Hotshot Doc(14)

“I don’t know why he said that,” I say, fidgeting on my heels and wishing a waiter would pass by so I could grab a glass of champagne and drown myself in it.

His dark brows are furrowed in confusion. “Have I unknowingly offered you a position?”

“No. No.” I rub my hand up and down my forearm. “Dr. Lopez is just trying to ensure I find a new position before he leaves, and for some reason, he thinks we would work well together.”

He grunts and looks away. “That’d be a first.”

He’s no doubt referring to the scores of surgical assistants that have come before me.

“Believe me, I’m not convinced it’s a good idea. Like Dr. Lopez said, I watched your surgery—you were brutal to that device rep.”

“You think I should have let him off easier?” He lets out a bitter laugh. “The toxicology report showed my patient had lethal levels of cobalt in his blood. He was being poisoned by the very thing that was supposed to be healing him. You think I was brutal?”

His eyes are two hot flames.

I take a small step back.

I didn’t know it was that bad. I didn’t know the hardware was poisoning him.

“Brutal wasn’t the right word,” I admit, voice quivering.

He shakes his head, clearly done with me. “Do me a favor and tell Dr. Lopez this won’t work out. You’ll need to find another surgeon to work for.”

He turns and is about to walk away when I reach out and grab his arm to stop him. In an instant, my fear is doused with a nice, healthy dose of rage at the idea of him rejecting me. ME!

I’d laugh if I weren’t seeing red.

“Are you kidding? Do you realize I’m the best surgical assistant Dr. Lopez has ever had? You’d be lucky to have me working for you, and yes, maybe I misspoke a moment ago, but that doesn’t mean I was wrong. You ARE brutal, and you know it. You can’t keep a good team around you because you stomp around like you’re the second coming of Christ. I’ve had to listen to all your surgical assistants as they wallowed and wept, and I always thought they were embellishing just how terrible you are, but it turns out they were right.” I realize I’m still gripping his arm, and I jerk back as if he’s a hot stove. His suit jacket is rumpled from my hand, but he doesn’t care. His attention is riveted on me like it’s never been before. My tone turns hard and unyielding. “And don’t worry, I’ll tell Dr. Lopez this won’t work out, but come Monday morning when you walk into that operating room, you’re going to look to your left and wish you had a surgical assistant as good as me standing beside you.” I laugh and shake my head like he’s the biggest disappointment I’ve ever seen. “Have a good night, Dr. Russell.”

Then I curve around and accidentally (on purpose) bump my shoulder into him before seeing myself out.

“Hey, you,” I snap at a waiter on his phone just outside the door. “Are those the coconut shrimp?”

He nods dumbly, eyes wide at being caught slacking on the job.

“Give them to me.”

“What?”

He’s scared. He looks around for a manager, but it’s just us.

“You heard me. Stuff them in my purse—now!”

And that’s how I leave Dr. Lopez’s retirement party toting two dozen coconut shrimp. Josie and I devour every last one in our pajamas while Grey’s reruns play in succession.





Chapter 6





MATT



No one has ever talked to me like Bailey did last night, not a colleague, not another attending at the hospital, and definitely not a surgical assistant. Admittedly, at first, I was blown away that she’d have the nerve to use that tone with me, but shock and embarrassment gave way to a healthy dose of interest, and oddly enough, a small dose of respect. I can’t get her speech out of my head. I should have paid more attention to her before she stormed out. I remember her being small compared to Dr. Lopez. I remember the feel of her delicate hand clenched on my bicep. Most importantly, I remember her sharp words.

I always thought they were embellishing just how terrible you are, but it turns out they were right.

She doesn’t lack boldness. I’ll give her that.

The next morning, I find Patricia at her desk perusing a knitting magazine, and I ask her for Bailey’s employee file. She pauses, mid-page-flip, and then she stares up at me over the brim of her reading glasses.

“What do you want it for?” she asks with barely concealed trepidation. “I like that girl. Don’t go making her quit.”

I roll my eyes. “Just give it to me.”

It’s rare that Patricia likes someone. If she feels the need to defend Bailey, it speaks volumes about her character.

She grumbles a bit more and then reluctantly stands to retrieve the file from HR. When she brings it to my office a few minutes later, I have to tug hard to pry it from her hand.

I thank her then lay the file open flat across my desk. I don’t know what I’m hoping to find—a dossier outlining her life? Details about her likes and dislikes? There are just a few pages. I learn her full name: Bailey Anne Jennings, and her age: 26. From what little I remember, she seemed younger last night.

I scan over her address and suddenly feel like I’m stalking her, but in reality, any employer would do this. I want to know more about the person I’m considering hiring. Under education, it says she finished a few years of college before quitting and opting to complete a surgical assistant program. I flip to the last page and at the bottom, I notice there’s no one listed as her emergency contact. There are just a few letters scratched out like she began writing someone down before thinking better of it.