Page 9 of Tempted By the Handsome Doctor

I drive past without stopping, looping back toward my condo downtown. It's a sleek, modern building that sticks out like a sore thumb among Cedar Falls' century-old storefronts—another attempt to distinguish myself from this town, to prove I'm different, special, more than just Lou Morrison's grandson.

What a joke.

I park in the underground garage and take the elevator to the fifth floor, unlocking the door to an apartment that still feels more like a hotel room than a home after nearly a year. The furniture is minimal and expensive, chosen from a catalog rather than accumulated over time. No photos on the walls, no mementos cluttering the surfaces. Just clean lines and empty spaces.

For the first time, I try to imagine a baby here. A crib in the corner of my bedroom. A changing table next to my designer dresser. Colorful plastic toys scattered across my pristine hardwood floors.

The image is so out of place it's almost laughable.

I check my phone again—no messages from Maya. Not that I expected any. She said she needed time to think, and I need to respect that. But the waiting is already killing me.

Because the truth, the terrifying truth I barely admitted to myself at Madeline's, is that I want her to keep the baby. Not just because it's the "right thing" to do, or because I'm afraid of turning into my father if I don't step up. But because something about Maya Sullivan has gotten under my skin in a way no woman ever has. And the thought of being connected to her, of building something with her—even if it's just co-parenting—feels like a chance I don't deserve but desperately want.

The realization is so unexpected, so contrary to everything I've built my life around, that I don’t know what else to think.

I drop onto my sofa, head in my hands, and wonder how the hell I'm supposed to wait for her to make a decision that will change both our lives forever.

Two days later

My phone buzzes during morning rounds.

Dr. Patel, the attending I'm presenting to, gives me a sharp look, and I quickly silence it, continuing my summary of a patient's lab results. But the moment rounds are over, I duck into a supply closet to check my messages.

There's one from Maya: *At the hospital for blood tests. Just to confirm. I'm in the outpatient lab.*

My heart lurches. She's here, in the same building. After two days of silence, of checking my phone obsessively between patients, of rehearsing conversations we might have.

*On my way,* I text back, then hesitate.

Is that too eager? Too presumptive? But she did text me to let me know she was here. That has to mean she wants to see me.

I check my watch. I have forty-five minutes before I need to be back for an afternoon clinic. Enough time to get to the lab, at least.

The outpatient lab is on the second floor, in the far east wing. I take the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, my legs carrying me faster than is probably dignified for a doctor in his white coat. I slow as I approach the lab's waiting area, trying to compose myself.

And there she is, sitting in one of the molded plastic chairs, flipping through an ancient copy of National Geographic. She's wearing a dark green sweater and jeans, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She looks tired but beautiful, and something in my chest constricts at the sight of her.

"Maya," I say, and she looks up, startled. For a moment, something like relief flashes across her face before she schools her expression into something more neutral.

"Daniel." She sets down the magazine. "That was fast."

"I was already on this floor," I lie, not wanting to admit I practically sprinted across the hospital to get here. "How are you feeling?"

"Physically? Nauseous. Tired. My breasts hurt." She delivers this clinical assessment without emotion, but I see a flush creep up her neck. "Emotionally? Still processing."

I take the seat next to her, leaving space between us. "Have they drawn your blood already?"

She nods. "Just waiting for them to say I can go. My doctor ordered an hCG test and some other standard panels. Just to confirm and make sure everything's... normal."

"That's good. Thorough." I sound like an idiot, like I'm talking to a patient instead of the woman carrying my child. "Who's your doctor?"

"Dr. Larsen."

"Sarah Larsen? She's excellent. One of the best OBs in the region."

Maya gives me a sideways look. "I know. That's why I chose her."

"Right. Of course." I clear my throat. "Look, Maya, I'm glad you texted me. I've been thinking about you—about us, this situation—constantly."

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