Dr. Neurotic(3)

Good Lord, this man did not fit the bill for a surgeon.

No time to look out the window, but you must have time to work out, I see.

I pinched my wrist to wake myself up. I'd come this close to saying that out loud.

But the more I stared at his friendly face with a contrastingly hard  jaw, the more I realized who he kind of resembled. Henry fucking Cavill.  If his eyes were blue instead of brown, the likeness would have been  good enough to fool a few gullible people.

"Please take a seat," he said, and I followed his instruction, sitting  down in the leather chair in front of his desk. All the while, I fought  internally between looking away like a professional and gawking at his  body as he walked around his desk and sat down like a predator stalking  its prey.

I managed about a half a second of looking at his tile floor.

"What can I help you with today?" He sat in the chair behind his desk  and rolled it forward, leaning back with his elbows on the armrests. I  watched his body melt into the leather as if it was maybe the first time  he'd sat down all day.         

     



 

He raised an eyebrow when I didn't answer immediately, too busy critiquing his buttery body to remember not to be an idiot.

I sat straighter instead of fidgeting, even though I wanted to desperately, and dove into my spiel.

"One of the youngest Chiefs of Neurosurgery in the country and a  physician with a surgical record better than most general surgeons,  you've made a hell of an impression in your field," I began,  complimenting his achievements before getting to the job opportunity.  "And ever since you took on the position at St. Luke's, their Neurology  Department has increased profits by two hundred percent. That's an  incredible list of accomplishments."

"I guess it is, yeah." He shrugged, seemingly lacking in the normal  surgeon ego I was accustomed to dealing with. Was this guy really that  humble? Or was he just that tired? I mean, I personally became a raging  toddler when I was overexhausted, but maybe he just mellowed.

"How long are you planning on staying at St. Luke's?"

"Permanently."

I quirked a brow. "So, you have no interest in other job opportunities  that might bring you more money and opportunity for state-of-the-art  growth?"

"I guess that depends."

Ah, yes! Everyone had a weakness. My inner cheerleader did a Herkie.



It's a jump where your legs do unnatural things, okay?

And give me a break. It was high school.



"On what?" Mentally, I started categorizing what Kennedy was prepared to  offer and where they could bend to make themselves undeniably  appealing. Every company had a starting salary they wanted me to drive,  but normally, they also had an extra twenty percent of wiggle room to  get the job done.

"Location."

Okay, fuck. It had to be the one thing I can't change, didn't it?

"Kennedy Medical Center is a brand-new hospital, and they are extremely  impressed by your career. They think you would be the perfect fit for  the Neurology Department, and they are ready and willing to compensate  you well if you join their team."

"Compensate me well? How much are we talking about here?"

I weighed the options in my mind and decided gambling with a number on  the higher end of what Kennedy was willing to do was necessary. They  wanted this guy. He was either going to be convinced by the money or  not, but they were going to need to bring their best offer to have any  hope. "Nearly double your current salary."

"Double my current salary? I had no idea that kind of information was public knowledge," he challenged.

"It's not," I explained with a wink.

He chuckled outright. "Friends in high places?"

I shrugged. "I guess you could say it's something like that."

"Well, I'm intrigued." He laughed a little to himself. "Double money is never a bad thing."

No kidding.

"But like I said before, it all depends on location," he went on. "I  don't want to relocate anywhere that's more than forty minutes from New  York, and I have a feeling Kennedy Medical Center isn't located anywhere  near here." His voice was firm, and my heart sank. She's going down by  the keel, Captain!

"It's actually located on the West Coast. Los Angeles, to be specific."

He shook his head. "That won't work at all."

I narrowed my eyes, determined. I hated not closing a deal. "What if I  told you they would give you a fifteen-million-dollar budget for  neurosurgery research and clinical trials?"

His brows shot up in surprise. "Fifteen million dollars?"

"Yes." I nodded. "And you'd have the final say in what that money went toward."

"Wow."

"It's quite the opportunity."

"It is," he agreed, but I could tell by the lilt of his eyes that he was just humoring me.

I'd grown extremely talented at reading people, and I could read Nick  Raines. He had a reason for being in New York; I didn't know what it  was, but it was a priority. More important than money. I discreetly  glanced at his left ring finger and found no evidence of marriage.  Instant relief filled and relaxed my stomach.

"I could do incredible things with that research budget. It would be a  strong ally in a clinical trial I've been trying to get the FDA to push  through, but I can't move to LA."

"Would you like some time to think about it?" I asked, but I already  knew his answer. With the firm lines of his jaw and clear, unmarred  color of his brown eyes, Nick Raines was steadfast in his choice.

With two determined shakes of his head, he further explained-something  someone less amiable than him never would have bothered to do. "My  daughter is in New York, and she is my top priority."         

     



 

His daughter.

This man was leaving one hell of a career opportunity on the table for  his daughter. I was equal parts endeared and impressed. It was a noble  choice. The right choice. No career should ever come before family-no  matter how amazing the opportunity might be.

"Well, Kennedy Medical Center will be severely disappointed, but I can't say I am. Good for you. Your daughter is lucky."

He smiled softly, but there was a sharp edge to it that I couldn't  understand-obviously didn't have the right to. Still, I was curious.

"If they were a few thousand miles closer, I would have strongly considered, but LA is just way too far."

"Understandable," I acquiesced.

Normally, I would've shaken his hand and gone about my day, but  something about him wouldn't let go. I wanted to know more about him.  And not just his job. "What time is it?" I asked, and he glanced at his  watch.

"A little after five."

"No wonder I'm hungry." I slapped my hands down onto my thighs and grinned. "What are you in the mood for?"

"Huh?"

"To eat?"

"Uh … " He glanced around the room, confused. "I'm not sure. I hadn't planned on eating yet-"

"Well, I'm sure you'll get your appetite on the way," I said and stood  from my chair with my briefcase in hand. "All right, then. Let's go."





"All right, then. Let's go."

"Go? Go where?"

"To dinner."

Internally, I sighed. I'd been impressed by her willingness to accept  the decision I'd made and move on. Most headhunters were relentless nags  no matter how many times you said no, and I'd actually believed she was  different-soft and forgiving of real human problems and circumstances  and as pretty on the inside as she so visibly was on the outside. Fuck,  she's pretty on the outside.

Obviously, that was a ruse.

"Look, I really appreciate the offer of the job, and the time you had to  take out of your day to come here and try to woo me, but as I told you,  I have more here to consider than a salary and helping other people. My  daughter is here. I'm not going."

Her smile ratcheted up, and the creases of confusion at the corners of my eyes only deepened.

"Good. Let's eat."

"Ms. Hol-"

"Charlotte."

"Charlotte," I acquiesced. "I don't know how I can be any clearer on this-"

"Nick," she called, almost teasingly. The left side of my chest  contracted at the friendly familiarity. "I've got it. You don't want the  job. But I want a burger, and based on the tired lines on your face and  wrinkled clothes, you're at the end of a long shift, probably without  food, and you could use one too. So grab your wallet or your purse or  whatever the fuck it is you carry, and let's roll."

"My purse?" I asked roughly.

She shrugged. "How would I know what you're into?"

"I don't carry a purse," I assured. It obviously didn't matter, but for  some reason, it felt like I needed to deny it. I couldn't quite explain  the feeling of insecurity. Maybe I was just discombobulated by her  lighthearted nature. For the last three years, almost everyone I talked  to knew my past and carried it in every word, expression, and  interaction they had with me.