Page 36 of Faking It with the Off-Limits Doctor

I’m preparing a salad when my mind goes back to last night, and meeting Mr. and Mrs. Casey in the bar. They’ve run the local grocery store for as long as I can remember, and both nearly in their seventies, they’re still going strong.

“You’re a surgeon,” Mrs. Casey gasped.

“A plastic surgeon, yes,” Alex replied.

“So, you cut up people’s faces?” Mr. Casey said with a slight grimace.

Alex half smiled. “Well, not just as macabre as that.”

“Yes, you silly old fool,” Mrs. Casey said to her husband, giving him a whack on his arm. “He makes women look prettier.”

The older woman gazed up at Alex admiringly. “Maybe I could come and see you one day.”

Mr. Casey burst into laughter, but Alex ignored the old man and answered Mrs. Casey so perfectly I found myself stunned and impressed at the same time.

“No, Mrs. Casey.” Alex shook his head. “I refuse to change something that is already so perfect, and so I could not, in good faith, allow my scalpel to come anywhere near you.”

Mrs. Casey had blushed. And I had stifled a giggle at Mr. Casey’s reaction because he rolled his eyes so dramatically he could have won an Oscar. But I still looked at Alex admiringly.

For the longest time, I’d thought of him as this grumpy billionaire. But when I saw him genuinely interacting with people, I have known all my life, it only added to the pile of misconceptions I had about him. Alex Bennett is actually a pretty cool guy.

The salad and nutritious smoothie I’m creating is nearly finished, as is Alex’s phone conversation, I’m glad to hear. Tentatively, I peek my head through the kitchen door, but he’s nowhere in sight. I’m not going to hunt him down.

Placing the salad and juice on the table, I call out, “Lunch is ready.”

Given that it’s a salad, I don’t really mind that he’s not there, so returning to the kitchen, I begin the cleanup and think about what I’m going to make for his dinner.

It’s forty minutes later when he enters the kitchen. He leaves his plate on the counter while I’m cutting onions. I hate cutting onions. Not because I don’t like onions but because I am super sensitive to the juice. So, when he looks at me, there are tears streaming down my cheeks.

“You Okay?” he says, looking concerned.

I sniff. “It’s just the onions. I’m fine. Are you Okay?”

I don’t know whether I should ask that question, but I’m also worried about him. It’s the first time I’ve seen him so rattled.

“I’m fine. I apologize for earlier. I was a little rude.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. You were busy.”

“Dealing with things that I don’t want to have to deal with, for sure,” he replies, clearly still annoyed by the conversation.

“Want to talk about it, fake fiancé?” I say lightly, trying to cheer him up.

He flashes a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not this time. But thanks.”

A minute later, he turns on his heels and leaves the kitchen, leaving me wondering what on earth the conversation had been about.

I spend part of my afternoon checking out the cupboards and fridge, making a list of things we need, and then I start preparing the vegetables for dinner.

As I’m slicing carrots, Alex wanders into the kitchen. He still doesn’t look like his usual self, and I’m tempted to ask him how he’s doing. But he had made it clear that I couldn’t help him earlier, and nothing has likely changed since then, so I keep my mouth shut.

He’s put the coffee machine on and is waiting patiently for it to finish when he says, “So, how do you think last night went?”

I shrug. “Probably as well as we could have expected. I think we’re Okay.”

“Me too. If nothing else, we’ve sown the seed.”

“Well, by this morning, there’ll be a whole field to harvest,” I joke.

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