Page 10 of A Place Like You

My nose scrunches up as I retort, “No, I’m pretty sure there’s a Drake too.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he responds, cutting the conversation and reminding me that he shouldn’t be in here.

“And what do you think you’re doing here?” I inquire with a firm tone.

“He’s volunteering while visiting his family,” Victoria chimes in before Drake has a chance to answer. “He already saw Mr. Jenkins, who came in with another mysterious rash.”

I should be thankful that I didn’t have to look at Mr. Jenkin’s imaginary rash, but still, Drake shouldn’t be here.

“My office. Now,” I demand.

Seething, I beckon Drake to follow me to my office. Each footstep echoes in the silent hallway as I lead the way, the slam of the office door behind us emphasizing my brewing anger. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Volunteering,” he repeats Victoria’s words.

“We’re not a charity case, and there’s not enough work for you,” I argue.

His audacity to glance at his watch in the middle of our conversation flares up my annoyance. “If that’s all, my eight o’clock will be here soon,” he dares to say with that arrogant voice that’s infuriating and mildly attractive.

“What eight o’clock?” I fire back, the disbelief clear in my voice. “We don’t take appointments until eight-thirty.”

“Isabella Davis called. She needed an appointment. Since you were fully booked, I told her I’d see her—at eight,” he explains calmly.

The fire in my eyes intensifies at his words. “They’re my patients,” I snap, my territorial instincts kicking in.

“I’m just helping,” he says in all seriousness.

“Why?” I question, the single word hanging heavily in the air between us.

“Because being a doctor is all I know,” he responds.

I clench my jaw, narrowing my eyes at him. “Well, if you want to work here, I need your real résumé. I can’t rely solely on your word of capability,” I demand, determination fueling my voice. I swiftly pull out my phone, my fingers trembling with a mix of anger and urgency, and dial Finnegan’s number.

“Yo?” Finnegan’s voice crackles through the phone.

“I need to know who Drake Kershaw really is,” I stress into the receiver, my tone carrying a sense of urgency. “I don’t care if you swear on your life he’s the best` physician in the entire world. If I can’t find out his real name and his work experience, he can’t be here.”

“Wren, we can’t—”

“I don’t care. Can you send me a copy of his freaking résumé, so I can at least see it? I don’t need his real last name,” I interrupt him.

“You’re a pain in my ass, Wren.”

“Help me out here. I’m having trouble understanding why you’re breaking the rules for these people.” I lower my voice. “This isn’t how you usually handle the Endor program.”

“They’re different,” Finnegan insists, his tone as mysterious as Drake’s.

“How so?” I challenge, my curiosity and suspicion increasing by the second.

“Their father was connected to the mafia,” Finnegan reveals. “This situation is delicate, and the process is . . . slower.”

“So they’ll be here for more than six months?” I inquire, my mind racing with the implications.

“Probably years,” Finnegan confirms, his words echoing what Gina shared with us the day before. “Usually, I wouldn’t give a shit about them, but I have to be mindful of their mental health.”

“Send me his résumé,” I insist firmly, a note of caution underlying my words. “And remember, he can’t prescribe medications without a legitimate license.”

“But you can . . . he’d be under your supervision,” Finnegan responds, clearing his throat. “Until I fix that little detail.”

---