Page 17 of A Place Like You

Her hands wrap around the coffee cup. She takes a cautious sip before letting out a small sigh. With tired eyes, she looks at me. “Thank you for . . . this and coming last night to help me.”

“Glad to be of assistance,” I reply, my mind torn between bringing up the topic of employment now or waiting until she has rested from last night’s emergency.

She should hire me, right? After all, I have proven my capability. Although other doctors were here for a few hours, they left around five in the morning. My resolve wasn’t out of professional obligation or because I want a job, but the knowledge that Wren—and the patients—still needed me.

And none of this should be about me at all.

“If you want, I can take care of your patients while you go home to rest,” I propose again.

She dismisses my offer with a shake of her head and a weary yawn. “Nah, I’m accustomed to this,” she says.

I could believe her, but I can’t help but feel a worry inside of me. “You look extremely exhausted. And don’t you have to go home to your husband and son?”

Her expression hardens into a frown. “It’s just Milo and me.” The corners of her lips stretch. “And he’s at a sleepover with his grandfather and uncle. I can stay longer.”

I’m assuming Milo is the little boy I met a couple of nights ago when I visited her home with Finnegan. And if it’s just the two of them, then . . . “All the more reason for you to head home,” I insist. “You should take a break while you can. Dealing with a child sucks all your energy. He’ll need you once he’s back from his sleepover.”

I understand how, as doctors, we have a commitment toward our patients, but also that we all make the big mistake of putting our families at the bottom of our priority list. Somebody should caution her about the potential fallout, although that somebody won’t be me.

“You don’t have a license to practice,” she mumbles, her gaze lost somewhere. “Unfortunately, I can’t just let you—”

“What if I share my actual name with you, and you look me up online?” I ask, almost desperate. Something has to convince this woman to take me on as her employee. It’s ironic how I’m pleading for a job from someone who is much younger and inexperienced than me. I, Dr. Drake Thorndale, am hoping to land a job without any payment at a small-town clinic.

Fuck, my father really screwed me over this time, and I don’t think there’s a way out until they figure out who killed him.

She shakes her head. “You’d jeopardize your spot in the Endor program. Finnegan doesn’t like it when people break the few rules they have.”

I press on, “He wouldn’t know.”

“Oh, but he will,” she warns coldly. “The internet in this town is policed by some software he owns. That’s not really the point, though.”

It seems like my argument isn’t going to get me anywhere. After watching her last night, I’m aware that she’s a passionate woman who loves what she does, and maybe I know how to sway her.

I clear my throat. “Well, imagine for a moment that you had to uproot your life because of a man who fucked your entire existence? You’re stuck in a town where you don’t know anyone and can’t practice medicine. What would you do?” I ask, but I don’t stop there though. “You’re a doctor, so you should be able to empathize with me. The profession is part of your making, just like it is mine. I’m forty-three, and I’ve been doing this for so long that I can’t imagine being anything else. What would you do if you were in my shoes?”

She studies me, her eyes don’t give away anything, but I hope I stroke the exact chord that’ll give me access to her clinic.

“You don’t have to pay me,” I hastily add, raising my hands and gesturing them back and forth several times. “These babies are insured for millions. My knowledge and them are at your disposal for anything. I’m extremely good with my hands.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “I promise.”

A blush blooms on her cheeks, and she briefly closes her eyes, my unintentional double entendre hanging in the air.

I try to backtrack. “I didn’t mean it like that, but . . .” My voice trails off as I steal a fleeting glance at her. What the fuck am I doing? I’m trying to convince this woman that I can be professional, that she should give me a job, and I’m just blurting out innuendos.

Under different circumstances, I would definitely hit on her. She’s a very attractive woman. It wouldn’t be smart to have a fuck-buddies arrangement with her though. Blurring the lines between professional and personal lives is always a bad idea.

Bad.

Idea.

Wait, where did I go from trying to convince her to hire me to offering her my skilled hands? Okay, maybe I should take a break and clear my head.

She collects herself, her throat clearing, but she remains silent.

“So how are we going to manage this?” I circle back to the main issue. She needs to rest. “I can head home, refresh, and return by eight to stand in for you to leave until Monday.”

“You worked the same hours as I did,” she points out.

“True, but I didn’t work all day yesterday, and my body operates on a different level,” I say instead of explaining to her that for the past eight years, I haven’t slept more than a couple of hours a night. She’ll want to learn more about it, and I won’t ever disclose that part of my life to anyone, not even a therapist.

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