The Reluctant Matchmaker Read Online Free Page A

an office hallway?
    â€œCan you count my fingers?” he asked, holding up three digits. When I answered correctly, he asked me my full name, which I managed to mumble. Then he inquired if I had blurred vision or a headache. When I said no to both he pulled out a penlight from his bag and gazed closely into my eyes.
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    He nodded in satisfaction. “You don’t seem to have a concussion. Good thing this is a heavily carpeted floor.”
    Good thing, I reflected with an inward groan. I could have been lying there with a fractured skull if it weren’t for the lush, foot-sinker carpet.
    â€œI want you to stay very still while I feel your neck, okay?” said the doctor.
    I sniffled in response. My nose was starting to run, and the tears were sliding down my temples and onto the carpet. The onlookers had closed in again.
    He inserted his fingers under the nape of my neck and moved them around. “Any pain in the back or neck?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGood.” He moved my head to one side while he felt my shoulders and arms. With my head turned I could see a bunch of familiar people staring at me with genuine concern on their faces. “Now, where exactly does it hurt?” asked the doctor.
    â€œM-my foot ... right foot,” I mumbled. “Can I have a tissue please?”
    The doctor stuck his hand in his bag and pulled out a tissue, then dabbed my eyes and nose. “Stay still. I don’t want you to move yet.” Then his exploring fingers traveled down my thigh and right leg, sending a fresh wave of pain through me as he reached below the calf.
    â€œOuch!” I cried. “That hurts.”
    â€œOkay, okay, I see what the problem is,” he said. “I’m going to examine your foot. It might hurt a little more, but I have to do it, all right?”
    â€œOw!” He wasn’t kidding about the pain.
    â€œEasy, young lady. Nothing’s broken. It’s just a bad sprain.”
    If this was what a sprain felt like, I wondered how a bona fide fracture would feel.
    â€œWe’ll need to move her to a couch or something,” ordered Dr. Murjani. “Somebody get me a couple of plastic bags filled with ice.”
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    â€œI have a couch in my office,” offered Prajay Nayak.
    â€œGood,” said the doctor. “I’ll need help moving her there.”
    â€œI can carry her, Doctor. Is that all right?”
    â€œYah, sure. Go ahead.”
    The fierce face came back to hover over me once again. I felt huge, sturdy arms lifting me up ... up. In the meantime my injured foot was dangling in the air and causing me horrible anguish. I groaned.
    â€œSorry.” His face was only inches from mine now and looked contrite.
    Someone lifted my foot and held it elevated, easing the pain a little. I was traveling high in the air, my eyes only a couple of feet below the ceiling while I was carried in a pair of arms that felt surprisingly safe to be in. They held me like I was a cloud. My head rested on a shoulder wide as a football field, and the fabric against my cheek was soft and fragrant with a manly scent.
    For a second I closed my eyes. It reminded me of Dad’s holding me in my childhood, when I needed comforting during an illness or after a terrifying nightmare.
    â€œShe needs to be seated, not lying down,” instructed the doctor.
    A moment later I was placed with incredible gentleness on a tan sofa with my back against the armrest and my feet stretched out in front of me. At least now my skirt wasn’t riding too high, only up to mid-thigh.
    One look at my right foot and I winced. The shoe had fallen off, the hose ripped at the toes. The ankle looked like it belonged on a baby elephant—fat and gray. I started to sniffle again. I’d never be able to use my right foot again. I’d likely be a cripple for the rest of my life.
    â€œNow, now, I know it hurts, but this should make it better.” The doctor put zippered