The Doctor's Secret Son

He spun to look at her. She still wore her sweats and baggy T-shirt. Her hair went in several different directions. She was beautiful, but all he could think was how much she’d stolen from him.

“He’s my son,” he reminded her, liking how the words sounded on his tongue. “Why wouldn’t I want to know?”

“Not every man does.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not every man.”

She raked her fingers through her hair. “No, you aren’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She flinched. “Can we not do this today?”

“What?”

“I don’t want to argue with you, Trace.”

“Yeah, well, you should have thought about that before you kept my son from me.”

“You know, Trace, that goes two ways?”

“I didn’t keep our son from you.”

“No, you didn’t, but guess what? You didn’t come looking for me, either.”

“There’s a big difference. I didn’t know you were pregnant, Chrissie.”

Her chin shot up defiantly. “You didn’t ask.”

“Seriously?” He rounded on her. “A man is supposed to have to ask a woman to find out that she’s pregnant?”

She closed her eyes. “Okay, you’re right. That didn’t make sense. Not really. I—”

“Not at all,” he interrupted. “You should have told me and you know it.”

“Mommy?”

Both Trace’s and Chrissie’s heads spun toward the little boy standing in the doorway. He wore superhero pajamas and his fair hair was a little tousled, but his eyes were what got to Trace. He had inherited the Stevens eyes. He’d noticed it in the photos, but in person Joss’s eyes were mirror reflections of his own. Of his father’s.

“Hey, baby,” Chrissie greeted, going over and scooping him into her arms and kissing the top of his head.

The little boy patted her cheek, staring back at Trace with suspicion through eyes identical to his own.

His knees went weak and he reached out to steady himself.

Joss was his.

His son who looked at him and saw a stranger.

A stranger who had been arguing with his mother.

Trace took a deep breath.

Today was going to be difficult because he wanted to take the boy and hug him, to have him hug him back, to have his little hands against his cheek the way he was touching Chrissie.

It wasn’t going to happen.

Not without patience.