Chapter 23
Hannah
Zac has been buzzing around in the kitchen cooking dinner for the past twenty minutes.
I’ve asked a few times if I could help, but every time, he shut me down, telling me he had it sorted and there wasn’t anything I could do.
His mouth was set in that stubborn, protective way that’s become familiar since my injury: the way that reminds me that he’s my doctor.
I get up to go to the bathroom, and before I’ve completely straightened, he’s asking, “Where are you going?”
I meet his gaze, refusing to be intimidated by his tone. “To the bathroom.”
He freezes mid-motion, dish towel clutched in one hand, and I can see the wheels turning in his mind, like he’s fighting some internal battle between his medical obligation to monitor my recovery and his need to give me space.
But thankfully, he just nods, his shoulders dropping slightly, and continues cleaning up.
I head to the bathroom on my crutches, which is still hurting my arms, and then decide to put the load of laundry in while I’m up.
The laundry room is cramped with just a cupboard, sink, and a washer with the dryer hanging above.
I can’t fit the crutches inside, so I leave them outside the door and hop in, grabbing onto the wall for balance.
My ankle still twinges with each hop, but it’s manageable.
Zac would probably tell me to elevate it after this, in that professionally concerned voice he uses when he’s trying to maintain boundaries.
There’s a small floral rug on the floor, and I carefully position myself in the middle of it.
Sorting through the hamper, I separate the whites from colors, deciding to start with the darks.
I load them into the machine, close the door, and fiddle with the settings.
Hopefully, I’m using it correctly. It’s the first time I’m using this particular washer, and there are too many buttons.
I hop over to the cupboard, clutching the wall to steady myself as I swing the door open, searching for the detergent and softener.
I forgot to tell Zac to grab some at the store but figured there should be some here for at least a few washes.
When I spot the bottle tucked in the back, relief floods through me.
They actually supplied a full-size container.
You wouldn’t get that kind of luxury in LA Airbnbs.
I’m hopping back toward the washer, bottle clutched in hand, when his voice behind me makes me jump. “What are you doing?”
The sudden shock of his voice throws me off balance. My foot clips the edge of the rug, and I fall forward. Time seems to slow as I reach out desperately, aiming to grab the washer to save myself.
But Zac is there. He catches me mid-fall, and lifts me effortlessly. In one smooth motion, he sets me on the countertop that sits between the washer and sink, his grip firm on my waist. Those doctor’s hands that aren’t supposed to make my skin feel like it’s on fire… but they do.
“I thought you were going to the bathroom.”
“I did, and then I decided to put some laundry in.” I try to act casual and not like my heart is thundering against my ribs.
“It looks like you want another injury.” His eyes bore intensely into mine, and there’s something raw in them that makes my breath catch. “You’re supposed to be resting that ankle, not hopping around on rugs.”
There it is… the reminder. He’s the doctor. I’m the patient. Boundaries that exist for a reason.
He’s standing between my parted legs now, and in this position, with me perched on the counter, his face is near my eye level.
He’s still taller, but this added height brings me closer to him.
Closer to his face, enough that I can see the muscle jumping in his cheek, the way his pupils are dilated under the overhead light.
“You scared me as I was hopping to the machine.” I hold up the bottle of laundry detergent defensively, like it’s evidence of my innocence. “And the rug was in my way.”
He doesn’t say anything, just stares at me with those piercing blue eyes, the same eyes that examined my ankle with professional detachment and are now looking at me like I’m something else entirely.
The silence stretches between us, and I can’t help it; I laugh.
It bubbles up from somewhere deep in my chest.
I’m sure he thinks I’m crazy, but if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry. My doctor is standing between my legs in a laundry room, looking at me like he wants to devour me, and I’m supposed to pretend I don’t feel this pull between us.
“What’s so funny?” His eyebrows draw together, confusion flickering across his features.
“How you make me so… frighty.” The word comes out wrong before I can correct myself.
“Frighty?” he repeats with one eyebrow raised in that infuriatingly attractive way he does. There’s a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth, softening the hard line of his work face.
The air between us shifts, becoming charged.
This small room suddenly feels even smaller, the walls pressing in.
I don’t know if this is a bad choice, but I decide to be brave.
There’s nothing to lose by being honest…
not anymore. We’ve been dancing around this for days, ever since that first meeting when I realized my new orthopedic surgeon was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen.
“You make me nervous,” I admit quietly, breathily, leaning in slightly.
Like he knows exactly what I’m not saying, he looks up at the ceiling, throat working as he sucks in a deep breath, as if he needs to physically collect himself. Desire mixed with professional ethics. Which one will win?
When he brings his gaze back to meet mine, his eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, making my stomach tighten.
“You make me nervous.” His words are so quiet I almost miss them. Seeming like he doesn’t want to admit it, but can’t help himself. “Do you have any idea how inappropriate this is? How many lines I’d be crossing?”
The room temperature seems to rise, or maybe it’s just me, but then he takes a step back. His hands slip slowly over my thighs as he retreats.
“Don’t—” I rush to say in desperation. Don’t go? Don’t leave? Don’t stop touching me? Don’t remind me why this can’t happen?
His hands freeze. His whole body goes still except for his chest, which rises and falls with increasingly heavy breaths. My heart is beating so fast and loud, it pounds in my ears, drowning out everything else.
Then his fingers skim up my thighs, featherlight and deliberate. He steps closer again, closing the distance he’d just created. His forehead drops to mine, and his eyes flutter closed. He sucks in a loud, shuddering breath and says, “I can’t.”
He says it like he’s in pain, and it makes me not push because I can’t be selfish.
I’d be making him risk everything. His medical license.
His career. His reputation. Everything he’s worked for could be destroyed by one ethics complaint, one report to the medical board.
That’s completely unfair to him. But no one would know about us to make a complaint…
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, meaning it. Sorry for wanting him. Sorry for making this harder. Sorry for not being just another patient he could forget about after I’m healed.
He lifts his forehead from mine but keeps his face achingly close. His gaze drops to my mouth, and I don’t even realize I’m doing it until my tongue darts out, trying to wet my suddenly dry lips. My throat feels tight, and I struggle to swallow around the lump forming there.
He groans—actually groans—and the word “fuck” falls from his lips. My whole body burns hotter at the sound, and I can’t help but shift closer.
“I can’t—” His voice breaks. “I could lose my license. I could lose everything.”
“I know.” I try to sound understanding, like I’m okay with this, even though every nerve in my body is screaming for him to stay close. “I know what you’re risking. I would never—”
His gaze roams my face, like he’s trying to memorize it.
When he finally meets my eyes again, his expression is filled with something I’ve seen many times before: in the exam room when his fingers lingered for too long while checking my ankle, in the kitchen when he insisted on cooking for me, in the hallway when he thought I wasn’t looking.
Something I’d mistaken for professional concern. But now, with his body pressed against mine and his breathing ragged, I understand it was always something else entirely. Something he’d been fighting to hide, fighting to deny, fighting to remain ethical about.
Lost in my own head, I almost miss the moment he cracks. The exact second when he growls, “Fuck it. Fuck everything.”
And then his mouth is on mine.
I freeze for a heartbeat, my brain struggling to catch up with the reality of what’s happening. But then it registers… Zac is kissing me. My doctor is kissing me. And I melt into him like I’ve been waiting for this moment.
One of his hands moves to my waist, gripping tight, while the other slides up along my hair to cup the back of my head. He tugs me toward him with both hands, pulling me impossibly closer, and I go willingly. This is wrong. This violates every ethical code. And I don’t care. Not one bit.
My legs wrap around his lower back, even with the boot, and my hand tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, holding to him to me.
As his tongue grazes my lips, seeking entrance, I open immediately, welcoming him inside. His taste floods my senses—coffee and him.
A groan escapes my throat, and I try to swallow it back, scared this is a dream, and he’ll suddenly push me away, remembering all the reasons this can’t happen. But he doesn’t. If anything, he kisses me deeper.
His tongue is dominant over mine, taking control, and I let him, surrendering completely. It feels even better than I could’ve imagined. This kiss makes me crave him on a level I didn’t know existed.
We’re both pulling each other tighter, hands grasping and desperate, like we need to get closer, even though there’s no room left between us.
Every inch of our bodies that can touch is touching, and still, it’s not enough.
His hands smooth down my back, pressing me against him; his heart thundering against my chest as wildly as my own.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard. He rests his forehead against mine again, and his eyes are still closed, like he’s afraid to open them and face what we’ve done.
Breathing him in, I’m terrified that if either of us speaks, it’ll break whatever this is. Terrified, too, that he’s already regretting it, and that when he opens his eyes, I’ll see the wall slam back up, stronger than before.
“I’m going to hell,” he whispers, but his hands don’t leave my body. “The medical board, Mr. Peltz, they’re going to crucify me.”
“Only if someone reports you,” I whisper back, and his eyes snap open to meet mine. “And I’m not going to do that.”
“That’s not the point.” But even as he says it, his thumb strokes along my jaw, tenderly yet possessively.
I can see him wrestling with my words and the weight of his responsibility, the ethics he’s built his career on, and this thing between us that refuses to be ignored.
“This can’t happen again,” he says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than me. “Until you’re no longer my patient. No—”
“I know,” I say, even though the thought of waiting feels impossible when I can still taste him on my lips. “I know.”
But neither of us moves. We stay there in the tiny laundry room, bodies pressed together, breathing the same air, both knowing we’ve crossed a line we can’t uncross. His forehead drops to mine, and his eyes close as his lips claim me again.