Chapter 17
Hannah
“Does he always speak to you like that?” Dr. Sterling asks as he checks over my ankle.
His bare forearms and half of his biceps steal my attention away from his face, the lean muscle flexing with each careful movement.
I force myself to look up and find him watching me, one dark eyebrow raised.
Flicking my gaze across the room, I study the landscape print on the wall as embarrassment creeps through my body.
“I don’t think he knows how to speak without that tone.” I pick at the imaginary lint on my clothes.
“It’s wrong,” he mumbles as he steps back and moves to the sink. The water runs loudly as he washes his hands, his shoulders tense beneath his fitted t-shirt.
I shrug, and the movement pulls at the IV taped to my hand. “I can’t change him. So I just deal with it. But if I were ever lucky enough to direct, I’d never make people feel like they’re small and disposable, like their ideas don’t matter and they’re just bodies filling space.”
Telling him what’s been on my mind feels good.
“Would you direct?” He walks over, standing at the foot of the bed with his hands tucked into the pockets of his cargos. In these casual clothes, he feels a touch warmer, like the formality isn’t wrapped so tight around him.
“I’d love to. But I need experience first, and I think the job is helping me build resilience.” Even as I say it, I hear how hollow it sounds. Because the job is breaking me down, not building me up. And I’m just trying to find meaning in the pain.
He makes a disbelieving sound from his throat that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. “You working on set with a broken ankle doesn’t prove resilience. That proves stubbornness.” He studies me with an intensity that makes my pulse skip. “And I bet after you fainted, you didn’t want to be here?”
“Good guess. But I really couldn’t stand.
” The double meaning hangs between us. I couldn’t stand up to Dain.
And couldn’t physically stand because my body gave out.
I see the exact moment he catches it. His lips twitch, fighting a smile before a small chuckle leaves his chest. The sound ripples over my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms.
“Well, you’re lucky you haven’t done any damage this time.”
I look at the IV bag hanging beside me and see it’s almost empty, the clear fluid nearly drained.
I do feel lucky that I haven’t done more damage to my ankle.
But have I damaged my career by being here?
I don’t even know anymore. My fingers twist together in my lap.
“I’m sorry you had to cut your trip short. ”
“I didn’t want to come back,” he teases. “But when I found out it was you...”
I laugh, a surprised, genuine sound that bubbles past my lips. God, his honesty is refreshing. This business is full of people who tell you everything you want to hear—well, unless you’re Dain.
“Oh, I know, but thanks for doing it. I appreciate it.” I meet his eyes, letting him see I mean it.
He stares at me, his jaw working like he’s tasting words, trying to decide whether to let them out. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Finally, he speaks. “I’ll start preparing your discharge.” His voice is rougher than before, almost reluctant.
Hearing those words makes me incredibly happy. It means so much to me. “Thank you, Dr. Sterling.”
He nods, a single dip of his chin, and turns toward the door.
I know I shouldn’t, but I watch him leave, tracking the way his long legs eat up the distance to the door in just a few strides.
His tall frame without a suit is a rare occasion, and I’m indulging in what a man of many talents looks like.
All lean strength and controlled movements.
Surgeon… fisherman… what other tricks does he have up his sleeve?
As soon as he’s out the door, I grab my phone from the side table, my fingers fumbling slightly as I pull up Brooke’s number and hit dial. I know I should call Candace, but I’ll do that after. I need my best friend right now.
Brooke answers after a few rings.
“Hey.” Her greeting comes out breathy.
“Sorry, have I called at a bad time?” I wince, pressing my free hand to my forehead. I should’ve known she’d be working. What was I thinking?
“No. No. No.” There’s a rustle of fabric and the creak of a chair. “I was having a break. I’m back at my desk now.” Brooke works from home as a bookkeeper and accountant, which means her “breaks” usually involve jogging or yoga squeezed between spreadsheets.
“I won’t hold you up then.” I start to pull the phone away from my ear.
“Wait…what’s going on? You never call in the middle of the day.”
I bite my lip, then let out a long breath. “You wouldn’t believe it, but I fainted.”
“What?” she says with a gasp. “Are you okay? Where are you?”
“I’m fine. I’m at the hospital recovering. I was stupid and had those strong painkillers on an empty stomach and worked all day, and it just hit me all of a sudden. The nausea was so bad too... Like the room was spinning, and I wanted to vomit.”
“Shit.” She exhales sharply, and I can picture her running her hand through her honey-blonde hair the way she does when she’s worried. “You sound like you need someone there. Are you sure you don’t want me to come down? You know I can work from anywhere.”
I pause, my thumb tracing the edge of my phone case. Her voice makes my chest ache with homesickness. If it were Mom, I’d say no. She needs to be with Dad. He can’t cook dinner without her. But Brooke? Having her here might actually be fun. A familiar face in this small town where I’m an outsider.
“You know what? That sounds good.” A smile tugs at my lips for the first time all day. “I’ll book and pay for your flights, though.”
She whistles, low and long. “I won’t say no to a free vacation.”
“You know it’s not a beach town, right?” I can’t help the laugh that escapes.
“Oh, I know. I saw pictures online. Those parks? That little main street with the brick buildings? The bakery pies? Sign me up.”
“It’s honestly surprised me.” I glance toward the window, where late-afternoon light filters through the blinds.
“Didn’t think you’d enjoy Pulse Point as much as you are?”
“Exactly. It’s better than I thought it would be.” Quieter. Slower. Less performative than LA.
“I can’t wait to come.”
“I better let you get back to work.” I’m already feeling guilty for interrupting her routine. For being the person who always needs something.
“Yeah, but before you go, I wanted to see what you thought of your dickhead of an ex?”
My stomach coils. I’ve tried not to think about him since things ended and he broke my heart. I haven’t seen anything. I’ve been so busy being on set or in this hospital, it’s left little time to do anything else. “What about him?” I ask cautiously, my shoulders tensing.
“He did an interview talking about your break and how you’re going to get back together after filming.”
A choked noise erupts from my throat, something between a laugh and a gasp. “He’s delusional. I’m never getting back with him.” I clench my hand around the phone. I can’t believe he’s out there telling the world something that’s a complete lie.
“You might need to tell him that.”
“He knows. He just wants to be in the spotlight.” My mouth tightens. “He’s always known.”
“True. You’ve got to see the picture of him, though. It’s so staged.”
“If I reach out to him, he’ll use that against me too. He isn’t interested in me. He’s interested in the life I can give him.”
And God, that hurts when I say it out loud. The words sit heavy in the air between us, like admitting it makes it more real.
“I’ve never trusted him.” Brooke’s voice softens with sympathy.
“That’s true.” She never liked him from the start. She thought something was off about him but wanted to support me anyway.
We hang up after a few more minutes, and I stare at my phone in my hand, knowing I should leave it alone. Knowing that looking at that interview only upset me more; will only give his words power over me.
But not knowing is worse. I’ll create different worst-case scenarios in my head.
I take a breath and open the browser.
I find the article and look at the picture first. He’s posed on some trendy restaurant patio, one arm draped casually over the back of his chair, his other hand holding out a coffee cup and a leg crossed over the other.
His smile is that practiced one—the one I used to think was charming, but now just looks calculated.
Everything about him is carefully curated, from his artfully mussed hair to his designer sunglasses pushed up on his head.
What was I thinking?
I stare at his face, trying to remember what I saw in him, and come up empty.
I wasn’t even that attracted to him, not really.
We met at a party, one of those industry things where everyone’s networking and air-kissing (or ass-kissing) and pretending to be friends.
And if I think about it, really think about it, he was waiting to find someone who could elevate him.
Someone with connections. Someone whose name opened doors.
My chest tightens as the realization settles deeper.
I don’t want a guy like that. I don’t want someone who sees me as a stepping stone or a status symbol.
I want someone without the fame or the desperate desire to be my handbag.
Someone who has their own life, their own passions, their own identity that doesn’t depend on mine.
Someone who cuts fishing trips short to make sure I’m okay, even when he doesn’t want to.
I blink at that last thought, my breath catching. Where did that come from?