Page 39 of Burned By the Broken Doctor

Stepping into Emma's car, I buckle up and steal a glance at her. She's dressed in a cute sundress, the kind that hugs her curves in all the right places. A jolt of something pleasant, a mix of surprise and appreciation, shoots through me. Is she trying to impress me? The thought sparks a tiny flicker of hope in my chest.

“So,” I begin, clearing my throat, “what's going on? You said everything was okay.”

She glances at me briefly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. “It is,” she says, her voice clipped. “But that doesn't mean we can't get started on your end of the bargain, does it?”

My smile falters. “Bargain?” Here we go, I think, the charade rearing its ugly head once again.

“Yes, the bargain,” she replies, a hint of annoyance creeping into her voice. “I agreed to be your fake girlfriend, remember? Our deal includes helping me plan the wedding.”

Disappointment washes over me. I’d been hoping for something…more. “Planning a wedding?” I echo, trying to mask my frustration. “That's why you needed me?”

“Well, duh,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Do you think I want to spend three hours driving to meet a florist in the middle of nowhere all by myself? Besides, you need practice acting like my fiancé, don't you?”

She has a point, but it doesn’t make the situation any less annoying. With a sigh, I slump back in my seat as she pulls out of the driveway. The next three hours are a blur of highway hypnosis and a battle for control of the aux cord.

“Seriously, Emma?” I groan as a syrupy ballad fills the car. “This isn't elevator music. It's comatose music.”

She shoots me a playful glare. “Hey, this is a classic! It brings back good memories.”

“Memories of what, falling asleep during your teenage slumber parties?” I counter with a smirk.

“Oh, ha-ha,” she retorts, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Fine, here.” She switches the song to a classic rock anthem, the kind that makes you want to air guitar and sing along at the top of your lungs.

“That's more like it!” I exclaim, a grin spreading across my face.

The next few minutes are filled with us singing along—terribly off-key, of course—and laughing at each other's attempts at mimicking guitar solos. The tension from earlier seems to dissipate, replaced by a comfortable camaraderie that surprises me.

But just as the good vibes are starting to flow, she announces, “Next exit.”

“What? Already?” I protest. “We just started getting into a groove here.”

She pulls the car off the exit and onto a winding country road. “Groove or not, we have a florist to meet. She's supposed to be the best in the area.”

“The best in the area,” I grumble, “or just the most inconveniently located?”

“Both, apparently,” she concedes with a shrug. “But trust me, it's worth it.”

The florist turns out to be a quaint little shop tucked away in a sleepy town. Inside, a riot of colors and floral fragrances greets us. Emma, for all her initial resistance, transforms into a whirlwind of efficiency.

She peruses arrangements, interrogates the florist about flower varieties and lifespan, and even haggles over the price. While she works her magic, I find myself watching her, mesmerized by her passion and tenacity. There is a fire in her eyes, a sharp intelligence that goes beyond just picking out pretty flowers.

At one point, she picks up a bouquet of lilies, their pristine white petals catching the sunlight. “These are perfect,” she declares, holding them up for my approval. “But wouldn't a touch of greenery add some balance?”

“Actually,” I interject, surprising myself, “I think a single red rose tucked in there would add a pop of color and a touch of…passion.”

She turns to me, a surprised look on her face. Then, a slow smile spreads across her lips. “You know what? You're right. Let's see if they have any red roses.”

The florist produces a single, perfect rose, and Emma places it amongst the lilies. Stepping back to admire her handiwork, she beams at me. “See? You're not such a lost cause, after all, Dr. Miller.”

The way she says my name, the genuine appreciation in her eyes, sends a jolt through me. My heart pounds a frantic rhythm against my ribs, a reaction I can't quite explain.

Careful, Liam, I warn myself silently, a knot of something akin to fear tightening in my gut. This woman could have you wrapped around her little finger before you know it.

The drive back is filled with comfortable silence. The tension from earlier has been replaced by a newfound respect, a sense of having accomplished something together. As we near her house, she turns to me, her expression unreadable.

“Thanks for your help today, Liam,” she says, her voice soft.

“Don't mention it,” I reply, trying to sound casual. But the truth is, I wouldn't have minded spending another three hours bickering over music and haggling with florists if it meant being with her.

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