“That’s fine,” I say sweetly.
It’s an eight-dollar drink, but it’ll take a couple minutes to make, and the guy behind me sighs as the barista rings it through. Worth it.
The barista starts making the drink as I scrabble in my purse for my wallet. And I guess I do have too much stuff, because I still haven’t found it when she sets my drink on the counter. The line behind me seems to have grown, and I feel my cheeks turning red.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I’ll just be a second.”
“I’ll get it,” the guy behind me says impatiently, stepping up to the register. “And I’ll take a large mint tea.”
Mint tea? This man does not look like a mint tea drinker.
It takes me a minute to register the fact that he’s paying for my drink. My stupidly expensive drink.
“Oh, no,” I protest. “You don’t have to . . .”
But Dr. Hot and Bothered is already tapping his credit card.
“Thank you,” I mutter. I glance down at my purse, hoping my wallet will miraculously appear, but no such luck. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I find my wallet. What department are you in? Or if you give me your email, I can send an e-transfer?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says dismissively, taking his tea from the barista. “You should really get a lighter bag. That purse is straining your cervical spine.”
Of course, I find my wallet in the corner of my purse right after Dr. Hot and Bothered walks away. I also remember that I could have paid with my phone; I’m not sure why I didn’t think of thatin the moment, but I’ve never been great under pressure. The guy must have thought I was either a mooch or incredibly stupid. Quite possibly both.
As I ride the elevator, I realize it’s a bit ridiculous for a new admin assistant to show up with an eight-dollar latte, but what the hell. This drink’s delicious.
The administrative offices take up the entire top floor of the hospital, which feels like a different world than the lobby. The decor is modern, all clean lines and frosted glass doors, and it’s very quiet. It’s a far cry from my last job, as a receptionist in a busy family doctor’s office. If I didn’t know better, I’d never know this was a hospital.
I swipe my badge to get into the executive wing and walk past an empty boardroom to my new boss’s office.
Heather Larkin bustles out before I have a chance to knock on her door. “Good morning, Alexandra,” she says brightly.
“Morning, Ms. Larkin.”
“Oh, please, call me Heather.” Heather’s a cozy-looking woman around my mother’s age, with fading blonde hair and a smear of pink lipstick on her teeth. She looks more like a kindergarten teacher than a senior hospital administrator.
“Thank you.”
Heather smiles. “I’ll take you down to meet your boss.”
I blink at her. “I thought I was going to be working for you.”
As soon as the sentence leaves my mouth, I wish I could take it back. I must have misunderstood, and since I really need this job, I shouldn’t have admitted it.
But Heather smiles. “No, but I can see why you might have thought so,” she says. “I might not have made it clear. I hired you on behalf of the chief of surgery, Dr. Drew Malone. His assistant quit a couple months ago, and he hasn’t had time to hire a new one.”
“Okay.” It’s not what I was expecting, but it should be fine. “What kind of surgery does he do?” I ask Heather curiously.
“He’s a neurosurgeon,” she says. “But he has a secretary who manages his clinical practice. Your job will be to help with his administrative responsibilities as the department chief.” She gives me an encouraging smile. “Scheduling, taking minutes at meetings, that sort of thing.”
“Sure.” But it seems a little strange that Dr. Malone didn’t want to interview me himself, and that Heather never mentioned him until now. Unless she told me and I forgot, but I really don’t think she did.
And how much time can I spend making schedules and keeping meeting minutes?
“Will I work for him full-time?” I ask Heather.
“Oh, yes,” Heather nods. “All the department chiefs have full-time admin assistants.”
“Okay,” I nod. “That sounds great.”
