Healing Dr. Alexander

by Tracy Wolff

  Finally, he had enough of her poking and prodding and exploded. “If you want to know what’s wrong with me, why don’t you ask me instead of dancing around the subject like you’re freakin’ Tinkerbell?”

  She had the gall to laugh. “Tinkerbell. Hmm, I like it. As for the rest, fine. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Everything’s getting way out of hand.”

  “Everything?” she asked. “Or one thing in particular?”

  “I’m not going to sit here and play semantics with you, Amanda.”

  “Sure you are. Because if you go back out there and make another nurse cry, Lucas is going to lose his patience. And that is never a good thing.”

  He lifted an eyebrow at her. “Am I seriously supposed to be afraid of Lucas?”

  “No, of course not. But that doesn’t mean you get to treat the entire staff like shit, either. I know you’re having a rough time. I get that, but seriously, that’s enough wallowing. Get over yourself.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her to go to hell, that she’d nearly wallowed herself into a mental institution a year ago, but he bit the comment back at the last second. Amanda wasn’t pulling her punches, but she wasn’t hitting below the best, either. And neither would he.

  But before he could think of a suitable response, she ended up going where he’d wanted to for him. “Yes, I am very aware of the fact that I have no room to talk. Yet, I’m going to anyway. Because you did the same thing for me a year ago. I didn’t appreciate it then, but you saved my life—we both know that.”

  “I’m in no danger of dying, Amanda.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re in no danger of living either, and I’m sick of watching it.”

  “This time, I’m not the one backing off.”

  “Oh, yeah?” The annoyed look faded from her eyes for the first time that morning. “I thought Sophie had enough guts to stick around.”

  “Yeah, I did, too. But I guess not.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing. What can I do? Either she wants to be with me or she doesn’t.”

  “Don’t you mean, either she loves you or she doesn’t?”

  “Hey,” he said, alarmed. “Who said anything about love?”

  Amanda snorted. “Yeah, right. Because your panties are in this big of a wad because you want to sleep with her. You forget, I know you, Jack. Better than you know yourself sometimes.”

  He thought of the feelings he’d harbored for her for years, how she’d never seemed to have a clue. “Oh, really? You think you know everything about me?”

  “I know enough. I know you’re smart and brave and honest—sometimes to a fault. So why aren’t you being honest with yourself right now?”

  “I am being honest! She doesn’t want me.”

  “What you’re being, is cowardly. You’ve turned into a total chicken, Jack.”

  “I am not.”

  “Are so.”

  “Really? Are we five now?” He looked down his nose at her.

  “Whether you want to admit it or not, you’re scared. Scared of going to Africa, scared of giving it a shot with Sophie, scared of never being able to be a decent doctor—”

  “I am a much better than a decent doctor, thank you!” he said, completely insulted. And realized, too late, that he’d walked right into Amanda’s trap. Damn it. He hated when she did that.

  “Well, one out of three’s not bad.” She smirked at him. “But you see what I’m saying, right?”

  He did. For the past three and a half months, he’d been in the middle of an identity crisis. Those shooters had taken a lot more from him than his ability to be a surgeon. They’d taken his confidence, his belief in himself, pretty much his entire purpose for living. Was it any wonder then that he hadn’t been able to figure out which way was up? Hadn’t been able to find his way out of the hole he had dug for himself? He’d let a bunch of war criminals—uneducated, heartless thugs—dictate how he thought about himself and the world he lived in.

  Which was, as Amanda had so eloquently put it earlier, total bullshit. And it was going to stop now. It was time for him to stop being a coward and either figure out what he was going to do with this life of his or give up all together.

  Surprisingly, he was for figuring it out, even if it meant he got his ass kicked.

  “Thanks,” he told Amanda sincerely. “I needed the ass-kicking.”

  “You did,” she agreed. “But it’s nothing you haven’t done for me. I’m not as brutal about it.”

  “You say that because you’re not on the receiving end this time around.”

  “You poor baby. How will you ever survive.”

  “You could say you’re welcome, you know. Since I said thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said with an exasperated roll of her eyes.

  He glanced around the crowded waiting room, glanced back at Amanda. “Go,” she said with a smile. “I’ll cover for you.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  SOPHIE SETTLED ON the couch with a glass of wine and the remote control, the entire evening stretching before her. Normally she’d be thrilled with the turn of events—her boys only spent the night at their paternal grandparents’ one night a month, after all—but now that this month’s sleepover was here, all she could do was wallow in her own loneliness.

  She’d done the right thing running away from Jack the other day. She kept telling herself that over and over again. Yet, that didn’t make her feel any better. She wasn’t sure that anything could, to be honest. Which was why she’d tried so hard to avoid this love thing, to begin with.

  She’d known better. After learning at an early age that emotional attachments were not things that worked out—she’d managed to coast through life without ever really giving her heart to anyone. At least not to anyone but her two boys. And then Jack had come along with his charming grin and surly undercurrent and swept her off her feet. It would be laughable if it wasn’t so pathetic. Little Sophie Connor, from the wrong side of Atlanta, in love with a Harvard doctor. And stupid enough to think, even for a minute, that things could work out.

  Disgusted with herself and the whole world, she drained her glass of wine and then poured herself a second. As she did, she ignored the twinge of motherly guilt deep inside herself. There was no one here. If she wanted to get drunk on red wine and have a pity party then that was exactly what she was going to do. Pathetic, no doubt. But sometimes pathetic was all a girl could manage.

  Flipping on her television, she passed a romantic comedy, a horror movie, a comedy and finally settled on a tear-jerking drama. If she was going to wallow, then damn it she was really going to wallow. And in the morning, when she was fighting a wine hangover and cursing the fact that her head felt like it was going to explode, she was going to pack all this sentiment, all this unrequited love of hers away and never pull it out again.

  She was halfway through the movie—and the bottle of wine—when a knock sounded at her door. She was sorely tempted to ignore it, after all the only people she wanted to see were currently eating pizza and ice cream at their grandparents’ house. But when the knocking didn’t work, whoever was out there started leaning on the bell. And it was hard to wallow properly when one couldn’t even hear the movie one was using to do it.

  Pissed off and already a little tipsy, she poured herself a third glass of wine and then walked to the door, glass in hand. Whoever was on the other side of the door was going to get a piece of her mind. Didn’t they know the rules—that you never disturbed a woman when she was trying her best to get over a broken heart?

  She had a whole speech prepared by the time she flung the door open, and was looking forward to delivering it, short though it may be. But the second she saw Jack, her entire brain fr
oze. Just shorted out so that she could think of nothing to say. Nothing to do that didn’t involve standing here, staring at Jack like he was a cross between Santa Claus and a serial killer.

  “Sophie,” he said, somehow managing to sound as nervous as she felt. Which was ridiculous. She was the one who had thrown herself at him, who—after everything—had tried to hang on. And he was the one who had walked away. The one who had stayed away for nearly an entire week.

  She went to slam the door shut in his face, probably would have succeeded if he hadn’t been quick enough to stick his foot next to the door wall and knock it back open.

  “Please,” he said, reaching for her. “Give me a chance to talk to you.”

  She scrambled back before he could touch her. If he did, if he laid a finger on her and she felt the warm strength of him against her, she would be lost. She knew it, as surely as she knew that today was Friday.

  “Go away, Jack,” she told him, even as he let himself into the house, closing the front door quietly behind himself. “I don’t want you here.”

  Pain fluttered across his face, and she realized in astonishment that the coldness he’d shown her in his bedroom was gone. In its place was the Jack she remembered. The one who smiled and laughed and hurt. Watching her angry words inflict pain made her wonder which one was worse.

  “I know. You’ve made that obvious.” He crossed to her carefully, his hands down by his side. “I promise I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to.”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  Here came the ripples of pain again, but this time he made no move to hide them from her. “Fair enough. But will you hear me out?”

  “I don’t think so.” She shook her head, kept backing up. “I think it’s better the way it’s been. No touching. No talking. No having anything to do with each other.”

  “Why?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why is that better?” He moved closer again, and this time she decided to hold her ground. It was stupid, because the second his hand reached out to caress her cheek, he had her. And he knew it.

  “Why is it better for us to be apart than together?” he whispered, leaning down so that his lips were only an inch or so from her ear.

  “Why is it better for us to ignore each other’s existence instead of spending time together when it’s what we both want?” His lips skimmed over her cheek, pausing along the way to nibble at her jawline.

  “Why is it better to deny us what we both want.” He cupped her cheek, turning her head so that her lips met his in a kiss so sweet, so tender, that it frightened her all the way down to her soul. Yet she was helpless to pull away, helpless to kick him out. Helpless to do anything but kiss him back even as she tried to absorb him deep inside herself.

  He took advantage of her weakness, used it to walk her across the room and press her against the back wall of the foyer, never once lifting his mouth from hers.

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. A part of her brain screamed at her to stop this, warned her that she was going to get hurt, that this wasn’t going to end well, but she couldn’t seem to care. It felt too good to be held by Jack again after days of being alone.

  Amazingly, that was the thought that gave her the strength to pull away. It had never bothered her to be alone before and the fact that it suddenly did now was a huge problem. What happened if she got out of the habit? If she started relying on Jack only to have him pull another disappearing act? A little voice in the back of her head reminded her that she, too, had tried to disappear. That she was the one who had actually cut and run first.

  She did her best to ignore it, to concentrate on the hurt she’d felt ever since he’d walked away from her on her front porch, but she couldn’t do it. Not when she looked up and into his eyes, which were filled with the same fear of rejection that she knew was reflected in her own.

  “What are we doing to each other?” she whispered, pressing her hands against her throbbing lips. She could still feel him there, still taste him.

  “Making each other miserable,” he told her, “because we’re both too afraid to give the other one a chance.”

  “I gave you a chance.” The words were out before she even knew she was going to say them.

  “And I gave you one, but here we are anyway.”

  “You need to go,” she told him.

  “I miss you, Sophie. I miss the boys and the time I used to spend with all of you. I miss holding you and loving you. And I miss who I am when I’m with you.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Someone who remembers the good parts of life. Who doesn’t always dwell on the things he can’t change, and who enjoys being a part of the ones he can. Someone who realizes that there is a place for him in the world, though it isn’t the one he originally intended. Someone’s who’s happy.” His voice trailed off to a whisper. “Someone who loves you.”

  “Don’t say that,” she told him, her voice shaky. “Don’t say that to me unless you mean it.”

  “I love you, Sophie. Why is that so hard for you to believe?”

  “Because no one ever has. Not really. I mean, Noah and Kyle love me, but they’re the only ones.

  “My mom gave me to foster care when I was two. I never knew my dad. I lived in a bunch of foster homes until I was eighteen. They cared more about the money than they did me.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “Jeff cared about me. I know that. Just like I cared about him. But we both had our reasons for getting married and they didn’t have much to do with love.” She paused, then wiped her palms against her jeans like she was suddenly nervous. “Which is why you can’t tell me that. Not if you don’t mean it. I can’t take it. I can’t—”

  She couldn’t say anymore because Jack’s mouth was on hers and this time he wasn’t letting go. He kissed her until they were both gasping for air, and when he pulled away it was to mutter, “I love you” and drag air into his oxygen-deprived lungs before he came right back and kissed her some more.

  When they needed air one more time, he took to pressing kisses all over her. On her forehead, her cheeks, her collarbone, her shoulder. The curve of her elbow, her wrist, her shoulder blade. And with each kiss he whispered the words she was determined not to want, but that she was finding out she desperately needed.

  Tears bloomed in her eyes, spilled over, and for the first time she made no move to hide them from Jack, who leaned forward and caught them with his lips, slowly kissing all evidence of her sorrow away.

  “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Please don’t cry.”

  “I don’t know how to do this,” she whispered to him. “I don’t know how to be what you want me to be. I don’t care about your hand. I know you think I do, but it doesn’t matter to me. It never has.”

  * * *

  HERE IT WAS. The moment of truth. He could either believe her, that his hand wasn’t the obstacle between them—between him and the rest of the world—that he thought it was, or he could keep going down the road he was on, until his entire life lay in ruins before him.

  Before he’d met Sophie, the choice would have been an easy one. He couldn’t have anyone, couldn’t have believed that it wasn’t as horrific and awful to the rest of the world as it was to him.

  But as she held his hand and pressed soft kisses to the center of it, directly over his scar, he didn’t pull away. Didn’t wince. He sat there and took the love and affection that she was attempting to give him.

  Would it be enough? he wondered. There were a lot of difficulties coming up in his future, including more surgeries if he didn’t start responding better to physical therapy. Could he really believe that none of that mattered to her? That she didn’t care about having a whole, healthy lover or husband? That she accepted him the way he was?

  As
she cuddled into him, pressing one of her beautiful breasts against his palm, he realized that this too was an easy decision. Because he loved Sophie, he had to trust her. And because she loved him—he knew she did though she hadn’t said it yet—she would trust him, as well.

  The thought overwhelmed him, filled him up from the inside, so that all the rage and fear and self-pity was burned away by the wonder of his feelings for her. He wanted to love her forever, to cuddle her and cherish her and make love to her all at the same time. And all for the rest of her life. Nothing else mattered, only that she was his.

  “Jack?” Her sweet, sexy voice flowed over him like honey. “Are you sure?”

  For the first time in three long months, he was sure. Sure of her, sure of himself, sure of the family they would find a way to build together. “I’m positive,” he said, bending his head to once again take her mouth with his.

  They stayed that way for long moments, kissing and touching and holding. Making up for the last, long days when they’d done without each other. Needing her, loving her, he pulled away to look in her eyes, praying that he would see a little of what he was feeling reflected in her eyes.

  But when she opened her eyes, when she looked at him with her gorgeous green irises glowing in the lamplight, he saw so much more. Yes, he saw the love she had for him, but he also saw the need she couldn’t hide, a need combined with affection that somehow exactly mirrored his own feelings—it melted him like nothing else could have.

  Leaning forward, he once again took her mouth with his own, using his lips and tongue to arouse her—to soothe her—in a way he never had before. Not with Sophie and not with any other woman. He wanted her, God did he want her, but even more overwhelming than the desire blasting through him was the tenderness he felt for her. The softness she brought to him, the sense of peace when he had spent so long being restless and unsure of himself and the world around him.

  He nipped at her lower lip, reveling in the sexy moan she didn’t even try to stop. Sucked it into his mouth in an effort to ease the confusing rush of feelings tearing at his insides.