Healing Dr. Alexander

Opening the fridge, he tried to drum up some enthusiasm as he stared at the fresh produce filling nearly all the available shelves. Amanda had come over the other day, loaded down with bags from her garden and the local farmer’s market, and stocked him up. Which he appreciated. He really did. He hadn’t been very hungry lately.

Grabbing an apple, he made his way slowly through the house to the back porch. It was what had sold him on the place to begin with. Most of the house was pretty non-descript—typical rental property—except for the backyard. There was a huge porch that ran the length of the house and looked out over a garden that would fit better at a country estate than a small, city property.

Lush plants and flowers took up nearly every square inch, their eminent domain broken only by small walking paths that twisted and turned throughout the backyard. He’d explored them all his first couple of days in the house, had found a rose garden with a bench and the remnants of a vegetable garden. Maybe, if his hand came back enough, he’d start his own vegetable garden this spring.

If he was still here, that was. He might be long gone by then. Back to Boston, maybe. Or more likely, back to Somalia. Or some other war-torn country that was in such desperate need of doctors that they didn’t mind broken ones.

Uneasiness twisted in his stomach at the idea of going back to For the Children, back to another war zone where anything could happen. But Jack ignored it and settled himself on the big, comfy swing. He didn’t need to think about that now, or about anything, really. He could just sit here and relax for a while. Eat his apple and contemplate nothing more difficult than what vegetables he would plant if he was still around in a few months. Maybe some carrots. Tomatoes. He liked red peppers—

A steady stream of water came out of nowhere, hitting him square in the face before dropping a foot to scatter across his blue T-shirt, as well. It stopped for a moment, than a second stream hit him, followed so closely by a third and fourth that he was soaked before he had time to react. Jumping to his feet, he glanced around, trying to figure out where the attack was coming from. Had his sprinkler system gone insane? Was he sitting directly under a rain gutter?

He investigated the roof of the porch, then the empty blue sky above, then looked carefully around his yard.

But there was nothing, no one.

Dropping his apple core on the table next to the swing, he started to jump off the porch but then remembered his bum leg. More annoyed by that than by the fact that he was soaked, he took the steps two at a time instead. Then headed in the direction the water had come from.

He heard them before he saw them, two young voices laughing and whispering and hushing each other even as they rustled the hedge that separated his yard from his next-door neighbor’s. “Hey!” he called, making a beeline for the bushes. “Can I help you?”

At that moment, two towheaded little boys peeked their heads out of the foliage, their expressions steely and determined. It was a look reinforced by the huge water guns in their hands, though the bright colors of the guns tempered the effect. “We don’t need help from the enemy,” one told him in a tough guy voice that matched his soldier act.

“Yeah,” said the other, who was clearly younger by a few years, “We’re special forces and we’ve come to bring you in.” As he spoke, the first one leveled his water gun straight at Jack’s chest.

“The way I see it,” the boy continued. “We can do this two ways.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jack cocked an eyebrow, and decided what the hell. He could play along. Better than sitting around whining to himself about his pathetic excuse for a life. “And which two ways are those?” he asked in his own tough-guy voice. He even added a little sneer, to keep things interesting.

The boys’ eyes grew round with delight and they exchanged a quick look of triumph. But it only took the older one a second to regain his composure and add a snarl of his own to the mix. “Easy. My way or the highway.”

“Our way,” the younger one corrected him.

“Right. Our way.”

Jack grinned. He couldn’t help himself. They were adorable. Plus, it was nice to see two healthy, happy, well-nourished kids. So much better than the children he was used to interacting with. And these two were loaded with confidence, especially the older one. Jack liked it.

“You think this is funny, Punk?” the oldest one demanded, obviously taking his role seriously.

“No. Not at all.” Jack forced the smile from his face—and his voice. “I do have a question, though.”

His two assailants looked at each other, wide-eyed. Obviously, their plan hadn’t included the hostage engaging them in conversation.

It took a minute, but the younger one finally spoke. “Spit it out, scumbag. It can be your last request.”

“Well,” he said slowly, as if considering his options, even as he geared up for the fight of his life. “Can I have a few minutes? I’d like to say goodbye.” He pulled out his cell phone. “It won’t take long.”

“Geez, mister.” The older one looked disgusted as he stepped closer, gesturing emphatically with his gun. “What kind of hostage situation do you think this is? Get moving!”

“The kind where the hostage doesn’t go willingly.” Jack spun on his good leg, made a mad dash for cover at the closest tree. Then made a beeline for the water tap at the side of the house, regretting bitterly the fact that he hadn’t gotten around to buying a hose yet. But at least there was a bucket beneath it.

Using the house for cover, he twisted the tap with his good hand and waited impatiently for the bucket to fill up. When the two little dictators whipped around the corner, he was going to have a surprise waiting for them. One that, hopefully, got them as wet as they had gotten him.

* * *

HER SONS’ SHRIEKS split the air as Sophie Connors yanked the last weed out of the vegetable garden she and the boys had planted a few months before. It was doing nicely, she thought, as she sat back on her heels and surveyed the neat rows of greenery beginning to peek out of the dirt. In a couple more months they’d have a pretty good harvest to show for all the hours of planning and planting, watering and fertilizing, discussing and dreaming, that had already gone into it.

Which meant it was time for her to get a new project to work on. Nothing sprang to mind, but she knew one would come eventually. Maybe she could redecorate the boys’ rooms—they’d been obsessed with airplanes for weeks now. Or she could try those cooking classes she kept thinking about. This could totally be the year she branched out and learned how to make more than five dishes with any kind of confidence.

More little boy shrieks sounded behind her, and she rose unhurriedly to her feet. Better to let Noah and Kyle get the energy out now, before dinner and bath time, than end up chasing two naked and slippery little boys around the house right as they should be getting ready for bed.

But then the shrieks were followed by war whoops, and not all of them were in her sons’ young voices. In fact, a few of the whoops sounded distinctly masculine—deep and rumbly. Since they were followed by a bunch of laughter—and loud cries of “no surrender” from her sons, she figured she’d better go investigate. Hopefully her children hadn’t made enemies of the new neighbor quite yet. Usually it took them a week or two.

Although, judging from the sound of it, this one had a pretty decent sense of humor. Which would be a nice change of pace from the last tenant. He had had nothing but contempt for Sophie’s boys and though she’d done her best to keep them away from him, she hadn’t always succeeded. She tried to keep them in the backyard most of the time, but every once in a while they’d burst into the front. Inevitably, their escape to the front yard had always coincided with Reece’s trip to get his newspaper or take out the trash or go for his daily jog.

More shrieks sounded, these ones louder and more high-pitched than the ones that had come before. Sophie broke into a run.

By the time she got to the high hedge that separated her yard from her neighbor’s, the boys shrieks had turned to giggles. It soothed the panic that had raced through her at the sound of their distress, but still, she wasn’t going to be happy until she saw them.

Scooting through the hedge, she ignored the way the branches ripped at her old gardening T-shirt and scanned her neighbor’s yard for her sons. She didn’t see them at first and her fear roared back, but then they came flying around the house, their water guns held in clear attack mode, even as they retreated.

Amused, she watched as they dove behind a huge tree. They were small and skinny enough that she could only see their bright red-and-blue weapons. Water guns that were supposed to be in the pool bag and not in use in her neighbor’s yard.

Seconds later, the new neighbor came around the corner of the house after them. He wasn’t moving as fast as they were, but he was still booking it. In his hands was a large bucket, obviously filled with water. And it looked like he wasn’t afraid to use it.

Perhaps Noah and Kyle had finally met their match.

And what a beautiful match he was. The wet, clinging material of his blue T-shirt revealed a heavily muscled chest. His dark hair was shaggy in that way that only a really expensive hair stylist could manage and his jeans, though ripped at the knees, fit his long, muscular thighs like a second skin. She couldn’t see what color his eyes were from this distance, but she was betting they were the same blue as his shirt. And his broad smile was lighting up his entire face.

Deep inside, she responded to that smile. Even as she told her hormones to settle down and behave, that she wanted no part of this man or any other, a strange, unfamiliar heat burned deep in her stomach. Try as she did to ignore it—as she tended to do with most unwelcome things—Sophie couldn’t help wondering if a guy who looked like that, and who obviously had a decent sense of humor, was still single.

Before she could tell herself it was none of her business, the battle started up with renewed energy. Spotting her sons across the yard, the man ran toward them and was hit, full face, with double streams of water. Instead of getting angry, he laughed and continued his pursuit. But the bucket in his hands was sloshing and spilling a little bit with each uneven step.

So he was injured, or he had been. Either way, he was limping and she couldn’t help wondering how it had happened. Was he a veteran like her husband had been? And like Jeff, had he been injured in the war?

The thought made her guard drop even more, as did the way he handled it when her children leaped out from behind the tree and let him have it, lock, stock and barrel. Instead of getting mad like most people would—even when Noah nailed him in the eye—he just took the soaking. Then, when his opportunity came, he sent the water in the bucket soaring straight at them. Kyle was quicker than his older brother and managed to get out of the soak zone in time, but Noah took the water head on.

She barely suppressed a laugh at Kyle’s smirk of satisfaction and Noah’s whoop of shock—and glee—as the cold water hit him. He took off running, squishing with every step, and she knew the war was far from done.

Deciding she wanted in on the action, Sophie hurried back to her own house and turned on the hose. Then, stealthily creeping through the hedge, she snuck across the yard straight toward her boys, who were too busy taunting the neighbor to notice.

He must have seen her coming, but gave nothing away, so that when she pressed the valve on the hose nozzle and opened fire on her kids from behind, they were completely shocked.

Shrieks of delight filled the air as they whirled on her, slamming her with stream after stream of water. But they were no match for her mighty hose—or the neighbor’s refilled bucket—and soon the sounds of their surrender rang through the yard.

With a laugh, she reached forward and brushed a hand over Kyle’s sodden hair before doing the same to Noah.

“We’ll get you next time, Mom!”

“I have no doubt. You would have gotten me this time if I hadn’t had the aid of our new neighbor.” She looked at him, then realized with a jolt that she’d been wrong about the eyes. They weren’t blue. They were a rich, dark amber. She liked them, especially how this glint of amusement and mischief could coexist with that shell-shocked survivor look he, and so many veterans, wore.

Definitely a soldier, she thought, as she extended a hand toward him. “Hi, I’m Sophie Connors. Mother of these two hoodlums-in-training and your next-door neighbor. It’s nice to meet you.”

He hesitated for a second, then his hand came up to clasp hers. His grip wasn’t as firm as she would have expected from such a muscled arm, but when she glanced down and saw scars marring the skin, she understood why.

Injured hand, injured leg. This man had been through the ringer. And judging from the freshness of the scars, it had been a recent deployment and homecoming.

“I’m Jack Alexander,” he said in a deep voice that she couldn’t help liking the sound of.

“It’s nice to meet you, Jack.” She placed a hand on both of her son’s shoulders. “And these two water warriors are Noah and Kyle. Thank you so much for putting up with their troublemaking.”

He grinned, revealing even, white teeth. “They’re not troublemakers. A little high-spirited maybe, but they’re great fun to be around.”

“I think so.” She returned his smile. It was impossible not to like a man who so obviously liked her children. “Welcome to the neighborhood. If you need anything, please let me know.”

“Thanks.” He didn’t say anything else.

As the moment stretched, she gestured toward her house. “Time to come in, boys. Dinner should be almost ready.” With a little wave, she turned to go. But she’d only made it a few steps, her boys running ahead of her, before she felt compelled to turn back. “You’re welcome to come to dinner. Kind of an apology and welcoming, all in one? It’s nothing special, but if you’re interested, we’d love to have you.”

He took a little while to answer, longer than was strictly considered polite. She didn’t blame him, though. Her boys took a little getting used to and, now that she’d impulsively issued the invitation, she was aware of how it probably looked. Single mom on the prowl for hot new neighbor. Could she be more of a cliché?

Except she wasn’t on the prowl. Not even close. She felt a little sorry for him. A vet, freshly injured and back from war, trying to put his life back together. It couldn’t be easy. He deserved a home-cooked meal, one he didn’t have to put together himself.

“No strings,” she promised, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “I wanted to say thanks for putting up with my wild ones.”

He grimaced. “I wasn’t worried about strings. I’m not very good company right now, to be honest.”

“My usual dinner companions are eight and five. I love them, but they aren’t the most stimulating conversationalists in the world.”

“So the bar is low, then?”

She laughed, really liking his droll sense of humor. “Very low. Come on. It’s lasagna. Nothing fancy.”

“Homemade lasagna?” he asked, his ears perking up.

“Is there another kind?”

“What time do you want me there?”

She glanced at her watch. “Forty-five minutes? That will give me a chance to get the boys cleaned up and a salad made. Sound good?”

“Sounds great.”

“Okay, then.”

Sophie headed back for the hedge, leaning over to wind the hose as she went. And doing her best not to wonder if he was watching her leave. She hoped not. Her bottom was definitely not her best feature.

CHAPTER FOUR

EXACTLY FORTY-FIVE minutes later, Jack stood at Sophie’s door, a half gallon of ice cream in one hand and a bunch of regrets in the other. Why had he said yes? He really wasn’t up for socializing, no matter how casual it was. He was exhausted, in pain, and more than a little cranky—though he hated admitting that, as it made him feel like an overwrought toddler. And with a full day at the clinic ahead of him tomorrow, plus another damn physical-therapy appointment, he’d be better off going to bed early. Right now his job and recovery were taking all his energy. He didn’t need any more complications. This was the last thing he should be doing right now.

Yet, here he was. About to start a friendship he wasn’t the least bit certain he could keep up. He’d rung the doorbell twice, had waited more than long enough to be polite. If he wanted, he could take the melting container of ice cream and head home. After all, he’d lived up to his side of the bargain. He’d shown up, prepared to sit on a hard wooden chair and make uncomfortable small talk when all he really wanted was to be at home nursing his aching leg—the pain exacerbated by the water war.

He tried to tell himself he’d been seduced by the promise of homemade lasagna, but that wasn’t strictly true. After all, with his appetite the way it was, he probably wouldn’t be able to do the meal justice. Really, any company was better than his own. Pasting on a smile he was far from feeling, he knocked one more time to be thorough, and when there was no answer he was about to turn around and say to hell with it. But then the door flew open. This time, Sophie was the wet one, her bright purple tank top clinging to her in all the right places.

He might not be interested—in dating or in a relationship—but he’d have to be dead not to notice all those lush curves, especially when they were showcased so spectacularly. She had large, full breasts, a tiny waist and hips that his fingers itched to sink into. Her red-gold hair was piled in a messy bun and her green eyes had the same innate amusement he’d seen earlier in the yard. It was a good look on her.

“I’m sorry,” she said a little breathlessly, stepping back to let him into her home. “The boys were taking their bath and…” She trailed off with a laugh. “Let’s just say they got a little over-enthusiastic. Which, I’m sure you have no trouble imagining.”

“They were incredibly subdued when I saw them earlier,” he replied, tongue firmly in cheek. He stepped into the foyer.

“I noticed that.” She glanced down. “You brought ice cream?”

“I haven’t had a chance to pick up any wine. And I figured the boys would appreciate this more, anyway.”

“Chocolate-chip cookie dough is a particular favorite around here. You’ve already passed the cool test with your willingness to join the water fight this afternoon, but this will send you soaring through the stratosphere.”

“Thanks, I guess.” He didn’t know what else to say. He was a little wary of the way she spoke as if her kids had plans to keep him around for a while. He might be the new neighbor, but he had no intention of becoming part of the regular landscape around here. What was the point when he had less than no desire to stick around Atlanta at all?

Even more ill at ease than he’d been previously, Jack followed Sophie through a brightly colored living room filled with children’s toys into a friendly, well-lit kitchen. It was nice, not as fancy as the one at his house, but clearly used more often. The walls were a warm yellow and the counters were a dark gray granite. He liked it, especially the bay window above the sink. It was filled with colorful pots holding abundant herbs that filled the room with a rich earthy scent. It reminded him of the time he’d spent in South America.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked to be polite, though he prayed she’d say no. He wanted to help, but his hand hurt from overuse and the muscles were spasming and aching so much that he figured it’d be a miracle if he could hold a fork correctly. He figured it was payback for the three physical-therapy appointments he’d missed during the course of the move.

“Actually, you could put the salad on the table,” she told him, nodding to a large wooden bowl on the counter. “I tossed it with olive oil and vinegar before it registered that you might have preferred something else.” She flushed a little. “Sorry. We don’t get a lot of company, to be honest.”

“Oil and vinegar is fine.” He used his good hand to lift the bowl and carry it to the wide table at the end of the room. “Everything smells delicious.”

“Yeah, well, lasagna’s hard to screw up.”

He laughed, despite the pain shooting up one arm and down his leg. “You sound surprised.”

“No. Relieved,” she said with her own laugh. It was a larger than life sound, one that filled the room to the brim with joy. He liked it, too. “Sometimes my cooking can be a little sketchy,” she told him. “I have a tendency to get distracted in the middle of a recipe and sometimes things take a turn for the…well, let’s call the result interesting.”

He must have looked a little alarmed because she hastened to add, “But not with Italian food. I can make spaghetti, fettuccini and lasagna with the best of them. A leftover from my days at Mama Maria’s.”

“You learned to cook in an Italian restaurant?”

“I learned to cook in an Italian foster home.” As soon as the words escaped her mouth, her eyes widened. Like she couldn’t believe what she’d told him.

He didn’t want to make her feel more uncomfortable by responding. The fact of the matter was, people often told him things they would otherwise keep to themselves. It had been that way for as long as he could remember. For whatever reason, people trusted him and, more often than not, spilled their guts. It never used to bother him, but these days it made him uneasy. Not the confidences, but the trust implicit in them. He didn’t deserve that trust, hadn’t deserved it since he stood in a Somali clinic and let a bunch of monsters kill his patient and his nurse, both of whom had been under his care. Both of whom he’d been responsible for.

Silence stretched between them, and as guilt rode him hard, he thought about breaking it with a witty comment, a funny anecdote. He had any number of tricks in his slick and charming bag. Or he could say something sincere and comforting, but that might encourage some kind of bonding moment and that was the last thing he wanted. Terrible as it seemed, he didn’t have the will or energy for any of this.

Sophie cleared her throat as she fiddled with the necklace that nestled in the hollow of her throat. “Let me get the lasagna on the table and we can eat.”

He nodded cautiously. “Sounds good. Thank you.”

Before she could say anything else, Kyle came flying into the room, Noah at his heels. “I’m going to kill you!” Sophie’s oldest son shouted as he chased his brother around the center island. “Give it back!” he shouted. “It’s mine!”

“You lost it. Finders keepers, losers weepers.”

“I didn’t lose it—you stole it. Now give it to me!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sophie said, putting a hand on each boys’ head to stop them. “What is going on here?”

“Kyle stole Mr. X,” Noah whined. “He knew I was looking for it and he took it.”

“That’s not true. Noah left it in my room yesterday. I was playing with it and when he saw me, he hit me.”

“You want me to hit you?” Noah sneered as he lunged at his brother. “That wasn’t a hit. That was a love tap.”

Sophie slapped a hand on Noah’s chest and moved him away a good three paces. Then turned in time to see her youngest making faces behind her back.

Jack could tell it was the last straw. Relaxing in his chair, he waited for the fireworks to begin.

* * *

IF THE GROUND opened up and swallowed her now, she’d be totally okay with it. Seriously. An earthquake fracturing a random crack down the middle of her kitchen. It would be better than this. Like it wasn’t bad enough that her kids had soaked her wounded neighbor to the skin an hour ago, now they had to start World War Twenty-Seven while he was sitting here watching? Fan-freaking-tastic.

“Give it to me,” she said holding her hand out for the action figure. She had to work hard to keep her voice level. After a week of getting up before dawn to work on arguments for the three cases she had going to court in the next couple of weeks, she was running on caffeine and adrenaline and not much else.