Forbidden Touch: A Best Friends To Lovers Romance by Iona Rose (best classic literature .txt) 📕

where I touch her. She makes a soft gasping sound at my touch and I dare to let myself think that maybe she felt it too.

“Don’t try to sit up just yet,” I say with a smile, ignoring the sensation touching her gives me. “You were unconscious. I just need to check for a concussion.”

I pull a little torch from the pocket of my white coat and shine it in each of her eyes in turn. The light picks up flecks of gold in the green and I feel my insides stirring, desire flooding me. I force myself to ignore the feelings, concentrating on her pupils. They dilate normally and I smile at her, putting the torch away.

“Your reaction times are fine,” I smile. “And I would say it’s unlikely you have a concussion, but we’ll keep you in for a while just to be on the safe side. If you start to feel sick or dizzy, let a nurse know immediately.”

She nods her head and I sit down on a chair I pull up to the side of her bed.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Erika. Erika Hart,” she says.

That’s a good sign. She knows who she is. I run through the address details, the date of birth, and the medical history the system had linked to the tentative ID we had been given and everything matches what is on the chart. It doesn’t seem like she’s any the worse for wear for the bang she’s taken on her head. The small cut she sustained has already been stitched and I’m confident that’s the only damage that’s been done to her head.

I run through a few more questions. What year it is, who is the president of the United States. I ask her where she went on her last holiday and she smiles at me.

“Greece. But how will you know if that’s correct or not?” she asks.

“I don’t,” I confess. “But it’s a test to see if you can answer questions quickly or if you have to really think about the answers.”

“So what’s the verdict? Am I broken?” she asks.

“Nope. You’re as good as new,” I say.

She blushes slightly and I feel my heart skip a beat. I can’t let myself be attracted to this woman. It’s unprofessional and she’s been through enough without me coming on to her. I stand up and smile at her.

“One of the nurses will be along shortly to give you some pain meds for your neck. There doesn’t seem to be any real damage done, but it will be sore for a few days until the swelling goes down,” I say.

I head for the door.

“Dr Miller?” Erika says from behind me. She sounds unsure of herself suddenly and when I turn back to her, I see the fear on her face. “What happened to me? And why can’t I remember it?”

I go back to the chair beside her bed. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to be the one to have this conversation with her. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to be the one to tell her that some monster had attacked her in her own home. But I can’t bring myself to walk away from that pleading tone, the scared looking eyes.

“Call me Aidan,” I say, something I always tell my patients. Dr Miller sounds so formal and patients are much more likely to open up to me in a less formal setting. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

She thinks for a minute and then she nods slowly.

“I was meant to be going out on Saturday night. It is still Saturday right?” she says.

I nod my head.

“Yeah. Six o’clock Saturday night,” I say.

“Right. I was meant to be going out with my best friend. I think it was about four, but I decided to start getting ready. More to pass the time than anything else really. I remember someone knocking on my door. And the next thing I remember is this,” she says. “Was Jennifer early? Did we go out somewhere and have an accident? Is she ok Dr Mill … Aidan?”

Erika’s voice is starting to sound panic filled and I shush her before she can work herself up into a frenzy.

“Your friend wasn’t with you,” I say quickly. “We don’t know who was at your door, but one of your neighbors called the police because he heard a commotion coming from your place. When the police got there, they found you unconscious and the room around you trashed.”

“Someone did this to me?” Erika says, her eyes opening wider.

“Yes. I’m sorry,” I say.

“Who? Why?” she asks.

I wish I could take the fear out of her and make her feel like everything is going to be ok. Instead, I have to settle on the truth.

“I don’t know,” I say. “But the police want to come and talk to you and I’m sure they’ll get to the bottom of it all.”

I wasn’t sure of that at all. How could they have any hope of finding out the truth about who had attacked her when Erika had no memory of what had happened?

“I definitely want to talk to them,” Erika says. “But I don’t know what I’ll be able to tell them. They probably know more about this whole thing than I do.”

“Maybe something they say will trigger something,” I say, not really believing it but wanting to. Whoever did this to Erika needs to be caught and locked away.

“Why don’t I remember the attack?” she asks.

“It could be one of two things,” I say. “Either your mind has blanked out whatever happened because it’s too traumatising to remember. Or it could be a short term memory loss brought on by your head wound.”

“But the memory will come back right?” Erika says.

“It could,” I say. “But there’s no guarantee it will. The odds are around fifty fifty.”

“Ok. Thank you,” she says with a smile.

I know she’s not really thanking me. I haven’t told her what she wanted to hear at all. But it’s the thing most