The sad thing is he’s probably spot on. I’ve completely lost any finesse I once had with guys. I can’t even flirt in the produce aisle anymore. I used to have a little something, but the most action I see these days is from the romance novels Madison throws in my direction.
“Right… so how am I supposed to tell if he’s looking at me if I can’t look at him?” I ask, as I stare straight ahead at the stoplight.
Gabriel sighs heavily as he patiently explains, “Mom, I didn’t say you couldn’t look at him I just didn’t want you to gawk like a tourist. A little chill factor would go a long way. You don’t give away your game up front.”
“Okay, okay I get it. No taking inventory. No ranking him or giving him stars…”
“Mom, I think you’re losing focus here, the only goal here was to see if he was looking at you. That’s it, no big deal. Think you’re ready to handle that?”
I raise my eyebrow at him as I respond, “Child-o-Mine, I’ve been flirting longer than you’ve been alive, I think I can handle a sideways glance and a few come-hither looks.”
“Eww. Keep your come-hither looks to yourself and just leave it at sideways glances, okay? You don’t want to scare the guy off,” Gabriel answers with a shudder.
I take a deep breath. It’s remarkably disconcerting to see who my matchmaking son thinks is appropriate for me. The last time he tried this maneuver, he was five and thought the sixty-year-old mailman would be a good husband for me — despite the fact that the mailman was already married and had grandkids. I trust that Gabriel’s taste is at least marginally better by now.
I risk a brief look over at the car next to me. Gabriel wasn’t kidding about the BMW. It’s deep charcoal gray — it’s not a loud car — but it’s still quietly powerful in a solid, sedate kind of way. It’s imposing nonetheless. In the past, I have gone for much flashier guys in much flashier cars, but the result was predictable at best.
For a minute, I thought that I had gotten away with peeking at the neighboring car without being spotted. However, it quickly becomes apparent that I’ve made a grave miscalculation when the driver catches my eye and gives me a little salute.
Either my son watches me much more carefully than I give him credit for or I wax poetically about men far more frequently than I realize because the man in the car next to me looks like something I could’ve ordered off a fantasy wish list. His Royal Hotness is apparently old enough to know what he wants in life and how to get there. He obviously takes care of that gorgeous body. When he smiles at me, I literally feel the ground move.
CHAPTER 1
JAXSON
EVERY MORNING, I LAUGH AT my foolishness as I drive clear across town to get coffee at a little obscure coffee shop in the middle of nowhere. Don’t get me wrong, the coffee is delicious — but let’s be real. I don’t go there for the coffee. I go there because every day for the past three weeks, I’ve been able to see this gorgeous, intriguing woman. I know I’m acting like some lovelorn teenager, but there’s just something about the way she carries herself that holds my attention. She is truly striking. Most women are trying so hard these days to attract attention they forget to be real. From what I can tell from Ms. Bold — as I’ve nicknamed her, being real doesn’t seem to bother her. Most of the time, she wears her hair straight, but I’ve noticed that on Wednesday and Friday mornings, she lets it curl naturally and ties it back with a headband.
A lot of people get frustrated when we get caught by the long freight train on our commute. Ms. Bold just cranks up Michael Jackson or George Michael on the radio and dances in her seat. I can’t tell if she really likes this music or if she’s just doing it to annoy her son. I’m pretty sure that the kid with her is her child because he is her mini-me right down to her dimples. It seems incongruous that she has a child that age.
This is interesting. It looks like my days of silently observing her are over. I’d wondered how long it would take her to notice that I’ve been studying her like a lab animal for weeks. I’m feeling a bit like a creepy stalker out of some film noir, but how exactly do you go about meeting someone you’ve only seen at the railway crossing on your way to the coffee shop? I guess, technically, I could look up her plates, but that would be crossing a few too many ethical boundaries for me.
I check my watch and when I look back up, she’s still watching me. This is both fascinating and frustrating, because from this distance, I can’t really read the full expression on her face. Just from watching her expressive body language, I suspect her eyes could tell more stories than I can fathom.
I hear an odd sound behind me, and my eyes travel up to my rearview mirror. I force myself to relax once my brain comprehends what I’m seeing. I take a deep breath and exhale. I know bracing myself will only make it worse. I’d give anything to still have my Mustang convertible right about now. At least if I had my convertible, I would’ve been able to warn the other car. I feel absolutely helpless because I know what’s going to happen and I can’t stop it. Vaguely, I wonder if I left my bag in the back or in my locker. I know better than to do a mental countdown, but my brain does it anyway. All my brain can process is the loud crunching and grinding of metal.
Astonishingly, it appears that my car is completely clear of the wreck and any blowback. I hit the trunk release and run around my car to grab my go-bag. Much to my relief, it’s in the trunk where it belongs. I stop by the passenger’s side of the cherry red convertible first. The teenage boy is trying to undo his seatbelt but his hands are shaking from adrenaline. I reach over and unfasten it for him. He looks up at me with eyes wide with fear as he pleads, “Please check on my mom, she looks really hurt.”
“I’ll get there. I’m going to give you a super quick check on my way over there. You doing okay? Can you see me and hear me? You got any bleeding or bones sticking out anywhere?” I ask. “What’s your name? My name is Jaxson. Most folks just call me Jax.”
“Dude, no disrespect man, but my mom is hurt. I’m fine. We can do all this social stuff later.”
“Okay, I’m just checking in with you, that’s all. Your mom is next. I promise, I’ll take good care of her.”
I run around to the other side of the car and unbuckle Ms. Bold’s seatbelt. I shout over to the other side of the car, “Son, what’s your mom’s name?”
“Donda. Donda Whitaker,” the kid answers grimly.
I gently shake her shoulder as I prompt, “Donda, are you with us?” As she lifts her head, I notice a serious gash along her hairline. Inexplicably, the other thing I notice is that her eyelashes are impossibly long. I know it has nothing to do with my medical assessment of her, but it’s impossible to ignore her beautiful face even though there is blood dripping down her forehead.
Donda blinks slowly as she asks me, “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be in the other car? Did the Earth really move when I looked at you?”
I can’t hide my smile behind the illusion of a professional demeanor when she says that. It’s exactly the way I felt when I first saw her and there wasn’t even a motor vehicle accident involved.
“I can’t address that situation one way or the other but, I can tell you that the Earth moved in part because it had help from a rather large vehicle. I’m just here to help you until the ambulance arrives. I already called for them from my car.”
Donda tries to tilt her head up and look around for the other vehicle. “Relax, you have a laceration on your head and you have to wait until someone has cleared you for neck injuries. You can’t be moving around like that, you could do yourself some serious harm. You need to stay still for as long as possible. The only reason we’re allowed to move you is if your car is in danger of catching on fire.”
Both mother and son look at me with great alarm as they ask, “Is it going to?”
“I don’t believe so, but you’ll need to go to the hospital. You need some stitches in that knee. Your cut is pretty deep. They’ll probably want to do some tests to see how hard the blow was to your head. You’ll prob
ably need an MRI or CT scan to rule out internal bleeding.”
“Gabriel’s basketball tryouts are today. He’s supposed to find out whether he makes varsity. This sets him up for college. If he gets on the varsity team as a sophomore, a lot more colleges will look at him seriously for sports scholarships. I have to give him the best chance I possibly can; I need to get him to his practice. He can’t be like me. I’m still trying to finish my degree one piddly course at the time. I don’t want him to be like me… he just can’t be like me.”
The boy looks at me with pleading eyes as he responds to his mom, “Mom, I got you covered, okay? If it doesn’t happen this year, I’ve got two more. If basketball doesn’t happen, I’ve got decent grades. If my grades aren’t enough, I’ve got art stuff. We’re good. I’ll just call Uncle Tyler. He can pick me up from here. You know him; he’ll probably take me all the way to practice with lights and sirens on. Go to the hospital and I’ll go to practice. I’ll meet you back at the hospital when I’m through.”
The paramedics arrive and put Donda on a backboard and ask me, “Shepherd, anything we need to be aware of?”
“Negative. I didn’t have a chance to get a full set of vitals; I just did a cursory search for acute injuries. Patient was mostly alert and conscious. Although she was a little confused at the start.”
“Shepherd? Your name is Shepherd? I thought you said your name was Jaxson?” Gabriel challenges. “What the heck are they talking about? What were you supposed to be examining my mom for?”
“My name is Shepherd,” I respond. “My name is Dr. Jaxson Shepherd.”
“That sucks. I was beginning to like you,” responds Gabriel in a dejected voice. “Unfortunately, that means you’re toast. My mom hates anyone in the medical field even worse than she hates the guy that used to be my dad. It’s been nice knowing you, Jax. Thanks for trying to help us. I’ve gotta call my uncle and get to basketball practice now.”
I have to admit that’s a first. I’ve never been dismissed because I’m a doctor. Usually, people decide I’m their newest, closest friend if they think I’ll give them free or discounted care. Never have I been completely written off because of what I do. This will be a very interesting challenge.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
I have been lucky enough to live my own version of a romance novel. I married the guy who kissed me at summer camp. He told me on the night we met that he was going to marry me and be the father of my children. Eventually, I stopped giggling when he said it, and we just celebrated our 28th wedding anniversary. We have two children. The oldest is in medical school, where he recently found and married the love of his life, and the youngest is now tackling middle school.
I write full time now. I have published over a dozen books and have several more underway. I volunteer my time to a variety of causes. I have worked as a Civil Rights Attorney and diversity advocate. I spent several years working for various social service agencies before becoming an attorney. In my spare time, I love to cook, decorate cakes and of course, I obsessively, compulsively read.
I would be honored if you would take a few moments out of your busy day to check out my website,
MaryCrawfordAuthor.com. While you’re there, you can sign up for my newsletter and get a free book. I will be announcing my upcoming books and giving sneak peeks as well as sponsoring giveaways and giving you information about other interesting events.
If you have questions or comments, please E-mail me at [email protected] or find me on the following social networks:
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A FINAL NOTE
Thank you for reading Jude’s Song. I hope you found it entertaining.
As an independent author, I rely on such word of mouth to get my books in front of new readers. Reviews are critical. Not only do they give me feedback on how to make my books more enjoyable, but reviews also help other readers discover my books.
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Because love matters, differences don't.
~Mary
Jude’s Song (A Hidden Beauty Novel Book 7) Page 26
