by Kaylin Evans
Chief Cane finds his way back to his seat—a big, brown leather executive chair—and for about ten minutes, we make somewhat awkward small talk about the hospital and the surgery department. He asks us how today’s surgeries went, whether there were any more problems with the schedule. Sawyer and I take turns talking ourselves up and I somewhat shamelessly kiss ass—I can’t help it when I’m competing with the BFF of the chief’s son.
When Chief Cane has finally had enough of our self-serving progress reports, he leans back in his chair and says, “As you can see from the state of my office, I desperately need an administrative assistant.”
For one brief, panicked moment, I think that Sawyer and I have so tremendously fucked up our race to the chief of surgery job that Xander Cane is demoting one of us to answering his phones and fetching his coffee.
Sawyer, on the other hand, suffers no such worries. He just laughs and says, “Yeah, maybe more than one.”
Joking with the chief, and implying that he’s incompetent, no less? The contents of my stomach do a flip on Sawyer’s behalf, but he’s just as cool and calm as always.
“I meant to hire one sooner,” Chief Cane continues, “but with all the other urgent matters that needed to be taken care of in order to open and operate the hospital, I just haven’t had the time. And the longer I wait, the more paperwork piles up and the longer my to-do list becomes.”
“What can we do to help?” I ask, hoping that he’s not actually about to suggest Sawyer and I take over writing his memos or something.
“I’d like the two of you to hire my assistant.”
I look at Sawyer. “Um, together?”
“Yes,” Chief Cane says. “I think that would be a fine project for the two of you to collaborate on—solve my paperwork problem and simultaneously prove to me that you two can work together effectively. Clearly, my future chief of surgery can’t be mired down with interpersonal conflicts when there are so many more pressing job duties.”
“Of course not,” Sawyer says, practically simpering at him from across the desk.
“I’ve already posted the job,” he goes on. “I just need you two to sort through the resumes, conduct interviews, and make a hiring decision.”
By the time we leave Chief Cane’s office, I’ve got a bunch of hastily taken notes on my phone and he’s emailed us both the job description and access to the hospital’s hiring software. My head is spinning a bit as I wonder when I’ll have time for all this, and I’m also angry—mostly with myself, for letting my rivalry with Sawyer get so fierce that the chief noticed.
As we walk down the hall together, I say softly, so my voice won’t carry, “I don’t have any surgeries scheduled yet for Thursday. I’ll tell the nurses to keep my day open and go through the resumes–”
“Hold up,” Sawyer says. “That won’t work—I’m all booked up on Thursday.”
Yeah, jackass, I know that. I give him an apologetic shrug. “That’s okay—I’ll get some interviews lined up and you can just sign off on whoever’s the best–”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sawyer says, turning to me with his arms crossed over his broad chest. “Are you trying to treat me like the slacker in class who gets to just put his name on the group project after all the work’s done?”
I arch my eyebrow. “Would it upset you if I was? I figured you’d be happy to pass this off to me.”
“Look, I’m not thrilled with this little side project, but I’m just as serious about competing for the chief job as you are,” he says, jabbing at the button to call the elevator. “I get the impression that you think you deserve it more than me, that I skated in here on my reputation and my connections to the Cane family.”
Neither of those things are false, I want to point out, but bite my tongue because I honestly am surprised that Sawyer’s fighting me on this. I figured he’d be more than happy to work in the OR while I’m conducting interviews.
“I want that job and I’m gonna work hard to be a good chief,” he continues. “You’re not steamrolling me with this—we’re hiring that assistant together.”
I hold up my hands. “Fine. When are you free to look at resumes?”
“Tomorrow night,” he says. “Meet me out front when your shift ends. We’ll get a pizza and knock them all out at once.”
10
Sawyer
I’m waiting in the parking lot on Wednesday night as promised, leaning against the hood of my car with a piping hot pizza and a six-pack of beer in the backseat.
Alyssa comes out of the hospital a few minutes past five o’clock, a messenger bag slung across her chest. She’s still in scrubs and sneakers, with a thick fleece jacket thrown on top, and before she spots me, I take a second or two to admire her curves. She’s always got a rockin’ body, no matter what she’s wearing.
When she gets to my car, she arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow and says, “Well, are we gonna do this or not?”
“Oh, we’re doing this,” I say, pointing to the pizza and beer. “I’m all stocked up.”
Alyssa lifts the flap of her messenger bag to show me several file folders stuffed with papers. “And I’ve got the important stuff.”
“Hey, pizza is always important,” I say as I open the passenger door for her and she grudgingly allows the small show of chivalry by getting in without further comment.
We head back to my place—a short drive filled with tense silence—and then I lead her up to my apartment on the second floor of the building. There are lots of windows to take advantage of the best part of this small town—the view—and for a moment, Alyssa just stands in the center of my open-concept living room, taking in the space.
I go over to the kitchen island and set down the pizza, grabbing us a couple of plates, and ask, “Well? Does it meet your approval, Dr. Grant?”
She turns to me, one eyebrow arched and her hands on her hips. “I’m impressed. This place is actually classy.”
I smirk. “Actually? What did you expect, a frat house?”
“More like a smash pad,” she says, and I laugh because her cheeks instantly turn red. She clearly did not intend to say that out loud, but it’s too late to take it back now.
I absolutely cannot resist teasing her, so I give her an exaggerated wink and say, “Well, you haven’t seen the bedroom yet.”
She rolls her eyes and says, “And I’m not going to.”
Right back to reserved, uptight Alyssa. As she comes over to the island to take a slice of pizza, I can’t help stealing a glance at the way her cleavage rises and falls with each breath, perfectly framed within the V-neck of her scrubs, and I wonder what it would take to loosen her up.
“Beer?” I ask.
“Got water?” she replies. “I don’t like to drink and work.”
“We’re off the clock,” I point out, but I grab her a bottled water from the fridge and uncap a beer for myself. “Want to eat first and then look through these resumes, or should we do both at once?”
“Well…” Alyssa looks torn.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I’d rather just get this done,” she said. “I don’t want to take up your whole evening, and I’m sure you’ve got plenty else you’d rather be doing…”
I wouldn’t say ‘plenty’ but there’s a thing or two I can think of…
“But?”
“But I did a six-hour surgery this afternoon and I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” she says. “I’m famished.”
“Well, then, it’s settled,” I say. “Come on, we’ll eat in the living room. There’s a gas insert in the fireplace and I really don’t know how people survived winters in this damn place without one.”
She gives me a small chuckle and points out, “They had wood-burning fireplaces.”
And then she follows me over to the leather couch that takes up most of one corner of the living room. I push a button on the wall to light the fireplace, then sit beside her. She’s still got her messenger bag looped over one shoulder and she�
��s unzipped her coat but she hasn’t taken it off, like she’s prepared to flee at any moment. She really must be starving, though, because I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone take down a slice of pizza as fast as she does.
I haven’t even touched mine yet—my plate just sits forgotten on my knee as I blatantly observe her until, at last, she looks up.
“What?” she says. “Do I have sauce on my chin?”
“No,” I say. “Your chin is perfect.”
“What, then?”
“I just had no idea watching a woman put an entire slice of pizza in her mouth would turn me on this much,” I say, and she reaches across the couch to smack me in the arm while I crack up. “Kidding!”
“Jerk,” she murmurs, her cheeks incriminatingly stuffed.
“So,” I say, finally picking up a slice of my own, “Take down any more internet cafés lately?”
She gives me a weird look—is she uncomfortable?—and I wonder if I’m treading on a sensitive subject. I’ve never been all that great at small talk unless it’s for the purposes of sweet-talking my way into A) a surgery I want, or B) a woman I want.
“Sorry,” I say. “We don’t have to talk about that.”
“To be honest, I was hoping you forgot,” she said. “But since I haven’t heard of you having any memory-loss-inducing head injuries, I guess that’s pretty unlikely.”
“Well, if it helps, I remember that day as the one where I learned you were kind of a badass,” I say, and she gives me an even sterner look. How the hell do I keep stepping in it this bad?
She says, “I would have thought that my impressive surgical resume would speak for itself in the badass department… but then again, you are the epitome of arrogant surgeons, so you’re probably not impressed by anybody but yourself when it comes to the OR.”
I clutch my heart and give her my best wounded look. “Arrogant? Is that what you really think of me?”
She just gives me a sardonic shrug. “If the surgical bootie fits…”
“Fine, fine,” I say. “But you’re plenty arrogant yourself, Miss Top of Her Medical School Class.”
Yeah, I’ve done my homework… she is my competition, after all.
Alyssa doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s Doctor Top of the Class to you, buddy.”
I smirk and polish off my beer, and Alyssa sets her plate on the coffee table, every last crumb cleaned from it. Then she says it’s time to get down to work. She pulls the file folders out of her bag and I get rid of our plates, and by the time I return, she’s got the resumes spread all across the table.
“I’ve taken the liberty of glancing through these once already,” she says. Of course you have, I think as she goes on. “...and I separated them into three piles based on level of experience and whether or not they included a cover letter.”
“Why does that matter?” I ask. Honestly, I know Chief Cane is only making us do this together because we’ve been at each other’s throats. I doubt he even cares that much about who his new assistant is, as long as they’re halfway competent and can answer a phone without dropping calls. I’d be okay with picking a name out of a hat, but Alyssa clearly has different ideas.
“Taking the time to write a cover letter shows dedication,” she explains. “Plus it helps us get to know the candidate better.”
I eye the stacks—there have to be at least three dozen applications. “Are we really going to sit here and read all of these together?”
“Yes,” Alyssa says firmly, and a sick little thrill goes through me. I sort of like it when she gets bossy. I reach for a random resume—whatever’s on top—and she puts her hand over mine. “Hang on a second.”
“Now you don’t want to read them all?” God, I can’t keep up with her.
“I just have to come clean about something first,” she says, piquing my interest. “My sister’s resume is somewhere in the ‘with cover letter’ stack. I told her about the job yesterday after our meeting with Chief Cane and I sent her the link to apply.”
“Ah, so the great Alyssa Grant is not perfect after all,” I gloat. “She’s not above nepotism.”
“I’m definitely not perfect,” she said. “I was tempted to let you go through this stack and assume ‘Grant’ was just a common last name when we got to my sister’s application because she really needs to get away from our dad. But I couldn’t go through with it. Do you think we should just take her out of the running?”
Damn. She looks downright sick over that little deception she almost went through with.
I have to let her off the hook. I ask, “Is she qualified?”
“To answer phones and fetch Chief Cane’s coffee?” she asked. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure she can handle it.”
“Well then, we leave her in.”
“Are you sure?” Alyssa asks. She really is bad at being sneaky, and it’s sort of cute how transparent she is. “We can just remove her from the running and forget this ever happened–”
“It’s fine,” I say. “You know what we’ll do? We’ll anonymize our decision. Number all the resumes and then black out the names with a marker. If your sister gets the job, it’ll be because she’s the best candidate.”
Visible relief washes over Alyssa’s face and for the first time possibly ever, she gives me a completely unguarded, unconditional compliment. “Thank you so much. That’s a great idea.”
“I do have them from time to time,” I say, getting up to root around in my desk drawer for a couple of permanent markers. While I look, I multitask, stealing glances back at Alyssa. “So, your sister still lives with your dad?”
A dark cloud washes over her ordinarily bright eyes and I wonder if I’ve overstepped my bounds. But then, she answers. Surprisingly openly.
“Yeah,” she says, “she’s only nineteen, just trying to figure out what she wants for her life, and the last thing she needs is all of our dad’s problems on her shoulders. Did I tell you that he stole my identity?”
“Holy shit, no,” I say, forgetting my hunt for markers and giving her my full attention.
“Yeah, he’s not going to be winning Father of the Year any time soon,” she grumbles. “He used my Social Security number to open up a bunch of credit cards when I was in med school and he maxed them all out at the casinos, so I’ve got a pile of debt that’s not mine on top of the massive student loans that are mine. Getting loan forgiveness for working in a rural hospital is pretty much my only hope for crawling out from underneath all that.”
“Damn, I had no idea,” I say. I find myself gravitating back toward her, closing the gap between us while she continues her story.
“That’s why I’m here,” she says. “Don’t get me wrong—I really like Mountainview now that I’m here, but if I didn’t need this job to get out of debt, I’d probably be working in some big city hospital right now.”
“And your dad’s doing the same thing to your sister now?” I ask, sitting on the sofa beside her.
She nods. “I don’t know for sure what he’s been up to—one thing I can say for my old man is that he gets cagier the more desperate he is. I’m sure that if he hasn’t started getting my sister into hot water yet, he will soon. I have to help her get out of there, whether it’s to work for Chief Cane or anywhere else.”
I put a hand on her shoulder and she doesn’t immediately swat it away—a good sign. At least she doesn’t think I’m the devil anymore. “Sounds like you’ve got a lot on your plate.”
For an instant, Alyssa puts her hand on top of mine and looks into my eyes. A little current of electricity passes between our hands, and then she withdraws and I can see the vulnerability she’s trying to wipe from her expression. She sits up a little taller, reaches for a resume, and says, “It’s not that bad. Sorry I vented… again.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m here if you want to talk.”
“Umm, did you find some markers?”
“Shit, no,” I say, getting up and going back over to the desk.
This ti
me, I’m more focused and it really isn’t all that hard to find a couple of permanent markers in a desk that I hardly ever use. The drawer is still just as neatly organized as the day I unpacked all these office supplies. The same definitely cannot be said for my desk at work. Half the time, I don’t even have time to chart, let alone organize shit.
I return and hand Alyssa one of the markers, and she bends over the coffee table and starts redacting names. I reach for a resume too, but before I get down to it, I say, “You know, your sister is lucky to have somebody like you looking out for her.”
“She’s unlucky to have a dad with so few scruples about what he does to his kids,” Alyssa shoots back without looking up from the resume in front of her, as if it’s just an off-hand comment.
“True, but you can’t choose your family,” I say. “At least she has a good relative to balance out the shitty one. That’s kind of how I am with my brothers.”
“One good one and one shitty one?” she asks, then looks over her shoulder and I think I see a teasing smile as she asks, “Or are you the shitty one?”
“Hey.” I pout and she laughs. “In all honesty, though, I kinda was the shitty one for a while there. I guess you could call me a wild child—both in high school and in college—and as the youngest, I definitely did not make things easy for my mom. She was trying to raise three boys, go to work, and keep me out of jail.”
“You were that bad?”
“I once put a cherry bomb in my neighbor’s mailbox,” I say, and I have to stifle a chuckle because I can still see the mean old sourpuss’s look of shock when the thing exploded and he was left holding a mailbox door with nothing attached to it. But I was twelve at the time, that definitely fell into the category of boys will be boys behavior, and even Alyssa smirks at that. In the spirit of honesty, I add, “When I was in med school, I got arrested for public intoxication after celebrating the end of a particularly harrowing semester. My oldest brother, Silas, had to come bail me out and he hasn’t spoken to me since.”