Page 11 of Faking It with the Off-Limits Doctor

But I’m pleased with the result. Well, the downstairs anyway. It now mimics my apartment with its minimalistic appearance while still looking like a family home. More or less. Though, when I think of my brother’s house—he and his wife have three wild boys ranging from four to ten years old—this place holds no comparison by any stretch of the imagination.

In fact, I’ve told Mike to take out liability insurance because I swear, one of these days, I am going to break my darn neck trying to circumnavigate the toys that seem to be strategically placed across the floors in all the rooms. I truly don’t know how he and Cathy—or any of the boys, for that matter—haven’t wound up in the emergency room yet.

My brother and I are not similar in any way, shape or form. He’s younger than me and far more relaxed. I know I’m high strung. I didn’t used to be. Our parents were pretty cool and down to earth. I suppose, had my life turned out as I had expected, I might still be as relaxed as Mike is.

Actually, no. He’s always been a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants kind of guy. A man who doesn’t need to plan anything. Even when they take trips, he doesn’t plan their route. He just takes off and hopes he’s going in the right direction.

Madness.

Me? I’m far more of a control freak, now more than I was as a child. With the path life took me down, I clearly had lessons to learn. Lessons that involve paying more attention to your wife. I’ve worked through a lot of my anger, and in the end, I had to reach a conclusion that I was, at least, partly to blame for our disastrous breakup.

I won’t make that mistake again.

Being single is far easier, and that’s exactly the way I’m going to stay, no matter how much Mike yaps on about getting back on the horse. I don’t want to get back on the horse. The horse has no saddle, no reins, and, frankly, scares the living daylights out of me.

The focus of my life is now my work, which I have been told many times is a bad thing. But I don’t see it that way. I make people happy and I’m excellent at my job. Surely that’s enough, right?

Besides, I earn an awful lot of money doing what I love, so there’s that. How many people can say they love going to work in the morning? From what I hear my clients say about their jobs, not a great deal, I can tell you.

Barbara came back to me the other day with news of the arrangements for the dinner party.

“Tom says Friday suits him and his team just fine,” she relayed. “He was a little surprised to hear they were going to have to come all the way out into the country to see you, but I pacified him with the fact that you’d just moved.”

“I’m sure his chauffeur will find his way,” I replied dryly. “Thanks, Barbara. That’s great.”

“How are you finding it, stuck all the way out there?”

“Honestly, it’s better than I expected. I can’t remember the last time I was surrounded by such quiet.”

She laughed at me then. “You’ll be a country boy in no time.”

Maybe she was right. While there had been a small niggle of doubt about whether I had made the right decision, I think I can now firmly say that this house was a good purchase. Maybe I didn’t realize how stuck in the rat race I truly was.

The hour-and-a-half commute isn’t much fun, mind, even in the Mercedes. To save myself the drive, I stayed over in the apartment a couple of nights ago when I had an early surgery the following morning.

It’s not like this is going to be a permanent thing, right? Sure, I might decide to keep it, but realistically, I’m only going to use it for weekends or holidays. The only reason I’m here now is because I’m waiting for Dara to arrive this evening so I can show her around the place.

An hour passes, and right on time, the doorbell rings. I move across my brand-new wooden floors and open the door wide. I have to swallow a gasp.

For the most part, I’ve seen Dara either in her chef whites, or wrapped up in a warm coat, her hair tied back off her face. Like I said, I’ve only bumped into her a couple of times. There was that dinner party about eight years ago, but I was so lost in a mire of misery back then I can hardly remember anything of the night, never mind what she was wearing.

However, at this very moment, she’s on my front doorstep in a checkered shirt and jeans that hug her legs. Her soft blonde hair hangs loosely around her shoulders, bringing out the blue in her eyes. I can’t deny it. She’s totally caught me off guard.

“Hi,” I say hurriedly, not wanting the woman to think I’m gawking at her. “Please. Come in.”

She nods. “Thanks.” And then she steps by me, smelling of vanilla and jasmine.

Stop it.

I close the door and follow her into the large living area, watching her as she’s looking about the place. “I remember when the Faulkner’s used to live here. Seems like a lot has changed since then.”

“Yes, well. I needed to change a few things. It was a bit…” I struggle to find the word.

“Dated,” we both say at the same time.

“Right.” I nod. “Were you here a lot as a child?”

Unusually for me, my stomach churns a bit, and I find myself asking a question I have no interest in knowing the answer to.

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