One Man's Family

“I hope so.”

Scott was starting to hope—against his better judgment—that friendship would only be the start.

Chapter Three

Alicia knew she had a tendency to talk too much when she was nervous, and she found herself rambling throughout the meal and even after. Scott Logan, on the other hand, seemed to be a man of few words. He answered the questions she asked and responded to statements directed to him, but he did so with a minimum of words and always managed to redirect the conversation back to her.

It was a disconcerting change for Alicia to sit across the table from a man who didn’t regale her with stories designed to prove how interesting or important he was. Her most recent dating experiences had been with men who, though expressing an interest in her, were really more interested in themselves. She didn’t know many who would have hung around to dine with two ill-behaved children and even fewer who would have stuck it out through after-dinner negotiations over TV shows and bedtimes. So she was more than a little surprised to return to the kitchen after running Lia’s bath to discover that Scott Logan was not only still there but washing dishes.

Of course, this wasn’t a date, so she really shouldn’t compare the P.I. with the other men she’d dated. But she couldn’t deny there was something about the image of a strong man with his hands immersed in sudsy water that made her heart skip a beat. Forget candlelight dinners and long-stemmed roses—a man who willingly tackled household chores was the one who scored points with her.

“When I invited you to stay for dinner, I didn’t expect you to help with the washing up.”

“I don’t mind,” Scott said, wiping the cloth over another plate.

“Well, as much as I appreciate the effort, my mother would be appalled if I let an invited guest do my dishes.” She nudged his hip with her own to push him aside so that she could take over.

Of course, the subtle hip check didn’t even seem to register, except maybe in the glint of humor she saw in his dark eyes when he turned to meet her gaze. “In case you didn’t notice, I’m a lot bigger than you.”

“I noticed,” she admitted. “But my brother taught me not to be afraid of someone’s size. ‘The bigger they are, the harder they fall,’ he always told me.”

“That might be true,” Scott said. “But it would be easier for you to find a towel and dry these dishes instead of battling with me over washing them.”

She shrugged as she retrieved a clean towel from under the sink. “If you really want to help, I’m not going to refuse.”

“But it goes against your grain, doesn’t it? And not just because of your mother would disapprove.”

“What do you mean?”

“You strike me as a woman who feels compelled to do everything for herself, maybe just to prove to yourself that you can, or maybe because there hasn’t been anyone around to lend a hand.”

His words struck painfully close to the truth. “Were you a psychologist before you became a private investigator?” she asked.

One side of his mouth quirked up in a half smile. “No.”

“That’s right, you were a cop,” she said, remembering what Jordan had told her.

“Yeah, but my father’s a psychologist.”

“And you think that gives you license to perform an amateur analysis of my character?”

“No,” he denied. “But I am curious.”

“About psychology?”

“About you,” he said. “About how a woman who already juggles a full-time job and med school ended up with legal guardianship of her brother’s children.”

“He asked,” she said simply. “And there was no one else.”

“Their mother isn’t around?”

“Joe was granted full custody in the divorce,” she said. “That should tell you something about Yvette.”

“Grandparents?”

She shook her head. “Yvette cut all ties with her parents a long time ago. I don’t even think the Solomons have ever seen their grandchildren.”

“What about your parents?”

“They died almost four years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely.

“There was a fire in the restaurant they owned. They lived upstairs. I know it probably sounds weird, but I actually found comfort in the fact that they were together. They’d been married forty-two years and devoted to one another for all that time.”

She slid open the cutlery drawer, dropping in forks and knives as she dried them.

“They were the reason I got interested in reproductive technology,” she continued. “Because my mom suffered through so many miscarriages, both before and after Joe and I were born.

“She and my dad always said they wanted a dozen kids, but it took a lot of years before she finally had Joe. Then, when she had me less than a year and a half later, they thought their luck had turned around.

“But I was the end of the line, and although we never had reason to doubt how much they loved us, we knew they were both saddened by the loss of the other babies she couldn’t carry to term.”

“So now you help other women have the families they want,” he said.

She nodded. “Not all of our patients get the results they want, but for those who do…well, it really is a miracle.”

“And for those who don’t?”

“It’s just one more heartbreak,” she admitted.

“It must be hard dealing with those emotional highs and lows.”

His insight and understanding surprised her, and made it impossible for her to hold back. “A while ago, I was reprimanded by one of the doctors who caught mecrying in the staff room. She said that tears were unprofessional and I had no business working at the clinic if I couldn’t hold myself together.”

“That was harsh.”

“Dr. Logan thought so, too. He—” She narrowed her gaze on him. “Dr. Jake Logan?”

“My brother,” he admitted.

“I should have guessed,” she said. Jake was a little taller and Scott’s shoulders were a little wider, but otherwise the physical resemblance was striking.

“You were telling me about crying in the staff room,” he reminded her.

“And your brother came in and interrupted Dr. Morningstar’s lecture to tell me that, in his opinion, compassion was more important than professionalism. Then he handed me a box of tissues and steered Dr. Morningstar outside so I could finish crying in peace.”

She allowed herself a smile before admitting, “I cry a lot—tears of sadness and despair when a procedure fails, tears of happiness and gratitude when one of my patients experiences the joy of giving birth.”