The Doctor’s Simple Life (Love Heals All Wounds #3)

5. Reece

CHAPTER 5

REECE

O n day one, I thought Sienna was pranking me with the paper charts and the pagers and the genuine friendliness that she was showing to everyone.

On day two. I thought they were really committing to the bit.

Today. I’m starting to realize it is one hundred percent real.

And it isn’t just Sienna. These people all really mean it. They all like each other — and their patients. Not only that, but they’re smiling all the time, always acting like nothing could possibly be wrong in the world. It’s crazy.

Don’t any of these people have anything to worry about?

Over the last three days, I’ve treated more old women with knee problems than I have in the last ten years of my career. I say treated . For most of them, it’s just in their heads.

And what’s worse is that Sienna thinks I should actually try and care about them. She’s mad that I don’t. Doesn’t she know I’ve done facelifts for supermodels?

And they all use paper! I swear, in a week, they must go through an entire rainforest in this place. Do these people not have an environmental report?

I’d almost forgotten what my signature is. That’s how long it’s been since I used a real pen. At home, we have tablets, and we just press a button to sign all our charts for us. Here, not only do I have to write everything by hand, but I’m acting as a nurse, physical therapist, and pharmacist to a bunch of old people who need to mind their own business.

But every time I try and say anything like this to Sienna, she gets mad. I’m not a PT, but trying to tell her that is like trying to talk to a brick wall.

The canteen here isn’t good either, but I still go there for lunch. It’s not like I want to make my own food.

Plus, it’s a good way to escape the office for a while.

“Going for lunch. Want anything?”

“No, thank you,” she mumbles, not looking up at me from whatever forms, or maybe puzzle book games, she’s doing. Maybe she’s too proud to accept that she wants me to buy her something, or too frugal to do anything except make her own lunch.

I don’t really care, which is why I ask anyway, because that’s the polite thing to do. And she seems to think I’m the least polite person in the world. I can prove her wrong on something at least.

I head out to the canteen, and on the way, the receptionist waves me down. I grimace, wave, and keep going. I don’t want to get sucked into a conversation.

Her name is Carla or something, and she moves glacially. Obviously all administrative staff are useless, but she seems more useless than most. If you ask her to print something, it takes her an hour. If you ask her about insurance claims, it takes her a week. I don’t dare ask her anything complicated, because I think I might die before I get an answer.

In the canteen, I avoid eye contact with everyone and march straight for the counter. If I so much as glance at anyone, I’ll get roped into a twenty-minute chat about my life, and I’ve already talked about myself as much as I can bear to.

They serve me whatever slop they’re giving out today, and I tip them generously anyway. Everyone here is basically a charity case, so I’m doing my part.

Fortunately, we’re allowed to eat elsewhere, because I don’t think I could face sitting in a canteen with all these other people. They would all come and try to talk to me.

Not that I particularly want to eat with Sienna either. She’s not exactly my favorite lunch companion, but she’s better than the other miserable women eyeing me up and all the scruffy-faced men feeling jealous of me.

When I head back into our office, some godawful country radio station is blaring at full volume.

“Can you turn that off?” I say as I slump down at my makeshift desk that has been quickly rigged up in the corner with an ancient computer and creaky desk.

“No,” she says and offers no further explanation.

I sigh and walk over to the radio. Yes, they still have real radios here. I don’t think these people would know what a modern appliance was if it came and bit them in the ass.

I hit the tuning button a few times until I find the most tolerable pop music station that they have around here.

Sienna glares at me. “I was listening to that.”

“I hate country music.”

“Well, I don’t, and I was listening to it.”

“Okay, well, I don’t want to.”

“I don’t care what you want,” she says, giving me one of those I’m trying my best not to kill you looks. “You could have at least asked before you changed it.”

“I did,” I say, folding my arms.

“Did you?”

“Yes. I said, ‘I don’t like this. I want to listen to something else.’ So we’re listening to something else. What is your problem?”

“What is my problem?” she scoffs, shaking her head.

I wait for her to launch another criticism at me, but nothing comes. Good. I’ve already been arguing with her all day, and I don’t feel like doing it anymore. I just sit at my desk and force myself to shovel the slop into my mouth.

It’s not even like I can go into town for better food options. There’s one devastatingly bad Mexican restaurant, an Italian that serves subpar pizza, and a burger joint that has three things on the menu, two of which are cheeseburgers, and the other one is a double cheeseburger.

I already thought small towns were bad, but this is doing nothing to make me like them more.

And then Sienna gets up and changes the radio station again.

She’s not helping me like this place any better.

In my usual experience, beautiful women are lovely people, always falling over themselves to try and get your attention. I guess it’s different in the country. I don’t think Sienna has smiled at me once and meant it.

It’s a shame, really. She would be gorgeous if she did.

But no. She doesn’t. Instead, she’s miserable, and I’m trapped here in the dark ages, forced to get people to sign paper intake forms, forced to use a pen, forced to use an actual tunable radio to listen to some godawful guy with a guitar crooning on about tractors.

And this is just three days in. The next twenty-seven are going to be a nightmare.