Out of His League. Cathryn Parry
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a T-shirt and a pair of loafers—seeing as he couldn’t tie shoelaces with one of his fingers bandaged—and grabbed his SUV keys, wallet and phone.
It was dark outside. He’d slept the whole damn day. Some of that was the anesthesia and painkillers wearing off, some of it was just sheer exhaustion from a week of private worry.
He called down to valet parking and had Josh bring his Ford Expedition around front to the curb for him. Jon attempted to put on his medallion, but gave up trying to work the clasp and instead shoved it into his front pocket.
On the way downstairs, he called Max again. As before, the call went straight to voice mail. He shut off his phone without leaving a message.
He’d deal with his agent later.
For now, he was driving to Medford to see how a little kid with a cancer scare, like him, was doing.
And, oh yeah, sign him the autographs he’d promised.
* * *
ELIZABETH PUT HER hands over her ears. Her chest felt constricted and her pulse was elevated. Her living room, usually her sanctuary, blared with jarring music from an overloud children’s cartoon. Her nephew bounced on the couch and hummed to himself. “Brandon, please turn down the television so I can hear myself think.”
The boy gazed back at her with a wide-eyed look that made Elizabeth feel guilty. His mom was staying at an alcohol treatment center in town—unbeknownst to him, thank goodness—and she’d asked Elizabeth to take care of the boy for the next twelve hours. Elizabeth wanted to help them, she truly did.
“It’s only for one night,” Ashley had said. “Brandon loves sleepovers.”
With that, Elizabeth had driven Brandon from the hospital to his house, two towns over, to pick up an overnight bag, and then she’d dropped off Ashley’s small dog with one of her coworkers at the beauty salon Ashley worked at. Brandon had chattered and fidgeted nonstop, playing with the radio dials, and when she’d asked him to stop with the radio, he’d fiddled with her cell phone. She had felt so overwhelmed she’d ended up giving in. She just didn’t know what to do with a young boy in her busy life. Not even for one night.
In no universe would Elizabeth ever be called a nurturer. She was the absolute wrong person to have an active eight-year-old boy spend the night with in her small condominium.
“Brandon, please,” she asked.
Blinking, he took the remote and turned down the volume exactly one notch.
“Thank you.” She sighed.
“Auntie, what’s for dinner?” He jumped back on the couch and put his feet up on her formerly pristine cushions.
“I...don’t know.” She stared as Brandon kicked off one sneaker with a thump to the floor. Then his other sneaker dropped onto the magazines on her table.
Her favorite magazines.
She closed her eyes. She was so not cut out for babysitting young boys. This was going to be a long night. And she didn’t have a bed for her nephew, or even a guest bedroom—just her office. She didn’t have a toothbrush for him, either, and he had announced that he’d forgotten his, halfway up the stairway to her condominium unit.
Add that to the shopping list.
She turned back to her dilemma in the kitchen.
Every can of soup and package of cereal was emptied from her cupboard and spread out on her countertop. She had found nothing in her pantry or refrigerator that her nephew could eat.
This was her fault. She’d been so flustered over the fact that her sister had expected Brandon to stay with her—on one night’s notice—that’d she’d forgotten to stop at the supermarket. It was clear she needed to journey outside and brave traffic again. But there was no way she could leave an eight-year-old unattended. What to do?
She needed a babysitter, that’s what she needed.
Sighing, she crossed to the bulletin board where she’d tacked a slip of paper with the scribbled phone number for Mrs. Ham, the widow who lived in a condominium apartment downstairs. Elizabeth hated to ask people for favors—but the elderly lady was the only neighbor Elizabeth knew by name. Mrs. Ham walked with a cane, made it a point to talk to everybody and was home most of the time. Elizabeth remembered her talking about raising two boys, now grown and married and living in other states. Maybe she wouldn’t mind watching Brandon for fifteen minutes in her apartment while Elizabeth ran out to the store.
Before she could agonize over the decision, she made the call. Quickly, like ripping a bandage off a cut.
Mrs. Ham picked up on the first ring.
“Hello, this is Dr. Elizabeth LaValley from upstairs,” she said all in one breath. “I’m wondering if I could ask you a favor for tonight.”
“Tonight?” Mrs. Ham rasped. “It’s not a good time.” A television set blared in the background. “I’m watching the Eastern Series playoffs.”
“The...?” Elizabeth had no idea what the elderly lady was talking about.
“Auntie!” Brandon called from the living room.
“Excuse me for a moment, Mrs. Ham.” Elizabeth covered the phone. “Brandon, please, I am on the phone.”
Her nephew picked up the pillow from her couch and tossed it into the air. “Who are you talking to?”
“A babysitter. Put your shoes on, please, you’re going downstairs for a few minutes to watch the, uh, Eastern Series playoffs while I go out to the store.”
“But I can’t go downstairs.” Brandon sat up with an urgent look on his face. “I have to stay here. In your house.”
“You can’t stay here without me.” Elizabeth continued to cover the phone. “You’re eight years old.”
“But I need to. Just in case.”
“Just in case of what?”
And then the buzzer from the lobby rang. Elizabeth blinked, the meaning not registering at first. People did not visit her. She worked long hours, and the short amount of time that she spent at home she kept to herself.
Brandon perked up. “Can I answer the door?”
“No, I’ll do it.” She uncovered the phone and lifted it to her ear, intending to beg Mrs. Ham to watch the boy for just a few minutes, but it slipped from Elizabeth’s fingers and clattered to the counter. When she picked the phone up, she saw that she’d turned it off by mistake.
“Auntie!” Brandon nagged.
This was why she lived alone. To keep to herself. Oh, God, she felt like weeping. How was she supposed to manage sharing her time when she was just so greedy for privacy?
It couldn’t get any worse.
Her nephew tugged on her shirt. “I think it might be Jon Farell at the door.”
Jon? Her patient from the morning, with the beautiful blue eyes?
“I asked him to come,” Brandon said softly.
But it couldn’t be. It just could not be.
* * *
JON WAITED IN THE LOBBY, wondering if Lizzy was home. But at last he heard her voice answer from the intercom:
“Yes?” She sounded frazzled. In the background, the Scooby-Doo theme song played on a television set, a blast from his past.
That made him smile. “Hi, Dr. LaValley. It’s Jon Farell. Ah...I hope it’s okay, but Brandon asked me to stop by. I’m dropping off the autograph I promised him.”
“Jon! Jon! I knew you would come!”
A buzzer sounded, and Jon was on his way upstairs. She waited for him in the hallway before an open door, the light from