Chapter 20 #2
“Do you want the flowers?” He gestures to the vase on the side table.
“No, I’ll leave them for the girls.” They’ll brighten someone’s day more than they would sitting at the Airbnb.
“Who are they from?” he asks, his tone a bit colder.
It’s none of his business, but whatever. “The girls on set.”
He nods, his expression unreadable. “Let’s go then.”
He carries my crutches and walks ahead, which I don’t complain about because the view from behind is nice.
Really nice. I know I shouldn’t, but where else should I look?
At the orderly’s hands on the wheelchair handles?
The boring hallway walls? I’m indulging myself without judgement.
There’s something in the way he walks and the effortless power he exudes.
Big strides as he moves with purpose, like he owns the space, his shoulders squared and confident.
The Henley stretches across his back with each movement, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
Once we exit the hospital, I forget about my ogling, my fantasy shattered as flashes hit me.
Two photographers and their cameras capture the moment.
If I weren’t such a mess, I wouldn’t care.
Plus, I’m in navy-blue hospital scrubs that make me look washed out and exhausted.
But they’re still better than yesterday’s dirty clothes.
“You okay?” Sterling’s voice cuts through the clicks and the shouts from the reporters and, suddenly, he’s there, crouched in front of the wheelchair, his face close to mine, his body blocking me from the cameras.
Am I? I blink, trying to focus on his face that’s inches from mine, those intense eyes searching my features with concern that feels startlingly genuine.
“Yeah, I’m just ready to go home.”
The questions from the two guys come rapid-fire from both directions:
“Why were you in the hospital?”
“Did you have surgery again?”
“Will you be flying back to LA?”
And so many more questions, all overlapping and insistent.
The orderly pushes a little faster, and I’m grateful for his urgency. We arrive at a black car, a nice, expensive sedan that gleams under the morning sun. The orderly opens the passenger door, and I slip inside. Sterling puts my crutches away in the trunk before climbing into the driver’s seat.
His gaze stays on the reporters as he settles in, his mouth tight. Fingers whitening, he grips the wheel, navigating his way out with controlled precision. He drives slowly, carefully, despite the obvious tension radiating from him.
“How do you deal with that?” His question is quiet but loaded with something that sounds like anger on my behalf.
I shrug, waving at the reporters through the dark-tinted windows, unsure if they can even see me anymore. “It’s part of the job.”
“I don’t believe harassment is part of the job.”
“It’s not harassment.”
“You don’t—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head.
“No. They have a job to do. They have families to support.” I’ve made peace with this aspect of fame a long time ago. It’s easier than fighting it.
He shakes his head again, more emphatically this time, his grip on the wheel tightening more.
“What?” I ask, hating when he does that: makes judgements but doesn’t speak them. I can’t read his mind, and the silence feels heavy with unspoken opinions.
“You’re too nice.” It’s almost accusatory, like being nice is a character flaw.
I laugh, surprised and oddly pleased despite the criticism. “I wasn’t expecting a compliment.”
He doesn’t respond to that. I don’t want to sit in silence, so I reach over before I catch myself. It’s his car, not mine. I fold my hands back in my lap.
“You’ll have to direct me.”
“Oh… right.” I pull out my phone and open Maps, typing in my address. “I’ll just use GPS.”
He nods, and I take the opportunity to take in his dark features from the side profile, my eyes tracing the lines of his face with shameless appreciation.
Sloped nose, deep lines next to his eyes that suggest he smiles more than I’ve ever seen, dark bushy eyebrows, freshly shaved jaw, and perfectly styled hair.
It’s nice he put some effort in to pick me up, but it makes me feel gross for smelling awful.
The contrast between us—him freshly showered and put together, me in borrowed scrubs and day-old sweat…
makes me want to sink into the leather seat and disappear.
It’ll be the first thing I do when I get inside. Shower until I feel human again.
I continue giving him directions as I look around his clean car.
Immaculate, actually. Not a speck of dust, no random receipts or coffee cups.
He takes care of it, which makes me think of the other side to him...
the fisherman he mentioned. I try to picture him on a boat, his hands working with nets or fishing rods. The image is surprisingly appealing.
“I thought you’d be a truck guy?” The question comes out before I can think better of it.
“Who’s to say I don’t have one?”
I roll my eyes and shift my gaze to the window, looking out at the unfamiliar streets. “Of course you’d have two.”
“Most people here do.” He says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Spotting my porch, I point to it. “The house on the left.”
He pulls it into the driveway and parks, shutting off the engine. “Wait here while I unlock your door.”
“I’m not that incompetent.”
I’m injured, not helpless.
His gaze shifts to me, one eyebrow quirked, as if to say, Are you sure about that? “Give me a break,” I say, but I can’t help but laugh, breaking the tension.
“I’ll be a few minutes, and I’ll help you out.”
I don’t bother arguing because, honestly, it’ll be nice to have a guy to help who isn’t tangled up in a camera angle.
I fish my key from my purse and hold it out for him.
He takes it and climbs out of the car. I watch him walk up to the front door with his head down.
The way he did at the hospital, never once posing for the camera—heck, he didn’t even look at them.
All he did was keep his head down or check on me.
Not once did he indulge in it. He isn’t helping me for the cameras or the publicity.
But I wonder if they’re paying him to do this.
Surely, they are. Nobody would agree to this kind of arrangement out of the goodness of their heart.
He comes to my door and offers me a hand, his palm up, waiting. “Are you getting paid for this?”
His gaze meets mine, direct and unflinching. “Yes.”
I nod, swallowing back the weird disappointment that lodges in my throat. Of course he is. This is a job, nothing more.
I hop up on one leg, wobbling slightly, and he grabs the crutch from beside me. “Can you help me? My underarms are still killing me.”
He slides his hand around my waist without hesitation, and I suddenly wonder if this was a good idea.
With his body flush against mine, side by side, the solid warmth of him spreads through my thin scrub top.
His touch is firm on my waist, possessive almost, as my hand snakes around his back and onto his shoulder, gripping the firm muscle there.
The Henley is soft under my palm, and beneath it, I can feel the shift and flex with each small movement.
It takes everything I have to focus on hopping to the door.
What was I thinking?
“Can you take me to my bedroom?”
His body stiffens at my request.
“I want to grab a change of clothes before showering. I’ll use my crutches after,” I quickly clarify.
“Okay, I’ll help you. But first, have you had painkillers?” His voice is back to professional.
“No. I didn’t want them on an empty stomach.”
The last time I did, I ended up in hospital. I’d rather not repeat that.
“Understandable.” He nods, approval in the simple gesture.
We enter the bedroom I’ve called mine, and he helps me sit on the unmade bed, his hands careful, almost gentle.
He looks around, taking in the space—my clothes draped over the chair, my mug and lines to memorize stacked on the nightstand, the general lived-in chaos of my temporary life. I resist the urge to apologize for it.
“Do you want me to get the clothes out and put them in the bathroom?”
“So you can see my underwear? No thanks,” I joke, but his face tightens, a muscle in his jaw jumping.
“I didn’t... I was offering to help.”
“I’m joking. Jeez, can you not joke?”
He runs a hand down the back of his neck. “I do. I’m just used to it with my friends.”
“You can do it the same with me,” I offer, wanting to ease whatever tension I’ve created.
“You’re nothing like them.” He snorts, but there’s no humor in it. The heated gaze that follows makes flutters swarm low in my belly. The way he looks at me, like I’m something dangerous, makes my breath catch.
I need an icy shower. Now. Not just to clean off, but to cool down this inappropriate heat building between us.
“I’ll shower now, so do whatever you need to do until I get out.” I break eye contact, needing the space, the distance.
“Okay. Call out if you need me.”
I get up, balancing carefully as I find something comfortable to wear, tossing each item on the bed as I go.
When I have everything, he steps in and scoops up the clothes from the bed before I can protest. I try not to focus on the fact that he’s touching my matching blue satin set that I chose to wear under my sweats.
And definitely don’t think about the way his hands look holding my intimate things, or the flush that’s creeping up my chest at the domesticity of it all.
“Hey…” I call out, then realize I actually don’t know what to call him. Dr. Sterling feels too formal now, but I don’t know if I have permission for anything else.
“Zac,” he says as he rounds the corner, coming to stand in the doorway of my bedroom.
The name hangs between us.
Nice name. It suits him. Strong, simple, unpretentious.
He dips his chin and strides out, and I can breathe again once he’s gone.