Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Yes.” He freezes, lets go of his bag, and turns to face me head-on. “Actually, I’m to be gone now for two weeks.” He must see the shock and disappointment in my eyes, because he instantly tries to reassure me. “You don’t need to worry. You still have a job. I’d like you to stay and deal with phone calls and correspondence.”
What phone calls? I want to scream at him.
“What shall I tell people?” If anyone calls, which they won’t, I don’t add.
“I’m taking a sabbatical from work,” he says. “I’m still working on that…”
“The research project?” I say.
“Exactly. And…it’s gotten to an exciting stage.” He pulls the drawstring of his backpack, then snaps the top shut.
Wasn’t it his friend’s research project? “Do you think it will lead to a lot of work?” I ask.
A grin curls around the corners of his mouth like he’s trying not to smile. Real Dr. Cove is even better looking than dream Dr. Cove. His jaw, the way his nose juts out and his chin is so proud—he’s all angles in so many ways. But the softness of his smile? The way he keeps his hair a little long, like he’s just forgotten to get it cut, and his blue eyes, whenever they meet mine—it’s like an invitation to dive into Maldivian waters. I’ve never thought it before about a man, but he’s beautiful.
“I think so. Yes.”
“Well, that’s good. Anything I should prepare for?”
He shakes his head and flips the rucksack onto his back. He steps around his desk and puts his hands on my shoulders. A zap of electricity sparks like the first time we touched and our eyes meet. He drops his hands and my gaze follows, tracking his fingers to see if actual sparks fly off.
“You’re doing everything you need to be doing.”
It’s infuriating, but I can’t say anything. It’s like his touch has activated some kind of sedation button in me. Maybe his scent—all rainstorms and fresh pine needles—has me mildly chloroformed or something.
“Okay.” I manage to squeak out a pathetic response, when really, what I should be doing is asking him to tell me straight out if I have a job when he comes back. Does he really want to make a go of this private practice?
Instead, I ask, “Shall I book in any patients from the second week in December?”
The lightness in him dims for a second, like a flickering table lamp with a bulb about to go. I only just manage to override my instinct to reach out and soothe him. “Call me if anyone wants an appointment.”
“You’ll have your mobile?”
He nods and hands me a piece of paper. “This is where I’ll be if you need to know for any reason.” I’m careful not to touch his hand when I take the slip.
He passes me and I spin to watch him leave.
For far too long, I waited around for things to get better with Shane. I kept believing that if I did everything I could and we held on, everything would be okay.
And look how that turned out.
It’s time to get honest with myself about whether I’m repeating the same old mistakes.
LinkedIn is my personal nemesis. That and the word market when describing salary. They should just be honest and say, we plan to pay you as little as we can get away with. I reckon in the last hour and a half, I’ve applied for twenty jobs and left messages at three recruiters to call me back.
I’m scanning Le Cordon Bleu website when the door buzzer sounds and I nearly hit my head on the ceiling, I jump so high in the air.
The buzzer has never sounded.
I’ve never had a patient to let in. It must be someone who’s pressed the wrong button on the intercom at the door.
“Dr. Cove’s office,” I respond.
“Package for Dr. Cove,” someone replies. Sounds like bullshit to me. Dr. Cove never gets deliveries.
“Who is it?” I call.
“Rapid Couriers. Can you let me in?”
I wish we had a camera system.
“I’ll come down now. I can’t unlock the door from here.” It’s a lie, but something’s off. I scramble downstairs just as another patient’s leaving, and when the door swings open, a guy in a bicycle helmet, holding a brown package, is standing on the doorstep.
“Package for Dr. Cove?” I ask as I get to the door. The courier hands me the large brown envelope without saying another word. It’s heavier than it looks, and just says DR. COVE in flowery writing on the front.
It’s the size and weight of a chunk of paper. Weird. Zach didn’t say he was expecting anything.
He’s only been gone for a couple of hours, but I need to call him. This package could be important.
I race upstairs and dial his mobile.
“Ellie,” he says when he answers, and my knees fizz at the gravel in his voice. I have to sit.