Ever since that day, gaining that title and having that authority has been my number one goal to finally prove myself as a person. But spending the summer with his twenty-something-year-old daughter, pushing her past her limits, bearing the brunt of female hormones and tearful breakdowns isn’t how I want to spend my time.
Richard continues, “I think about retirement more and more each morning when my alarm goes off. If I knew my daughter was safe living in the city, secure in a stable residency with a more …appropriatecareer path, I think I’d be ready to call it quits. Hand the torch off to someone younger and more energetic, someone who can take charge of this place without letting it run into the ground.”
My heart thumps at his suggestion and at the knowledge that Chief status could be mine within a year or two. Hell, within the next six months if all goes well. I can boast about my academic accomplishments, and my surgical success rate is impeccable. I tag along with Richard to most bureaucratic functions and force my smile to the Board until my cheeks hurt. All in the name of becoming Chief once Richard retires. My dream is so close I can fucking taste the success, and a young girl with a bleeding heart won’t get in my way.
I stand and set my hands on my hips as I think for a moment before reaching out to shake his hand. “Let me know when she arrives; you’ve got a deal.”
Chapter Two
Annaliese
Iclenchmyfiststogetherto quell the shaking, wondering if it’s my blood sugar or my nerves that have me so on edge this morning. Tapping the face of my watch, I find my glucose running slightly low, with the arrow trending down, so I reach for another peanut butter cracker that I’ve stashed in my locker and pop it into my mouth.
I inhale for a ragged breath, the sting of antiseptic and floor cleaner filling my nose and providing a type of calm that probably would give the average person a headache, but it grounds me. I hate that my trembling hands are giving me away. It isn’t necessarily the first day jitters. It isn’t from the jet lag and flying halfway across the world or the crummy night’s sleep I got on my pull-out couch. I know I can handle today. Being a surgeon is the one thing in my life I’ve never doubted since the day my father took me to the hospital with him and let me tour an empty operating room. I sat in his worn leather chair and spun in circles while he dictated his notes and my mind whirred with all of the medical jargon. At that age, my dad was still my hero. I was a pimple-faced teen with big dreams of following in his footsteps. I wanted to work alongside him, as Dr. Annaliese Keeton, and maintain the legacy he’s cultivated.
That was also the day I snuck into the staff lounge for a second carton of apple juice and caught him on the verge of bending one of the scrub nurses over a breakroom table. I realized even at the age of fifteen that my dad, like most men, has faults.
It was then that I realized I no longer wanted to maintain his legacy; I wanted to forge a path of my own. One that doesn’t involve using power or prestige to cheat on your spouse, or wielding that power to give yourself false control over others.
Being a surgeon doesn’t make someone God. It’s a right of passage given to those who work their asses off in med school to become one of the measly fifteen percent that make it as a surgeon.
I slam the door of my locker shut and turn to study myself in the wall mirror. With my hair neatly tucked into a disposable scrub hat, and a set of baby blue scrubs the same matching color, I almost look like I belong here.
Grabbing my Grace General fleece off the locker room bench, I run my fingers over the soft fabric, considering getting Dr. Annaliese Keeton embroidered on the breast, and the thought makes me smile. “Yeah, I can do this.”
Slipping it on, I grab the essentials for my day—pen light, pens, and my stethoscope, not wanting to start my first day having to borrow from others. I tap my pocket to ensure my emergency candies are in place as I take one last look at myself in the mirror. My mouth pops open, and I’m ready to fire off another verbal pep talk when the main door swings open. The murmur of voices and the occasional laugh filters through as a few of the other second-year residents file in. Most carry an air of confidence, likely the ones that spent the last two years already working inside these hospital walls. They know the layout of the building, they know which doctors you can develop a relationship with and which ones to steer clear from.
For the first time, I catch myself wishing I had done that as well. I immediately shake that thought away, knowing that the last two years spent working with the team along the coast of Madagascar means more to me than anything the walls of this hospital could offer.
So I’ll suck it up for the rest of the year. I’ll keep my end of the bargain with my father with the ultimate goal being to go back overseas, back in my element, and away from him.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out; a smile immediately crosses my face when I see who it’s from.
Mom: Good luck today sweetheart! Kick butt and don’t let your father be too much of a dick.
What happened to your goal of being nice to him?
Mom: That was me being nice…
I tuck my phone back in my pocket, exhaling a slow breath as I grab my coffee cup and turn to exit the locker room. Once I hit the metal square and the doors click open, I move toward the OR suite that houses the doctor’s offices. My dad asked that I check in with him around six, and a peek at my watch tells me it’s quarter to.
I’m just about to bring my cup to my lips for a much needed sip of coffee when I fly around the corner and my entire body slams into a brick wall.
Not a brick wall, exactly, but a tall, muscle mass of a man who’s likely equally as strong as a wall. His hands come out to grip my shoulders as we crash into one another with a groan. My coffee slides from my hands and before I can fumble to try to salvage it, the cup crashes to the floor, the lid flying off somewhere unknown, and the steaming contents splash over his scrub pants and shoes.
I hiss with embarrassment as I lean down to pick up the now empty cup and look around hoping to find something, anything to clean him up. I spy a handwashing station nearby and pull a handful of cheap brown paper towels from the stack, return to my newest friend, and lean to wipe most of the liquid from his legs.
“Jesus Christ,” he groans, pushing me away the second I try to bend over. I pull back, knowing I must have a surprised look on my face. Maybe it’s the midwest gal in me, but this situation should call for a mutual awkward apology. It’s not like I intentionally wasted my much-needed cup of coffee on him.
But when I mumble my side of the apology, I stand back to full height and my eyes move to the massive mountain of a man who is currently staring at me with a pissed-off expression.
“Watch where you’re going, kid,” he grumbles, and I’d be furious that he called me a kid if it wasn’t for how distracted I am by his eyes. Dark, cobalt blue circles stare down at me as his head of shaggy, sandy brown hair topples over his forehead, nearly reaching his thick brows that are currently twisted together. He stands with his hands on his hips, fire-breathing his anger through his nose like an angry bull.
Even though he could use a new set of manners, I can’t help but notice how incredibly sexy he is. I’m tall for a woman my age, and he still towers over me. Images of using his thick thigh as leverage to hop up and climb his body like a tree has a blush unfurling in my chest, which thankfully he fails to notice.
Dammit Annaliese.
I reel back, forcing my thoughts to return to the awkward situation at hand. This asshole in front of me is likely a superior, my guess working in some sort of surgery specialty because surgeons are known assholes. But today, and most days I guess, I don’t give a shit what someone's title is. It was clearly an accident, and I’ve already apologized. If he wants me to kiss his ass more than that, he’ll need to earn my respect first.
