ONE
ALLY
The man standing behind me is hot. Right now he’s also bothered, but unfortunately, it’s not in a good way. He’s shifting his weight from foot to foot and scowling at his phone, and every so often he sighs with impatience.
It’s the frustration of a man at the top of the food chain who’s being made to wait for his morning coffee.
And since this coffee line is moving at turtle-speed, I’ve had a lot of time to observe Mr. Hot and Bothered. He’s tall—a few inches taller than me, which is saying something, since I’m five foot nine. His hair is dark, almost black, and so are his eyes. The color of the coffee he’s probably about to order, since I bet he drinks it black.
If we were still in the caveman era, he’d be the guy you’d trust to protect you from the tigers.
But since this is the twenty-first century and we’re in a hospital lobby, he’s probably a doctor. My other clue is the fact that he’s dressed in green surgical scrubs.
And his short-sleeved scrubs show off very nice arms. He’s got just the right amount of muscle, and a dusting of dark hair on his forearms . . .
He glances up from his phone, and I quickly look away. It would be embarrassing to be caught staring.
I really shouldn’t be in this line, since takeout coffee is a luxury I can’t afford. It’s the one thing personal finance experts all agree on: takeout coffee is a waste of money. For a fraction of the cost, I could brew my own coffee at home and bring it to work in a travel mug. If I invested the savings, I’d be a millionaire in sixty years or so.
But I’m twenty-six now, so in sixty years I might be too old to enjoy the million bucks. Hell, I might even be too old to enjoy a cup of coffee, but I’m sure going to enjoy it today.
The length of the coffee line suggests a lot of people think the way I do. I guess that’s not surprising in the hospital—dealing with illness teaches you to seize the day.
But whoever designed this hospital clearly underestimated the demand for coffee. The coffee shop is really just a counter at the side of the main lobby, and the line is blocking the flow of traffic to the elevators. I take a step back to let an older gentleman pass in front of me, and my purse bumps into Dr. Hot and Bothered.
I turn to apologize. “Sorry about that.”
“Uh huh,” he grunts, barely looking up from his phone. “You shouldn’t carry such a big purse.”
Wow. Okay. The fact that he’s a jerk makes him a lot less attractive.
I could tell him I don’t plan to schlep this much stuff around every day, but today’s my first real day at this job. I’m going to be an administrative assistant to Heather Larkin, the Director of Surgical Services. I spent last week slogging through a painfully dull orientation, but today I should actually get a cubicle.
So I’ll have a place to stash my water bottle, cardigan, tissues, hand lotion, and the pack of sour gummy worms I keep foremergencies. And I can start carrying a smaller bag, one that hopefully won’t offend random strangers in the coffee line.
The line moves painfully slowly; even though we’re in the middle of the morning rush, there’s only one barista working. She looks flustered, and I sympathize with her. I’ve worked as a barista, and the job is harder than it looks.
The customer at the counter asks the barista whether she recommends the dark or medium roast, and the guy behind me sighs again. I glance back and see he’s put his phone away, and his arms are crossed in front of his chest.
If I were running this hospital, I’d make it a priority to improve the coffee shop staffing. I bet patient and employee satisfaction scores would skyrocket.
I take a moment to indulge a fantasy, in which I’m the best admin assistant this hospital has ever seen. I’ll go to night school to get a bachelor’s degree, then an MBA, and eventually I’ll become the CEO. And twenty years from now, when I’ve worked my way to the top of the hospital food chain, I’ll eat men like Dr. Hot and Bothered for breakfast.
Okay. Realistically, if I’m still working here in twenty years, I’ll probably still be in a cubicle. If I’m lucky, I may have been promoted to a senior admin assistant. But a girl has to have a dream, right?
The guy behind me sighs again, and I turn and meet his eye. “Would you like to go ahead of me?”
He has the grace to blush. “No. Thank you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yep. Thanks.”
I’d been planning to order a small drip coffee, but when I finally reach the front of the line, my inner devil asserts herself.
“I’ll take a large caramel latte with three shots of espresso. Oh, and whipped cream on top please.”
The barista blinks. “Whipped cream’s an extra ninety-nine cents.”
