Chapter 12 #2
“Everything is as it should be.” My voice comes out firm but gentle, the tone I use when I want to reassure a patient.
I glance up at her, catching the relief that flickers across her face, and my expression softens just a fraction.
“You’re doing good.” The words aren’t entirely true.
She’s pushing herself too hard, ignoring recovery protocol, prioritizing work over healing.
But in this moment, I’m not the doctor who’s frustrated with her choices.
I’m the person who sees how terrified she is of failing.
“So, any chance I can heal faster? Get my foot into normal shoes before six weeks?”
There it is. The question that confirms what I already knew. She’s thinking about getting back to normal, at full capacity, back to proving she’s indispensable.
“None.” I shake my head. “You need to stay in the boot and bandage for the whole six weeks, and I’ll reassess it then. No shortcuts, Hannah. You rush this, you risk permanent damage.”
She deflates a little, and I feel like an asshole, but it’s the truth.
I leave the Steri-Strips over the incision site, put a medical sock over the top, and then strap the splint back on.
“You’re done. I’m sending you straight to physical therapy today before you leave, They’ll assess you and fit you with a boot to replace the splint. I’ve already called ahead.”
“Oh,” she says, and there’s disappointment in her voice. Or am I imagining it because that’s how I feel? Like I’m not ready for her to leave. But I have no idea why. I barely know her, yet I want to keep talking; to get to know her more.
I stand and hold out my hand to help her sit up.
She slips her smooth palm into mine. Her nails are painted a soft pink, in a polished, expensive, manicured way.
It reminds me of Yolanda. Of sitting across from her at restaurant tables when she tapped those perfect nails against her wineglass, bored and checking her phone.
Of how she’d spend two hours at the salon every week, how appearance was everything.
I don’t want that again. I don’t want someone who needs the glamor or the validation. And surely, Hannah, with her Hollywood job, stylist, makeup artist, and designer clothing, would be the same.
Even as I think it, something in my chest clenches against the idea. But I ignore it.
I turn to grab her crutches from where I leaned them against the wall and hold them out for her.
“Thanks.”
I lift my glasses and prop them on my head. A habit when I’m done with close work. But also because I want to see her more clearly without the barrier.
She smiles, and it makes my heart thump.
It’s so pretty, a small dimple appearing at the bottom of her cheek on one side.
I try not to overthink her smile. It’s just her being polite…
that’s all that it is. That’s what I tell myself, even as something in me wants it to be more. Wants it to be for me.
But that’s fucking stupid, and I know it.
“I hope you have a good afternoon.”
“You too. Physical therapy is just down the hall. Do you need me to take you there?”
“No. Channing can. He’s waiting out here for me.”
Who the fuck is Channing?
I stare at her before giving a small dip of my chin for her to elaborate.
“My driver.”
“Right.” Relief washes through me. “Let him know you’ll be another thirty minutes or so. Then I’ll see you in six weeks for the final check-up.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you then.”
She moves toward the door, and I follow, my hand reaching for the door handle. I hold it open for her, stepping slightly behind it, and I tell myself it’s just politeness. But I want to see this Channing, to confirm he’s just a driver and not something else.
I catch a glimpse of the older man with graying hair, probably in his sixties, waiting in the hallway, and I feel stupidly relieved.
It changes nothing, because Hannah is still my patient.
Still off-limits. Someone I have no business feeling this way about.
But I feel the relief anyway, and I hate myself for it because I need to remember I’m on probation with Peltz.
As Hannah passes through the doorway, she pauses, turning back slightly. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She reaches out, and her fingers brush against my forearm… the barest touch, feather-light, as she steadies herself on the crutches. “Thank you. Really. For squeezing me in on your day off.”
Her touch sends electricity up my arm, every hair standing on end like I’ve been shocked. It’s there and gone in a second, but I feel it everywhere.
“Of course,” I manage.
She smiles again, and then she’s moving down the hallway, with Channing at her side.
I watch her leave, forcing my eyes to stay trained on the back of her head, on the glossy waves of hair, and not on her legs or the way her hips move even with the crutches. How does she make crutches look so fucking sexy?
I’ve never been turned on by a patient.
I’m semihard so I stay behind the door, my body angled to keep the wood between us from the waist down, and I don’t move until I can’t see her anymore.
Only then do I step back into my office and shut the door.
I lean against it for a moment, head back, eyes closed.
Then I push off and head to the treatment room, stripping off my white coat. I clean up quickly, disposing of the old bandage, wiping down the exam bed, all while trying to ignore the uncomfortable tightness in my pants.
Back at my desk, I slide into my chair and put my glasses back on, pulling up her file.
Patient presents for follow-up. Incision site clean, healing well. No signs of infection. Bruising minimal. Patient referred directly to physical therapy. Boot fitting arranged. Next appointment in six weeks for final assessment.
I don’t mention the way my hands lingered on her skin, or the way her smile made my chest tight, or the fact that I’m sitting here half-hard and furious with myself about it.
I’m just glad I don’t have to see her for weeks. The more time I’m with her, the worse my body reacts. I need distance. I need to get my head on straight. I need to go fucking fishing.
Half an hour later, I pull into the parking lot of the local seafood place in Pulse Point and text the group chat.
Me: Picking up food and driving there now. See you soon.
Jameson: Grab more beers. We’re low.
Me: I’m only an hour late.
Jameson: The beers are going down too easy tonight. It’s been a week.
I know what he means. It’s been a hell of a week for me too.
Me: I’ll get more beer.
Lifting the takeout bag from the counter, I head toward the car. But as I step around the corner, I nearly collide into…Yolanda.
“Hi,” she purrs, and her hand is immediately on my bicep, fingers curling around my arm over my sweater. I stiffen, every muscle in my body locking up.
Her gaze drops to the food in my hands.
“What are you up to?”
“Fishing with the boys,” I say, emotionless.
She rolls her eyes, an expression I’ve seen a hundred times, but her hand stays on me, sliding down to the crook of my elbow. I clutch the takeout bag tighter. I don’t want to make a scene.
“You still do that.”
She never liked me spending time fishing with the boys.
But I guess I did go fishing more the closer to our breakup, using it as an escape, delaying the inevitable conversation. Which I regret now because she still can’t let go.
“I need to go. I’m running late.”
“Nice to see you,” she says, her voice sweet, but with an edge I recognize. She’s testing me, seeing if I’ll bite, if I’ll engage.
I don’t answer. I don’t want to feed into her fantasy that we’re friends, that there’s still something here. I step away, and the movement forces her hand to let go. As I walk to the car, I don’t look back.
But it hits me as I slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine.
She was touching me, her blue eyes were boring into mine, and yet my body didn’t do a damn thing except want to be away from her.
All I could think about was how Hannah’s blue eyes have specks of gray and sparkle with her dark lashes framing them, or how a single featherlight touch from Hannah makes my hair stand on end like I’ve been electrocuted, while Yolanda’s grip did nothing. Less than.
There’re only memories with my ex; ones I have no interest in reminiscing.
I hope she meets someone else soon, because I hate her waiting around for me when there’s no hope.
Blocking her number, avoiding her—fuck, breaking up with her—I thought would’ve made the message clear, but it seems it’s not clear enough.