Page 57 of The Potter

The plane is waiting on the tarmac by the time we arrive.

“Do you have a paper bag?”

Halle’s been quiet the whole ride here. Normally, her silence is ideal, but since she probably suffers from PTSD, I worry she’s retreating into herself. Though, asking for something is a good sign.

“No, I don’t have a paper bag. Do you feel like you’re going to hyperventilate or barf?” Unlocking the doors, I reach for our bags in the back, keeping my eyes on her just in case she’s getting sick.

“Barf?” She arches a brow at me. “That’s an unusual word for you, isn’t it?”

I fight off the urge to grin. “I think you, of all people, Ms. Belle, should know I can use slang without issue.”

Her cheeks tint with pink, and I know she’s remembering the night she was pantyless, spread out beneath me as I lied and claimed I could remain professional at the sight of her pussy. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. It wasn’t just the sight of her pussy on my floor, but the smell of her arousal as she fought through the pain as I stretched her. It was sensory overload.

Being with her on this plane, forty thousand feet in the air… isn’t much better.

“Are you sure you didn’t bring any sedatives?” Her fear has returned.

Closing the door, I walk around to her side and squat down so I’m at eye level. “You don’t need a sedative.”

I don’t tell her I have one just in case. You don’t specialize in scar revisions and not encounter patients who have traumatic pasts. I didn’t realize Halle would have a sensitivity to planes; her file didn’t mention it, but regardless, I’m prepared to get her to Astor safely, both mentally and physically.

“I don’t want you to see me like this or worse,” she finally says, her gaze tracking to the ground.

My chest tightens as I put a finger under her chin and lift her eyes back to mine. “See you like what?”

Her lips quiver. “Broken.”

“You’re not broken.” Leaning in, I smooth the lines of her mouth with my thumb. “Never broken, Peach.”

A tear streaks down her face as her hand clings to mine. “You don’t know me. I wasn’t,” she sniffles, “I wasn’t always like this.”

“Like what?”

Releasing me, she extends her hand between us. I don’t think either one of us breathes when she places her hand over my heart and whispers, “Brave. I wasn’t always brave… until I saw you.”

I swear my heart spasms, sending my rhythm into atrial fibrillation.

“When I was lying there in that hospital bed and couldn’t move—couldn’t breathe without pain. All I could think was I wanted to die. My friends were his. My apartment… Starting over. Learning to walk seemed impossible.”

She blinks and more tears fall. “And then one night, after a very painful therapy session, I saw you. You were giving an interview on TV with that woman whose husband set her on fire.”

I nod, remembering the woman well. She was one of my first patients after I rebranded the practice. Lois was her name.

“She said you…” A sob shudders through her.

“We don’t need to talk about this right now.”

She swipes at the tears and shakes her head stubbornly. “She said you heard her screams in the hospital and came to her. You sat and held her hand as they cleaned her burns.”

I can still hear her screams as they debrided her wounds.

Halle’s hands rest on my face as she forces my gaze to hers. “She said you gave her the strength to keep living—to keep fighting for her future.”

“That was a long time ago,” I try explaining. “I’m not—“

“She was beautiful, showing off her scars that were still there but refined.” Her bottom lip quivers as she shakes her head, cutting me off. “She called youthePotter. A man who took lumps of clay and shaped them into something beautiful.”

“I don’t want to hear the rest of this story.” I try pulling away, my heart pounding in my chest. But Halle ignores my protests and grips my shirt, holding me still.

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