“I’m, uh, saving up to get a hamster.”
Silence falls. Then Alexandra laughs, and the rest of the room joins her.
“Such a sense of humor,” Heather says with a chuckle.
The problem is, I could have introduced myself as Drew Malone, a neurosurgeon who likes the way his assistant looks when she plays tennis. And when she’s sitting at her desk eating sour candy, and making smartass comments, and . . . just about all the time, really.
Heather drones on about a quality improvement project to assess a new structured communication tool. At least, I think that’s what she’s talking about, but I’m having a hard time focusing.
My eyes wander across the table. Alexandra’s top lip has the most perfect cupid’s bow, and her lower lip is a tiny bit fuller than then top one. It looks lush and soft, and . . .
Damn. She’s my assistant.
I resolve to keep my distance. I’ll see her when she gives me my lunch in the morning, and that’ll be it. I won’t text her again, even though my fingers are itching to continue our message thread.
I definitely won’t ask for a tennis rematch.
“We’re hoping to have preliminary results by October, so we can submit a poster to the Canadian Quality Improvement Conference,” Heather says.
Of course Heather wants to do a poster; she’s trying to claw her way up the management ladder, and she thinks it’ll make her look good. She’ll probably want to put my name on the project, too.
The meeting finally ends, with threats of more meetings and subcommittees and the usual crap. Alexandra and I go back downstairs, and I tell her to take the rest of the day off. I need to write a grant proposal, and I can’t afford any distractions.
I’m on call on the weekend, and I spend most of it at the hospital. By Monday morning I’m exhausted, and a cup of mint tea isn’t going to do much to wake me up. I don’t even like mint tea, but it seems less emasculating than the fruity herbal flavors.
I almost cave and buy coffee—I’m not operating today, so it won’t matter if I have a tremor—but I don’t want to get hooked on it. Decaf’s not the answer either, because I can taste the difference, and it makes me crave the real thing.
But when I walk into my office, the sight of Alexandra is a more effective stimulant than any drink. She’s wearing her hair loose today, and it spills over her shoulders in a riot of golden waves.
“Hey, Dr. Malone,” she says. “How was your weekend?”
“Busy. I was on call,” I say curtly. I can’t make small talk with Alexandra when her hair looks like that. She looks like she just got out of bed.
“Oh, right,” she says. “Here’s your lunch. And you know, if you ever want me to pick up your tea for you, I’d be happy to. Save you waiting in the line.”
“Sure. Thanks.” I nod hello to Celine, who’s on the phone, and escape into my office.
Fifteen minutes later, there’s a knock on my door.
“Yeah?”
Alexandra walks in nervously. “I’m really sorry to bother you, Dr. Malone. But Heather emailed about a follow-up meeting for the strategic communications project, and she’s sent me some dates. Are you be free next Wednesday morning?”
As I’m debating how to answer, there’s another knock on the door, and a man and woman walk in.
My heart sinks. My day just got infinitely worse.
NINE
ALLY
The man and woman who stride into Dr. Malone’s office have the polished look of the very rich. The man looks around fifty-five, with graying hair and a pleasant smile. He’s dressed casually in a sport coat and jeans, but his clothes fit like they were tailored for him. They probably were.
The woman’s around my age, maybe a year or two older, and very pretty. Her dark hair’s been highlighted by an expert, and her belted pink trench coat shows off a perfect hourglass figure.
For a split second Dr. Malone looks weary, and I get the sense he isn’t thrilled to have visitors. But his expression changes quickly, and he springs to his feet with a smile.
“Peter!” he exclaims, rounding his desk to greet them. “And Nina, what a nice surprise. I didn’t know you were in town.”
