Chapter 29
Zac
“Get comfortable on the sofa. I’ll make tea.”
I take the bag inside while she heads straight for the TV, already making herself at home like she belongs here. I prop her injured ankle on a pillow I pull from the end of the sofa.
I make her tea like I’ve done at her place and set it on the coffee table, then walk back to the kitchen to plate up the pie and grab some forks. I carry our plates over, handing hers to her open palm, our fingers brushing for a second, sending electric shocks up my arm.
Taking the seat beside her foot, I’m careful not to touch it.
“How’s the tea?”
“Amazing.” She takes another sip, her eyes closing in appreciation. “So glad I got a box for myself.”
I nod and dig into the pie, the tart key lime flavor bursting in my mouth.
“What do you think about my place? Is it what you imagined?”
I want to know. Being in her space makes me feel surprisingly comfortable the more time I spend in it. The smaller size helps with that. This place is big and empty. Some nights, it feels it more than others. Tonight, though, having her here makes the emptiness more obvious, not less.
“It’s definitely clean for a guy,” she says, glancing around. “But the colors, and the style, it’s very you. Just much bigger than I thought.”
My family is forcing its way up before I can stop it, so I open my mouth and let it come.
“My dad runs the ED department at Hope Town General,” I take a breath, waiting for my body to close off the way it usually does when I go near this topic.
But it doesn’t this time. She’s watching me, her face soft, cradling her mug, eagerly waiting for more.
“Dwight Sterling. If you work in medicine anywhere near that town, you know the name. He’s brilliant at what he does.
Built that department from nothing, and he’ll remind you of it. ”
“And you wanted to do the same thing?”
“I wanted to do something. On my own.” I set my mug down. “Growing up, every teacher, every mentor, every attending I ever had said, you’re Dwight’s boy. Including Peltz, when I first came here. Like that was the most interesting thing about me. Maybe it was, to them.”
“So you left?”
“I came here, built my own caseload, made my own name. Orthopedics, not emergency medicine, far enough from his world that he couldn’t follow.” I lean back into the sofa.
“Do you have a relationship with him?”
“He still calls. Asks when I’m moving back to Hope Town, when I’m going to help build the Sterling legacy.
” The word comes out dry. “My sister, Bri, who’s a pharmacist, thinks I should just go back and beat him at his own game.
She doesn’t understand why I’d rather be invisible here than significant there. ”
“Do you ever think she’s right?”
I have thought about this every single time Bri says it. “Sometimes. When I’m honest about it.” I look at her. “But going back means becoming what he wants me to be. And I’ve spent a long time trying to figure out who I am without that.”
She nods slowly, sipping her tea, and doesn’t try to fix it. And I appreciate that more than I could explain.
It’s strange saying it out loud. I’ve been carrying the dad stuff so long it’s stopped feeling like something I could just talk about. But sitting here, in my house, saying to someone who just listens starts to crack the armor.
I think about what I said to her earlier about Peltz’s job. About not wanting it. For the first time in a long time, I said something about my career that wasn’t about proving anything to anyone. Just what I actually want. It felt unfamiliar in a way that also felt like relief.
A few minutes and several mouthfuls later, I’m scraping my plate clean. She’s only halfway done, savoring each bite like she does with everything.
I bend forward to set my empty plate on the coffee table. Her hand catches my wrist, halting me.
“We’re not in my house,” she says carefully. “Would this—”
“Still counts,” I say before she finishes. “You’re still my patient until the show wraps. Doesn’t matter whose sofa we’re on”
She huffs and falls back into the cushions.
I look at her. At the frustration etched on her face, which I completely understand because I’m living with it too.
“If it makes you feel better, I’m miserable too. I want to kiss you again. Fuck, I want to do a lot more than that.”
Fucking hell, I’ve said too much. I know it as soon as it’s out.
But her eyes are glassy, her lips parted, and the look on her face is…
She wants me. She isn’t hiding it.
It’s been so long, and she’s right there.
An idea forms. It’s still crossing a line, technically. But in my head, it doesn’t breach the ethics code. Not quite.
“How about I watch you come?”
Her teeth graze her bottom lip. “I don’t know...”
“And you can watch me,” I add. Because I need this too. I won’t pretend otherwise.
Because watching her and coming will be fucking everything.
Her chest rises and falls a little faster, her teeth releasing her bottom lip. She looks at me, really looks at me, weighing the gravity of what we’re about to do. The air feels charged as silence stretches between us.
“Okay,” she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper, but it rings loud in the quiet house.
“You sure?” I need her to be one hundred percent sure. I need to know she’s choosing this as much as I am; that the vulnerability we just shared didn’t cloud her judgement. “Hannah, look at me, honey.”
Her eyes lock with mine, dark and resolute. “Zac. I’m sure.”
I set my fork down on the coffee table. The sharp clunk of metal against wood sounds final. Then I turn to face her fully, bracing one hand on the back of the sofa, the other on my knee.
My heart beats wildly against my ribs. “Tell me if you want to stop. For any reason.”
She nods.
“Say it.”
“I’ll tell you if I want to stop.”
I reach over and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers graze along her jaw, lingering just long enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin before I pull back.
I’m not touching beyond that. That’s the rule.
That’s the flimsy barrier keeping us from completely destroying the professional line.
What this is, is watching. Giving us both permission to have what we shouldn’t.
“Honey, you first.”
Her breath catches as a flush creeps up her throat, painting her collarbones a beautiful pink. She hesitates for a second, her fingers trembling slightly as they find the top button of her shirt dress.
The faltering makes it real. My chest tightens with a strange mix of protectiveness and pure hunger.
She unbuttons it slowly, one by one, her eyes never leaving mine. With a soft rustle of fabric, she slips it off her shoulders, leaving her in just a black bra holding those beautiful tits.
I reach the nape of my neck and pull my t-shirt off in one swift move, dropping it beside me. The cool air of the living room hits my bare skin, but I barely feel it. I’m burning from the inside out.
She reaches behind her back to unclasp her bra. Letting the straps fall from her shoulders slowly, she drops the lace to the side.
Her breasts are so fucking beautiful. More than a handful, with rosy nipples that are peaked, making me lick my parched lips.
I can’t help but imagine kissing her breasts, sucking on her nipples, tasting her.
I grip the fabric of the sofa cushion, holding on to the last bit of self-control for both our sakes.
I unbutton my pants and wait for her next move.
She lifts the hem of her dress, gathering the fabric up her thighs. Agonizingly slow until the matching black panties come into view.
I make an appreciative noise low in my throat, a ragged sound I can’t suppress.
She slips her hand inside her panties. The moment her fingers make contact, her eyes immediately roll back in her head, a soft, breathless gasp escaping her parted lips.
“Keep your eyes on me.” My voice is strangled with desire, rough and demanding. I need her with me. I need to see her seeing me.
Her eyes snap open, heavy-lidded and burning.
Slow movements beneath the black lace of her panties show her hand moving.
I reach inside my boxers and pull out my cock. Her eyes drift down, her tongue peeking out to wet her bottom lip as she tracks the movement. I grip my dick and stroke it, the friction a bit of relief against the buildup to this moment.
Fuck yes.
Sexy little sounds catch in her throat as her eyes keep finding mine, like she needs more. I’ve never experienced anything like this. I’m in serious trouble. I’ve never felt these feelings for a woman. Where healing her heals me. Where seeing her pleasure is more addictive than my own.
Making her feel good right now is imperative to me.
Her hand moves faster, her hips giving tiny, upward thrusts. So I do the same, matching her pace, wanting to come at the exact same time as her. Wanting to experience that blissful state together is more important than my next breath.
“Zac,” she whimpers, her grip tightening, her breath hitching. She’s right on the edge.
“I’ve got you,” I grunt, pushing my own pace, watching her face crumble with pleasure. “Go on, Hannah.”
When she finally comes apart, her head falls back against the cushions, her back arching slightly, and my name leaves her mouth. “Zac.”
“Hannah,” I groan back, fisting myself harder, riding the wave of her release as I come all over my stomach.
After we orgasm, neither of us moves. Both of us are breathing hard, looking at each other with heavy eyes as the reality of what just happened washes over us.
Once we’ve caught our breath, the tension softens. The hard, desperate edge is gone, replaced by something dangerously tender. We share a soft, tired smile. It’s a shared secret, a mutual understanding of the line we just treaded along without quite breaking.
I drag a hand down my face, letting out a long exhale, and grab my t-shirt to quickly clean up. Wiping my stomach, I toss the shirt toward the hallway, where the laundry is, then button my pants back up.
When I look back at her, she’s pulled her dress back up around her shoulders, looking a little small against the massive cushions of my sofa. The vulnerability is back, and I hate the thought of her feeling exposed or regretful.
I shift closer. I don’t touch her skin, but I rest my hand on the cushion right next to her hip.
“You okay?”
She nods, a small, genuine smile touching her lips. “Yeah. More than okay.”
I sigh, glancing at the clock on the wall. It’s getting late, and the longer she stays like this, the harder it’s going to be for me to keep my hands to myself.
“We should get you home.”
“Probably,” she agrees, though neither of us moves right away.
During the drive to her place, she’s got her head back against the headrest, eyes half-closed, the box of leftover pie balanced on her lap. I keep my eyes on the road and my thoughts to myself, which takes more effort than it should.
I pull up outside her Airbnb, where there’s no paparazzi around, and help her inside, straight into the bathroom, then I pull down her blankets on her bed, getting it ready for her.
I'd better write my notes now before I forget. Reaching for my bag, I grab my laptop and glasses out. I couldn’t do them at my house because we ended up there longer than planned; plus, we were busy doing other activities.
I settle into the sofa, but I haven’t finished even the first paragraph of my notes when my phone starts buzzing.
Jameson: sends a picture of an article.
Jameson: Your ex and your patient.
I open it. It’s a photo from Dr. Whisperer. Hannah and Yolanda on the street, bright and centered. I’m blurred in the background.
Me: So?
Emmett: I don’t get it.
Jameson: Zoom in on the background. Zac, your face. LOL
Emmett: Oh, shit. Busted.
Me: Busted doing what, dickhead?
I’m confused. I zoom in, and there I am, taking their picture. The expression on my face isn’t the scowl I reserve for Yolanda. It’s the way I’m looking at Hannah.
Jameson: Your eyes on Hannah.
Emmett: Ohhh I see.
Me: I don’t.
Jameson: Your eyes are on her. Stop playing stupid.
I was looking at her legs in that dress. She has great legs. But I’m not saying that because they’ll read way too much into it.
Emmett: How is it going?
Jameson: She’s hot.
Me: I miss the hospital, but it’s not that bad.
Emmett: Is it because she’s hot?
I stare at the screen.
Me: No. It’s because she’s…
I stop typing, delete, and start again.
Hannah is many things. All the things that, if I said them out loud to these two, would confirm exactly what I’m trying not to confirm.
That I’m in over my head. That somewhere between the cookies, the diner, and my place tonight, the line I’ve been standing behind started to feel less like a boundary and more like a suggestion.
I can’t say that. Saying it makes it real, and that makes it dangerous.
Me: A good patient.
Jameson: Sure, that’s it.
I hear movement from the bathroom toward her room.
Me: Gotta go.
Setting my phone down next to my laptop, I remove my glasses and go check on her.
“You okay?” I ask from her doorway, where the lamp is on low.
She’s already in bed, propped against the pillows, script open in her lap. Her hair is down, face clean, and she looks… I have to stop myself. I’ve already done more than I should have, so I don’t finish the thought.
“Yeah.” She holds up the script. “I’m just going to read my lines for tomorrow and then sleep.”
Seeing her there, comfortable, at the end of the day, hits me hard in the chest.
I clear my throat. “All right. I’ll finish my notes and head home.”
I hover at the door. She smiles up at me like she can see me struggling with what to say or do next. Heat crawls up the back of my neck, so I turn and force myself back to the sofa and my half-finished notes. I’m not leaving until she’s asleep. I just haven’t admitted that to myself until now.
Picking up my phone, I ignore the group chat and notice my family one has messages. I find a bunch of memes my mom’s been sharing, shaking my head and refocusing on my work. There are notes to write and emails to get through.
The next thing I know…
“Dr. Sterling. Are you coming with us?”
Channing? Fuck.
I jerk upright, disorientated. What time is it?