Healing Dr. Alexander

by Tracy Wolff

  “I could take them,” Jack suggested casually. Too casually, in her opinion.

  “Take them where?”

  “I mean, I can babysit them. With this new shift, I’m not due into work until eight, so as long as you’re home by seven, it should be fine.”

  Sophie laughed. She couldn’t help herself. His offer was sweet, but… She gestured to her boys, who were currently running in circles around the big Magnolia tree near the street. Kyle had shot all of his bullets, and Noah had grabbed them all up, stuffing them into his pockets until they bulged. Then he proceeded to open fire on Kyle, making her youngest child scream in rage even as he retreated.

  “I don’t think so.”

  He looked insulted. “You’re willing to trust a flaky college kid with your children but you won’t trust me, a certified M.D., with their safety?”

  “I didn’t say that. It’s just, I think it’s an awful lot for you, don’t you?”

  He shut down right in front of her. “Oh, right. Don’t want to overtax the cripple by siccing a couple of kids on him.”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

  “Oh, I think it’s exactly what you meant.” He shrugged, like it didn’t matter though she could see, quite clearly, that it did. “But whatever. I was trying to help.”

  “What I was trying to say was that with twelve-hour shifts at the clinic and physical therapy three days a week, isn’t your plate already full?”

  “My plate’s fine, thanks. Again, I’m a doctor. I know how much my injuries can handle.”

  “I wasn’t talking about your injuries. I was talking about your energy level. In case you haven’t noticed, they’re an armful—which is about four times the size of a handful. After a few particularly long days, even I have fantasies of locking them in separate rooms for a couple of hours. And I’m their mother.”

  “Fine. You know best.” He smiled at her in a perfectly pleasant manner, like their conversation had never happened. Which drove her nuts, not to mention made her feel intensely guilty. She hadn’t known him long, but she’d figured out the first night she met him that Jack was a master of suppression and disguise. What she saw on his face, or heard in his voice, was only about two percent of what was really going on beneath the surface.

  With a sigh of surrender, she asked, “You really think you can handle them?”

  “I know I can handle them,” he said with a grin, now that he knew victory was within reach. “I love kids and your boys are cooler than most.”

  “Fine, we’ll give it a shot. But just until I find someone who can take the job on a more permanent basis.”

  “That’s all I was suggesting to begin with.”

  She snorted her disbelief. “Is two-hundred dollars a week enough? That’s what I usually pay—”

  “You’re not paying me,” he said, obviously horrified by the suggestion. But on this she refused to back down.

  “Of course I am. You’re providing a service and I need to pay you for that service. It’s simple capitalism.”

  “Do I look like I need the money to you? I’m a doctor.” He stressed the word like it meant he was a billionaire, but she knew better.

  “For a non-profit clinic. You’re not going to convince me you’re raking in the big bucks.”

  “Maybe not, but I can guarantee you I don’t need your money.” The inflection he put on the sentence had her watching him through narrowed eyes.

  “What does that mean? What do you need?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Maybe a few return favors, when they come up?”

  “You know that’s not a problem. I’ll be happy to help with whatever you need. You don’t need to use it as payment for babysitting my kids.”

  “Why not? You expect to pay me for doing a favor. Why shouldn’t I expect to do the same thing?”

  He’d gotten her but good. “You think you’re so cute, don’t you?”

  “I’m adorable. Everyone says so.”

  If by everyone, he meant every woman between the ages of eighteen and fifty-five, then he was right. Since he’d moved in his front door had been a revolving series of casserole dishes from every woman in the neighborhood.

  She started to snark about it a little more—at least in her own head—until she remembered that he was currently eating cookies she’d baked for her sons.

  “Fine. We’ll use the bartering system. What do you want from me first?”

  He eyed her thoughtfully and despite herself, Sophie felt her breath catch a little in her chest. Not that there was anything sexual in his gaze. There wasn’t. Not at all—Jack wasn’t that kind of sleaze. But at the same time, there was a thoroughness that drew out something deep inside of her, something that hadn’t been seen in almost five years. She wasn’t sure how she felt about the fact that it seemed to be coming back to life now—especially when her project was to bring him back to life.

  “Well?” she asked a little defensively as she crossed her arms over her chest. She really didn’t like how exposed she suddenly felt.

  “Nothing comes to mind off the top of my head,” Jack said. “But believe me, you’ll be the first to know when something does.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HE WAS WAITING on his front porch when the school bus dropped the kids off at the end of the street. Now that the time had actually arrived for him to be in charge of two little boys, there was a huge part of him that was standing back, asking What. The. Hell? What the hell had he been thinking to volunteer for this job and what the hell did he think he was going to be able to do to amuse these kids for three hours after school every day?

  It had seemed a really good idea when he was standing there talking to Sophie, fresh off his first day at home. He’d spent the morning staring at the walls, going stir-crazy and the afternoon fixing everything he could get his hand around. He’d gone outside and started mowing as a last ditch effort to keep himself sane—and from dwelling on the fact that he should be in Africa, working, not in America trying to fill the time with ridiculous reruns of the most warped reality TV shows he’d ever heard of.

  But now that he was faced with the reality of being in charge of Kyle and Noah for the afternoon, he was beginning to think that reality TV didn’t sound so bad. Which showed how desperate he had become.

  “Dr. Jack, Dr. Jack!” Kyle came running up the walkway, hell-bent for leather. “What are we doing today?”

  Sophie had left strict instructions. Snack from 3:00 to 3:15. Homework and silent reading from 3:15 to 4:00. And then free time from 4:00 to 6:00, but only one of those hours could be spent in front of the TV. Which sounded a little Stalinish to Jack, but that wasn’t a battle he was going to fight. Sophie’s kids equaled Sophie’s rules.

  “I thought we’d have a snack first. Any suggestions?” he asked the boys.

  “Pizza!” shouted Noah.

  “Ice cream!” added Kyle.

  “Hot dogs!”

  “Chocolate-chip cookies!”

  “Coke!”

  “Lemonade!”

  “Gummi bears.”

  It was a regular smorgasbord of bad choices, and he laughed as he scooted the kids into the house. “I was thinking more along the lines of peanut butter and apples?” He had a brand new jar of peanut butter that he’d run out and bought that morning—after being assured by Sophie that the boys had no peanut allergies.

  “Bor-ing!” declared Noah, flopping down on a kitchen chair and looking for all the world as if he’d lost his best friend.

  “I hate peanut butter,” Kyle told Jack, a serious frown on his little face.

  “You hate peanut butter? What kind of kid are you?” he demanded with a grin, crouching down so that he was eye level with the boy. “Well, if you don’t like my suggestions, why don’t you make some s
uggestions of your own—ones that do not include junk food,” he clarified to prevent Kyle from singing out more inappropriate choices.

  “I like cheese and crackers,” Noah said.

  “Me, too,” Kyle agreed. “With apples.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Within five minutes—only a few minutes off schedule—he had the two boys settled at the kitchen table with their snack and boxes of organic chocolate milk. He was feeling pretty proud of himself, thinking he had this babysitting thing nailed—how hard could it be, after all—when disaster struck.

  It hadn’t occurred to him to put the straw in the chocolate milk for Kyle, and the little boy had a difficult time doing it on his own. Jack was in the middle of reaching for it when Kyle finally managed to punch a hole in the top. But he was holding the box so hard that chocolate milk squirted up the straw…and all over Noah’s face.

  Noah screeched.

  “It was an accident!” Kyle cried. “I’m sorry. It was an accident.”

  Noah paid absolutely no mind to the apology, and picking up his own milk box squirted the entire thing across the table at Kyle.

  Kyle sat there, frozen, chocolate milk dripping from his eyelashes and down his cheeks while Noah smirked at him. Jack ran for a towel, had started to wipe the kid off when Kyle unfroze. And attacked.

  With battle cry, he launched himself across the table and straight onto his brother. Fists and feet flew and Noah went from smirking to screaming in a split second.

  While Jack agreed that the kid deserved the fists—and the feet, he figured his role as adult babysitter required him to interfere. But when he tried to break it up, the two clung to each other like burrs, punching and kicking for all they were worth. He finally managed to pull a spitting and hissing Kyle off his brother.

  Depositing the pint-sized warrior on the counter a good ten feet away from his brother, Jack turned and surveyed the damage. Noah had a swollen lip and a huge scratch down his neck, but looked otherwise unscathed.

  The same could not be said for his kitchen.

  Chocolate milk dripped from the walls, the floor, the table, the chandelier and even spattered the ceiling in a few spots. Crackers were scattered under the table, some ground into the tile while the plate of cheese remained relatively unscathed, except for the one random piece that was hanging on the wall.

  He turned to the two boys, both of whom wore mutinous expressions. And both of whom had lower lips that trembled.

  “Okay, so this snack thing was a little harder than I thought it would be,” he told them. “My fault. I guess there’s a learning curve for this kind of stuff.”

  “Are you gonna tell Mom?” Noah asked.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like a snitch?”

  “No.” Both boys solemnly shook their heads.

  “Okay, then. Let’s get the mess cleaned up and then we’ll try the whole snack thing again.”

  He grabbed the dustpan from the laundry room. “Noah, you’re on cracker duty. Kyle, you’re on milk duty on the floor, chairs and tables. I’ll take care of the walls and ceiling. Sound good?”

  The boys nodded, then Kyle pointed to the piece of cheese that was still hanging from the wall. “Who’s on cheese duty?”

  “Oh, I think I’m going to leave that there for a few days. A fitting memorial to the Battle of Chocolate Milk.”

  Noah laughed. “I could put another one up there for you. Then you could have two memorials.”

  Jack stopped, considered it for a second. “You know, that’s not a bad idea.” Then he held out the plate of cheese to Noah and said, “Fire away, soldier.”

  By the time Sophie was due to get the boys, Jack was physically and mentally exhausted. How did people do this? he wondered, yanking a shepherd’s pie out of the oven where it had been heating up. How did they deal with two young children, filled to the brim with energy, and still find the wherewithal to go to work. He had a full shift in front of him and all he wanted to do right then was sleep.

  But at least he, the boys and his house had all survived his first official day as babysitter, though it had been touch and go for a while there, especially with the house. On the plus side, he hadn’t had time to sit down, let alone brood. So maybe there really had been a method to his madness.

  With a sigh of complete and total exhaustion, he slid the shepherd’s pie onto the table, tossed the salad, and sliced up a loaf of French bread.

  Maybe he was being presumptuous, expecting Sophie and the boys to eat with him, but she could always say no. He figured since he had enough food to feed an army—neighbors in the South were so welcoming—and he had to eat anyway, he might as well feed them, as well. Otherwise, he’d be eating frozen dishes for the next year. And he wasn’t even planning on sticking around here that long. If not back to Somalia, then to some other weather or war devastated country. Job security had never been a problem for him.

  He sighed as he slumped into a chair and began to rub his aching leg. Kyle had gotten a few good kicks in before he’d managed to deposit him on the counter. He contemplated taking a pain pill, or at least some Advil. He knew, if he didn’t, he’d end up suffering through his entire shift at the clinic and he really didn’t want to do that.

  He didn’t want to move, either. The boys were in the next room, quietly playing on his computer—finally—and if he could just find five minutes to himself, he’d be back in fighting shape.

  With a groan, he laid his head on the table and closed his eyes. All he needed was five minutes.

  * * *

  SOPHIE FOUND him fifteen minutes later, dead to the world, head resting on a dinner plate with his bad leg propped up on a chair, while the boys were playing some wizard game on the computer in the next room.

  She burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it. The big, bad surgeon looked so absurd passed out that way.

  At the sound of her chuckling, Jack jolted upright and jumped to his feet, nearly upending the table in the process. “I’m not asleep,” he told her blearily. “I was resting my eyes.”

  “Of course you were.” She stepped forward, peeled a napkin off his cheek, then patted it. Poor baby, probably didn’t know what had hit him. She’d tried to warn him.

  “The boys are in the family room playing—”

  She laid a finger on his lips to silence him. “I already found them. Thank you, for everything.” She eyed the table. “We’ll get out of your way so you can have dinner before work—”

  “I thought we’d have dinner together.” He gestured to the steaming shepherd’s pie in the middle of the table. “I have enough food to feed an army.”

  “Ah, yes, is that one of the of the plethora of welcome dishes?”

  “It is. I have about a hundred of them stacked in the freezer, so you’d be doing me a favor if you helped me out here.”

  She studied him for a second, then shifted her eyes to the dinner table to keep from showing her amusement. A week ago he’d been throwing out No Trespassing signs big enough to be seen in outer space and now he was inviting them all to dinner.

  She wasn’t sure what to attribute the change to. Maybe he was able to relax with her now that the difficult part—his injuries—was already out of the way. Or maybe he was a very private person who took time to warm up to people. Whatever it was, she liked these small peeks inside him. Oh, he wasn’t letting her in very far, wasn’t letting her near the dark torment that she knew was hiding deep in there. But at least he was showing her more than the stoic countenance he maintained for most people.

  To make him sweat a little, and because he really was adorable in this sleepy, little boy lost way, she asked, “Is that Linda Grayson’s shepherd pie?”

  He blinked a few times, until the shadows of sleepy confusion cleared from his eyes. “Is Linda a tall blonde with generous—” he paused as she lift
ed an eyebrow at him “—tendencies?”

  “Yes, Linda’s tendencies are very generous,” she told him. “As are her other assets.”

  “Then, yes, the casserole came from her.”

  “Linda must really be impressed. She doesn’t make shepherd’s pie for just anyone.”

  “Everyone in the neighborhood’s been so nice. It’s a big change from Boston.” But, interestingly enough, reminded him a lot of Somalia, where the people were incredibly generous. They might not have had much, or anything, for that matter, but they were always willing to share.

  Sophia snorted. He really was clueless. “That’s because you’re the hot new single doctor in town, Jack. They’ve been coming by to check you out.” She stepped forward, patting his cheek for emphasis.

  His eyes widened. “But most of them are married.”

  “Yes, but their husbands travel an awful lot. And some of them are over here, exploring the merchandise, not for themselves, but for their sisters or daughters or nieces or friends.”

  “The merchandise?” he repeated, obviously bemused.

  She shook her head. “Southern women. They’re a breed onto themselves.”

  “Interesting.” He paused, considering her for a second. “How come I don’t have a casserole from you?”

  “Because I like you enough not to try to kill you. And I’ve already fed you lasagna and homemade chocolate-chip cookies. What else do you want?”

  He didn’t say anything, but those amber eyes of his darkened while he looked at her. As they did, that strange little feeling came back, the one she’d been doing her best to ignore since the first time she laid eyes on him. When she thought something might happen, that he was going to say or do something—though she had no idea how she would feel if he did. But he looked away from her, at the table.

  “So, do you want to stay?” he asked.

  Her eyes darted to the clock over the pantry. “What time do you need to be at the clinic?”

  “I’ve got to leave here in about half an hour. But that should be enough time, right?”