thanks.” I try to sit up straighter, wanting to look more capable than I feel.
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m all right. Apparently, this is how I’m going to feel for a couple of days, so I was wondering if I can get out of here.”
“Well, Dr. Cooper’s been here, but I know you have to be cleared by Dr. Sterling as well. He’s technically the lead on your case.” She shifts her weight, clutching her tablet to her chest.
“Could you call him?”
Her face looks a bit pinched for a second. Like she’s weighing whether to say something.
“I’m sure he’ll come for me.” The statement leaves my lips more confidently than I feel. Using my celebrity status feels like admitting defeat, as if I can’t succeed on merit alone, but right now, I’ll do anything just to get the hell out of here.
“Sure. Let’s see what I can do.”