Page 37 of Accidental Doctor Daddy

“It’s not an easy job, and that’s why it’s so appealing.”

“You like a challenge?”

I nodded once. “An easy life is for other people. I want to work.”

"That’s good. This job requires eighty to a hundred hours a week, which is why we weed out people with too much going on at home," she said bluntly. "It’s too much unless you want to be an absentee parent or a bad spouse. And frankly, we try not to put people in that position." She paused. That’s why it’s good that your kids are grown."

"Leonardo and Gina are great and, thankfully, well beyond needing their father to care for them." Mostly.

She studied me for a moment, her gaze sharp. "It’s a tough job, Dominic. Are you sure you can handle it?"

"I’m more than qualified. And I’m more than ready."

Roxanne gave a small, satisfied nod. "Good to hear. I’ll be in touch."

I watched her walk away, feeling a familiar rush of competitiveness stir inside me. The position was mine.

I had spent my whole career preparing for it without even realizing it. My inner competitiveness meant I was never satisfied with beinggood enough. I had to be the best. I had sacrificed weekends, holidays, time with my family. I had spent years proving I was the best in the ED. I was the surgeon peoplecalled when things got bad. This was the next step, theonlystep that made sense.

But now, there was another hunger gnawing at me.

Ella. I knew where she worked now. And I wasn’t done with her yet.

Chapter 13

Ella

The past few days were a blur of feedings, diaper blowouts, and stealing scraps of sleep between the twins’ chaotic schedules. Everyone said twins synced up.

Liars.

Since leaving the hospital, I’d discovered more lies. Leak-proof diapers? Spill-proof lids? Sleep hacks that guaranteed rest? Total crap.

I’d told myself bringing them home would feel like running dinner service during a rush—fast, intense, thrilling.

It wasn’t.

It was exhausting and terrifying. How did I convince myself I could do this alone? Was it confidence or just plain stupidity? Either way, it didn’t matter. Because this chaos? This was everything. Marissa and Summer were my everything.

I’d prepped my apartment down to the last duckie detail, arranged their nursery a hundred times, and mapped out every possible contingency. None of it prepared me for the sheer tidal wave of love that hit every time I looked at them. One glance at their tiny faces and I’d get choked up, full to bursting in the best, messiest way.

Still, it was hard.

I was still healing—still wrecked. No one tells you how brutal just going to the bathroom will be after birth. The cramps, the sore boobs, the bone-deep exhaustion? A whole new level of wrecked.

And as much as I adored my girls, I missed myself.

Cooking had always been my anchor, my fire. Now, the only thing I “cooked” came from my own breasts. And burp cloths were my new wardrobe staple. Meals? A rotation of half-eaten sandwiches between naps. My life no longer revolved around plating scallops at Suivante but around tiny, perfect babies and counting how many hours they slept.

Thank God for Carrie.

She had been my rock since the second I was discharged from the hospital, shuffling me and the babies home with an efficiency that only she could manage. She had coordinated a food delivery from the restaurant—because as much as I loved to cook, I barely had time to shower, let alone make a meal. Those had been my first real meals since the hospital.

She had even taken charge of bedtime for the night, helping me wrangle my newborns into their bassinets while I sat on the edge of the bed, still adjusting to the reality that this was my life now.

Once the girls were finally down, Carrie reappeared in the doorway, arms crossed, her smile firm. “Well,” she said, lowering herself onto the couch beside me, “that only took an hour longer than it should have.”

I let out a tired laugh. “Theydoseem to enjoy making me work for it.”

---