For the past two years, Sophia had been so gracious in her interviews, so fun on her television appearances. She’d set a goal to be as well thought of as Audrey Hepburn someday, and she’d pursued her dream with unwavering perseverance until now. Audrey Hepburn wouldn’t have told a Texas Rescue volunteer that she wanted to cut this crap short.
DJ Deezee Kalm would have, except he wouldn’t have used the word crap.
Sophia replaced the cap on her lipstick and tossed it so that it landed on the bench seat next to Grace.
“Your gum,” Grace reminded her gently, under her breath.
“Get me a limo to the airport. This van blows.” Sophia tilted her head back, pursed her lips, and with a poof of air, spit her gum to land on the seat, as well.
She got out of the van. Grace watched out the window as Sophia shook back her hair in the Texas sunlight, looking like a million dollars in a classic coat dress that cost eight thousand. Grace had secured it at no cost. The publicity Sophia could bring a designer was worth more than the price of the dress. For now.
The adults applauded, the teenaged girls who crowded against the plastic barricades screamed and cheered, but Sophia didn’t walk over to her waiting fans. Grace wished she hadn’t suggested it. Maybe her sister would have done the obviously right thing if she hadn’t felt like Grace was ordering her to do it.
Grace picked up the lipstick and returned it to the tote, then dug out a tissue and cleaned up the gum. What’s a personal assistant for, right?
Not this. She’d been her sister’s support, not her sister’s servant. But her sister was no longer acting like her sister. Sophia was turning herself into something she was not, all in an attempt to make a man love her.
Deezee didn’t love her—but Grace did. She’d dragged her from LA to Texas for her own good. Surely Sophia would come to her senses. Grace just had to find a way to keep her in Texas a little longer.
She sighed and looked out the window again, at the group of handsome men who were all shaking her sister’s hand. What if, instead of a Hollywood bad boy, Sophia fell for one of these men? Maybe one of the doctors, someone who was caring by nature, someone whose profession meant he was successful and respected, independent of her sister’s success. Wouldn’t it be lovely if Sophia fell in love with a guy like that? It would cure all their ills.
A handsome man from Texas Rescue could be just what the doctor ordered.
* * *
“Hi, I’m Dr. Gregory.”
Alex Gregory, MD, held his hand out to shake with the young boy who’d come to his emergency room with a sports injury.
The child’s father grabbed Alex’s hand instead and squeezed. Hard. “What took you so long, Doc?”
“I’m sorry for your wait. Things are unpredictable around here.” Alex extricated his hand from the bone-crushing grip. To restore some circulation, he made a fist and used one knuckle to push his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. Then he spread his fingers out wide, and made a second attempt to engage his young patient.
“So, I’m Dr. Gregory, you’re Justin, and I hear that you came in because you got hurt. Can you tell me where?”
“It’s his leg, Doc. He’s got a big game tomorrow. We need you to patch him up to get him through. Maybe a cortisone shot and a knee brace.”
Alex kept his expression neutral for the sake of the little boy on the gurney. According to the chart, the child was eight years old. This parent was acting like his kid was an NFL superstar. “Justin, can you tell me where it hurts?”
The child looked up at him silently and pointed at his left leg.
“Okay, I’ll check out your leg. Anywhere else I should look?”
“My chin hurts, too. I hit it right here, and—”
“Just tell him the important stuff, son. Shake off the little things, like a man.”
Take it down a notch, Bubba. That was what Alex wanted to say. As Dr. Gregory, of course, he didn’t. Part of every accident evaluation included screening for head trauma, particularly since this child had just reported that he’d sustained a hit to the chin. The screening could be as simple as listening to the child relate his injuries logically and with clear speech.
In other words, the father needed to shut up.
Alex crossed to the sink and washed his hands in preparation for an exam. His little patient was so miserable and tense, manipulating that injured leg was going to be an ordeal, unless he could get the child to relax at least a little bit. Confronting his father would only make the child more tense.
Alex began drying his hands on rough brown paper towels. “So, Justin, how’d you hurt your leg?”
“S-s-soccer.”
“He was playing an aggressive forward position and he—”
Enough. Alex turned abruptly to face the father. In silence, he held the man’s gaze. It helped that Alex was as tall as the father. He certainly lacked the beer belly, but he looked ol’ Bubba in the eye. With his back to the boy, Alex let his expression show his disapproval as he dried his hands.
“—and he cut the ball back to this rookie, who...ah...” The father’s monologue came to a confused halt under Alex’s glare.
Alex crushed the paper towels into a ball and pitched them into the trash can. Deliberately, taking his time, Alex pointed at the chair in the corner. The father sank slowly into the empty chair.
Alex turned back to Justin. He started with the child’s arm, knowing it was uninjured and wouldn’t cause him any pain while he lifted it and bent the elbow, testing the range of motion, a way to let the child get familiar with the exam. “Do you play any other sports?”
The child darted a fearful glance at his father, making sure it was okay to talk. “Dad coaches me in basketball, too. Right, Dad?”
Dad hesitated and glanced at Alex before answering. “And baseball. We’re doing baseball this year.”
Justin looked from his father back to Alex. “And b-baseball.”
“Wow, that’s a lot of sports.” Alex hadn’t missed the child’s fearful glance. He took his stethoscope off his neck. It gave him the perfect excuse to lift the boy’s shirt to listen to his heart. He’d be looking for bruises, too. Usually, an overbearing soccer dad was just that, but sometimes that overbearing personality became violent, and children could be the victims.
“What sports do you do?” the boy asked.
Alex smiled a bit. Kids only knew their own worlds. If their world was an endless cycle of practices and games, they assumed everyone was involved in sports. Thankfully, little Justin had no bruises. His life with his dad centered on sports whether he liked it or not, but it appeared his life was free of physical violence. Not like Alex’s had once been.
“I’m not on any teams like you are. I ride my bike a lot, though.”
He
