Chapter 12
Zac
Jameson: Don’t go into town.
My fingers still momentarily because Jameson doesn’t usually warn me about things unless it is serious.
Me: Why?
Jameson: Your ex is walking around.
Me: I don’t care.
Jameson: Sure, you don’t.
Me: You’re about to be uninvited to fishing if you don’t shut the fuck up.
Jameson: And who’s going to bring the fun?
Me: I can buy the beer.
Emmett: Touche
Jameson: I was just warning you, dickhead. Trying to save us from you being a dickhead.
I feel guilty that’s how they view me after I’ve run into Yolanda, but she made me bitter. I can’t help it.
Me: I’m not a dickhead.
Emmett: He has a point…
Me: Really? You both suck.
Jameson: Just go straight to our spot.
Me: Fine. See you soon.
I tuck my phone away into my pocket. I’m confused by what they mean. I’m not different when I see Yolanda. Physically, I want to tell her to fuck off out of Pulse Point, but I feel like she’d dig her claws in tighter.
When you tell someone that they can’t do something, and they do the opposite? That’s my ex.
All she wanted was to be a doctor’s wife. The type who like shopping, nails, designer clothes, and fancy dinners. I wanted a humble, quiet, homebody life. She dreamed of moving to the city, but I’m a mid-town senior doctor.
I shouldn’t need to change for someone to love me.
I’d never want them to change, never expect them to.
That’s what went wrong with Yolanda. I kept waiting for her to be someone else…
less jealous, less controlling, less obsessed with my career as a reflection of her own worth.
I thought if I worked hard enough, achieved enough, proved my value, she’d relax.
She’d stop trying to mold me into the version she wanted.
She never changed. And I finally accepted that it was never going to be enough. So now, I know better. I know that love shouldn’t require transformation. It should be about accepting someone exactly as they are. Flaws, ambitions, and stubborn determination to self-destruct and all.
I don’t blame her completely, because I let her do that, but I was hoping it would change into something long-term.
Instead, she never made my heart pound; we were acquaintances, nothing more.
A part of me thinks she would’ve been happy with the appearance of that relationship alone.
But it wasn’t enough for me. So, I blocked her number, and now the only way of seeing or hearing from her is bumping into her around town.
Which I don’t do often. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but it’s not another relationship.
I pack my stuff before I head to work. It’s my day off, but I have a follow-up appointment with Hannah.
Hannah. Not Miss Morgan. Not in my head anymore.
The thought bothers me more than it should.
I’d say she’s the only person making me edgy. I don’t know why I’m so bothered.
It’s probably because I’m confused by my reaction to her.
But also, I’ve been thinking about her recovery.
Wondering if she’s resting like I told her to.
Knowing she probably isn’t. And when she walks into the office, I’ll see the evidence of that—pain in her eyes, exhaustion in how she carries herself.
And I’ll have to pretend that it doesn’t affect me.
Because if it affects me, that means I care. And if I care, that means I’ve already crossed lines I said I wouldn’t cross.
An hour later, my car is packed for the trip, so I head to the hospital.
I walk into my office and turn on my computer, going through emails before setting up the treatment room. I’m only seeing her, so the notes won’t take long after she leaves. Then I can grab some takeout to take to the boys.
The last one to arrive is always the one to bring dinner on the first night.
It’s almost like a punishment. I can count on one hand how many times I’ve had to buy dinner.
That’s how much I clear my schedule for fishing.
It’s my time off, and I guard that time with everything I have.
Nothing and no one gets in the way. Except today and Miss Hannah Morgan.
Slipping on my glasses, I read and answer emails while I wait for her.
Glancing at my watch, I see she’s already ten minutes late.
Where is she?
My phone buzzes with texts from the boys’ group chat.
Emmett: Where are you? We need more beer.
Jameson: Did you get held up at the hospital?
Emmett: Don’t tell me you did. It’s your day off, man.
I’m about to reply when my desk phone rings, so I toss my phone face down on the desk.
“Dr. Sterling.”
“Hi, I have Hannah Morgan here for her appointment.”
“Let her in,” I reply.
I hang up and glance at the time. Twenty-five minutes late. My hand curls, but I’m not sure if it’s with annoyance or concern. Probably both.
I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and scoot the chair to the middle of the desk, away from the monitor.
The door opens, and Hannah comes into view. She looks incredible. I suck in slow, deep breaths, trying to control my thoughts as I get the full view of her outfit.
Her blazer is tailored, tapered in at her waist, and beneath it is a matching fitted gray vest with a deep V-neck that showcases the swell of her breasts.
The material looks expensive, some kind of wool blend that hugs her curves.
And the skirt. Fuck, the skirt. It’s gray, matching the set perfectly, but it’s short. Mid-thigh at best.
Her hair is out again, tumbling past her shoulders in soft waves. Her makeup is natural but polished, but her blue eyes, they sparkle under my office lights, framed by long, dark lashes.
As she crutches her way in, I’m relieved. She’s using them. Which means she listened to what I said.
“Where’s your scooter?”
“I left it on set.”
I get up and gesture toward the treatment room, my hand briefly touching her elbow. “This way.”
“I had no idea this was here.”
“That’s the point,” I say dryly. Hating how that came out, I clear my throat and try to be softer. “How are you coping with the crutches?”
I step to the side and slip on my white coat, as if it’s going to put a barrier between me and her. A reminder that I’m her treating doctor. That the way my heart is beating hard in my ears and the way my body temperature is rising is so inappropriate and forbidden.
“Not bad. Just my underarms are a little tender.”
“It’ll get easier.” I take the crutches from her, and she tries to hop toward the examination table. My heart jumps into my throat as I see her wobble, so I drop one crutch against the wall and grab her arm with my free hand. “Careful.”
My fingers wrap around her bicep, and the warmth of her skin spreads through the fabric of her blazer. She shifts her weight, and I guide her until she’s seated safely on the bed.
“You wore a heel?” I raise an eyebrow at her one black pump.
She shrugs. “They needed to shoot with my legs in the frame, so they did it from that side.”
And there’s the reminder that I need. This is the world she lives in. The glamorous, calculated, carefully curated world where everything is about appearance and perception.
And I don’t belong in that world. I shouldn’t want to belong in it.
The glamorous life. Fancy dinners, charity galas, arm candy for professional events.
I lift my gaze, and her blue eyes blaze into mine. There’s something in them—a challenge, maybe? Like she knows exactly what I’m thinking and finds it amusing. Her lips curve slightly, not quite a smile, but close. It makes my pulse spike.
I force myself to drop my gaze, tracking down over her vest to her injured foot, though I can’t help but notice her cleavage in my peripheral vision.
Fuck. I need her out of this room, and I need to go fishing.
Clear my mind.
After this appointment, I won’t see her for a few weeks. Thank fuck.
“Sorry for being late.” She sighs like something heavy is on her mind. I don’t have to wonder because she continues. “The director won’t accept a clip less than perfect.”
At least it’s not an excuse. That’s an explanation of the problem.
“What time did you start today?”
“Hair and makeup starts at five.”
“You’ve been at work since 5 a.m.?” I ask through clenched teeth. Why is the director making her work these hours, knowing she’s injured? Isn’t he concerned about her? I expected her to work less.
“Yeah, it’s normal.”
“You need to rest.”
“I am,” she says defensively. “Any time I can put my leg up, I do. The filming part isn’t as long as you think.”
“Then why can’t you leave? Rest at home?”
“I have lines in between, like asking the competing couples questions.” She pauses, and I realize I’m just standing there, staring at her, when I should be working.
“Can you lie back so I can take a look at your ankle?”
She nods and shifts, slowly reclining on the bed. As she moves, there’s a small hitch of breath—hers, not mine—and her face tightens, a flicker of pain crossing her features. My mouth clenches. “When did you last take a pain reliever?”
“When I was just leaving the set.”
My body settles at that, the tightness leaving my muscles. “Good.”
I pull a stool closer and sit down so I’m level with her foot. My hands move to the bandage. The elastic material is soft under my fingers, slightly warm from being against her skin. I unwind it slowly, watching as each layer reveals the splint. Removing it, I look over her ankle and foot.
Her skin is pale and smooth, with bruising. The incision site is clean, the stitches holding, and there’s minimal swelling. I run my fingers lightly over the area, checking for heat or unusual tenderness, and her leg tenses slightly under my touch.
“How’s it looking?”