Surprise Delivery(2)

In all other things, I was on his level. However, I would always be looked at – at least in Henry’s eyes – as the underling, rather than as an equal, as our father had intended.

No, it was better for all concerned that I strike out on my own and pursue my own passions – and medicine was it.

“You did a really good job in there,” Danielle tells me again as she steps into the room.

I shrug. “Not much to it, really,” I reply. “Removing a gall bladder is about as simple as it gets.”

“Not a lot of people can do it,” she says. “Especially with such ease.”

The look of longing in her eyes is as obvious as the nose on her face, and I suddenly want nothing more than to be out of there – and away from her. Danielle is a sweet woman. She’s intelligent, beautiful, and like me, comes from a very privileged background. She moves in the right social circles, as my brother would no doubt say.

I know a lot of men who would be lucky to have somebody like her on their arm. Just not me. When I look at her, I feel nothing but a professional camaraderie. I enjoy her as a colleague, think she’s amazing at what she does, and I appreciate that she’s such a professional about it. But that’s where my interest in her ends.

“Thanks, Danielle. Sweet of you to say.”

Having stripped down to just my surgical scrubs, I throw on a lab coat and walk out of the surgical suite, leaving her there looking after me. I keep hoping that at some point, she’ll catch the hint and move on. So far, I’ve had no luck, but I keep hoping.

I make my rounds and check in on a couple of patients – I have to put in the required face time with the big money folks, after all – then head to my office for some quiet time. I don’t have another surgery scheduled today so I can catch up on some paperwork. Hell, maybe I’ll even get crazy and bug out a bit early.

But when I open the door to my office, my plans suddenly change.

A blonde woman is sitting in the plush, padded chair that sits before my desk, wearing a sharp designer suit. Her demeanor is professional, but her smile wide and generous.

She stands as I enter. I close the door behind me, take the hand she’s offering and give it shake. The woman’s hand is delicate and smooth, but she’s got a surprisingly firm grip. Her eyes linger on mine for a long moment, looking at me appraisingly, as if she’s taking my measure.

“Sorry,” she says, a hint of a British accent coloring her words. “They told me it would be okay to wait for you in your office.”

I wave her off. “That’s fine,” I say. “It just surprised me to find anybody in here.”

“I understand. I’m Andrea Dolan,” she says.

“Duncan Cl –”

“Clyburne,” she finishes for me. “Yes, I know who you are. I read your profile. That’s why I’m here, actually.”

“Huh,” is all I can really think to say to that.

I walk over to the Keurig machine on the sideboard and make myself a cup of coffee, trying to figure out who this woman is and what profile of me she read. It’s not like I’m signed up on a dating site or anything.

“Would you like a cup?” I offer.

She shakes her head. “No, but thank you.”

I take my mug back to my desk and drop down into my chair. We stare at each other in awkward silence for a moment, apparently, neither of us knowing quite what to say.

“Are you here for a consult?” I ask. “Because I –”

“Oh no,” she says and laughs. “I apologize. I thought my assistant had scheduled this meeting with you.”

I shake my head. “Nope. No meetings scheduled for me today,” I say. “Just a surgery and a few follow-ups.”

I literally have no idea who this woman is, why she’s in my office, or what she wants – and I’m growing more confused, not to mention irritated, by the second. All I wanted was a little quiet time alone.

“Apologies, Dr. Clyburne,” she says. “Or, may I call you Duncan?”

“By all means,” I tell her. “Now, perhaps you can tell me who you are?”

“Of course,” she answers, her accent rich and cultured. “I’m with Physicians Worldwide and we received your application.”

At the mention of Physicians Worldwide, everything falls into place in my head. They’re an organization – a lot like Doctors Without Borders – who go into impoverished or war-torn areas to provide medical assistance to those who need it. On a whim, or perhaps just needing something in my life, I’d put in an application to join them about six months ago and hadn’t heard a peep from them since.

Until now, at least.

“I apologize for the delay in touching base with you,” she continues. “We’re a small organization with minimal administrative staff, so sometimes it takes a little longer to process all of our applications.”

“That’s quite alright,” I reply. “I understand.”

“Anyway, I thought we’d take a few minutes to chat about your application.”

“That would be fine,” I confirm.

She pulls a file out of the bag that’s sitting next to her chair and I notice my photo clipped to the front of it. She sets it in her lap and opens it up, flipping through the first couple of pages, as if familiarizing herself with the information. I can already tell she’s a sharp woman and I have a feeling she knows my file front to back already. Not knowing what theatrics are for, I sit back in my seat and sip my coffee, content to let her play it out. My credentials speak for themselves.