Page 11 of A Place Like You

Of course, he’s going to fix it by providing Drake with some fake license to practice. Finnegan is always finding ways to bend the rules, laws, and . . .

“If I decide to do this, I need you to do me a few favors,” I say, weighing my options carefully.

“Now we’re negotiating?” Finnegan growls, his voice a low grumble over the line.

“Indeed. Milo has his heart set on seeing the biggest dinosaur in the world, and I need a pair of socks by tonight. I’ll send you the details,” I say before ending the call.

Once the conversation concludes, I redirect my attention to Drake, my eyes briefly glancing at the wristwatch adorning my wrist. “You have five minutes to provide me with details about your education and work experience.”

Chapter Five

Drake

I meet Wren’s challenging gaze, feeling the intensity of her scrutiny. The white lab coat drapes over my shoulders like a protective barrier, but it’s not enough to shield me from her piercing scrutiny.

Finnegan told me that even though Wren is familiar with his company and the program, I shouldn’t disclose much about my personal details. But I have no choice but to do it. This is my only chance to persuade her to hire me. I’m a capable doctor, one of the best in the country.

Granted, I haven’t practiced general medicine since my medical school days, which feels like it was a lifetime ago. And yes, things might have changed in the field over the past fifteen years, but I’m confident I can adapt and learn fast. I’ve continued to practice medicine, even though I have invested a significant part of my career in sculpting faces rather than healing others. However, I will strive to relearn and meet the demands of this clinic to the best of my abilities.

Wren crosses her arms and stares at the clock on the wall before returning her attention to me.

Her scrutiny reminds me of one of my old professors, making me feel like a first-year resident all over again. He was a hard ass who held us students to impossible standards and gave us low grades during an oral exam because we didn’t meet his irrational expectations.

I swallow hard, my throat tight with apprehension, and begin recounting my career from the beginning. “For my undergraduate degree, I attended Harvard, majoring in biology with a minor in chemistry.”

Her gaze flickers, brief and inscrutable. Is it surprise that I perceive, or a hardened annoyance sparked by my alma mater? Praying it’s the former, I go on, “From there, I moved to the West Coast. Stanford School of Medicine.” I pause, letting the weight of my words sink in. Everyone knows it’s one of the best in the country, if not the world. She has to give me a chance now that she knows I attended a prestigious school.

“I graduated at the top of my class, with a focus on plastic and reconstructive surgery.” I emphasize the word reconstructive because, initially, that’s what I wanted to do with my degree, help others.

There is a crucial demand for surgeons who can perform operations after a tragic accident, attend to infants, and contribute in ways beyond cosmetic procedures. However, I deviated from my principles and succumbed to what was more in demand. It’s a frivolous choice, but in fact, it was a way to keep myself distant from my patients and shut down my feelings and myself from others. It was a way to survive.

“For my residency, I trained at Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles,” I continue. “As you may know, it’s one of the top hospitals for plastic surgery in the country. I spent years refining my skills under some of the best surgeons in the field.”

I finish speaking, shifting my weight slightly as I face Wren directly. I can see the wheels turning behind her intelligent eyes, processing my words, calculating her next move. But whatever her decision will be, at least now she knows I’m qualified to hold this job. I’m not just a name on a half-embroidered lab coat.

Dr. Drake Thorndale may be renowned as one of the best and most exclusive plastic surgeons, but I can also be simply Drake, a doctor ready to set aside all the accolades and return to the essence of medicine—focused on healing.

“And where have you been working in the past few years, Dr. Drake?” Wren asks, her tone betraying a mild interest. The sparkle of curiosity in her eyes pulls a half-smile onto my lips. I call this progress.

“I actually opened my own practice seven years ago,” I confess, attempting to inject a hint of modesty into my words.

She doesn’t have to know about my father, trust fund, and the endless opportunities given to me because of the Thorndale last name. For all she knows, I’m just some regular Joe who was lucky enough to secure grants, scholarships, and mentorships to establish my practice.

The reality is my clinic has become one of the most sought-after in the nation. I’m proud of that fact, yet, at the same time, I can’t deny the gnawing dissatisfaction that has been creeping up on me lately.

Wren raises an eyebrow, waiting for more. I sigh, recognizing that this is the moment to bare all, to reveal the truth that’s been eating at me.

“But it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, you know? Over time, my practice . . . it morphed into something different,” I say, my voice quieter now. My gaze dips to the polished surface of her desk, focusing on the random objects scattered around—pens, notepads, a coffee mug: anything but her judgmental eyes.

“I had a mission when I began my studies . . . to heal, to restore, to help those scarred by accidents, marked by congenital disabilities, or cancer survivors, but it all changed.” I grimace, forcing myself to continue. “Now, my clientele is primarily celebrities and the wealthy individuals questing for eternal youth.”

A heavy silence fills the room. I can feel Wren’s gaze boring into me. Bracing myself, I finally meet her eyes, the confession hanging in the air between us.

“But that’s not why I’m here, Wren,” I say with conviction. “If you agree to hire me, I’m going to do what is expected of me in this clinic. I want to be more than a ‘sell-out,’ as you might say. I’m here to work in any capacity you’ll allow.”

The words hang between us, raw and honest. I lift my eyes to meet hers, hoping that she’ll give me a chance.

“I’ll . . . think about it,” Wren admits, still visibly hesitant. Her arms cross over her chest. “But honestly, Drake, I don’t think you’re suited to our small operation. We don’t need a . . . high-profile plastic surgeon.”

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