HIS CLUMSY NURSE

Book 23

RYAN'S POV

I played the piano softly. Sleep eluded me, as it often did, but the soothing notes calmed me in ways nothing else could.

The melody took me back to memories of my grandmother—her delicate fingers teaching me to play, comforting me with music whenever I cried. She gave me this piano, a gift I never wanted back then, but after she passed, I took it everywhere with me. It was the one thing I couldn't part with.

As I played, another memory surfaced, one I didn't expect: her. That fake Nuella. How can someone I barely met feel so familiar, as if I've known her all my life?

How can a face I don't recognize find its way into my mind so easily, invading my thoughts like this?

She makes me curious. She makes me want to find her.

But no. I won't. I'll resist every urge.

CLARA'S POV

Oh my gosh, who's playing the piano so beautifully?

I opened my bedroom door quietly and followed the melody up the stairs. It was coming from Ryan's room.

A smile crept across my face as I pressed my ear against his door, completely captivated by the sound. The music was enchanting.

And then, suddenly, it stopped.

I panicked and tried to sneak back to my room, but the door swung open. There he stood, hands tucked into his trouser pockets, staring at me.

"You again," he said flatly.

I froze, biting my lip nervously. What do I do now? In a desperate attempt, I shut my eyes tightly.

"Sir, it's not Clara. It's her spirit!" I exclaimed, backing away slowly. "Clara's asleep, so I always leave her body when she's sleeping. I'm going back to her body now!"

I turned and waved my hands theatrically, trying to appear ghostly as I walked away.

Before I could take three steps, Ryan grabbed me by the back of my pajamas and pulled me straight into his room.

I stumbled, landing flat on the floor. He calmly locked the door, then sat on his bed, watching me as I adjusted myself awkwardly.

"Sir, let me explain—"

"Shut it," he snapped.

I immediately covered my mouth with my hand.

He handed me a bundle of note cards, red and white.

"If you have something important to say, write it on the red cards," he instructed.

"Huh—?"

"If it's not important or official, write it on the white cards," he added.

Is he insane?

"Clara," he said sharply, pulling my attention back to him.

I looked up.

"Don't talk to me. Ever," he said.

Somehow, those words stung more than I expected. But I could tell he wasn't trying to be mean—he looked tired, like someone carrying too much on his shoulders.

Maybe that's why, despite my usual stubbornness, I nodded quietly.

I stood to leave.

"Where are you going?" he asked.