Faking It with the Off-Limits Doctor (Faking It with the Billionaires #2)

1. Alex

1

Alex

This may well be the craziest thing I’ve ever done, and I will admit, I’ve done some crazy stuff in my lifetime, I can tell you. But buying a large Georgian-style house in the middle of nowhere is nuts even for me. There is a perfectly good reason for doing so, even if my colleagues think I’ve gone completely mad.

At least it’ll be an investment when this is all over. Well, that’s what I’m telling myself.

For the last six months, I’ve been jumping through hoops to try and nail this partnership. Spire Healthcare is a pretty conservative company. They’re all about family values. The importance of the family unit is dotted all the way through their ethos. The thing is, they’re also pretty progressive, and by their numbers, they’re only going up, which is why I’m so interested in bringing them on board with my private clinic.

Besides, even though I don’t have a family—well, not anymore—I like the way the company is run. Which is why I’ve just spent far too much money on a good-sized family home on the outskirts of a small town that I’ll hardly ever use when the deal is done.

That’s okay, though. If—or should I say, when —they partner with my company, because I’m determined to make that happen, the deal will be worth millions. So, a couple of hundred grand for a house in the middle of nowhere seems like a steal in comparison.

The thing is, I’m a single man living in a high-end apartment in the most expensive part of the city. The apartment is nearly as clinical as my operating room, partly because I’m hardly there, partly because I like the minimalist look. There’s no need for so much stuff.

Unfortunately for me, my situation is about as opposite to Spire Healthcare’s ethos as possible, and thus, I’ve been forced to become a little creative. Is it a lie? Sort of. Is it one I can live with? Indeed, it is.

Sitting in a greasy spoon in Riverdale, I’m currently taking in the view from the window. Riverdale is a typical small town, nothing exciting or special about it. I chose this as the location to buy my house because my best friend, Mark, lives here, and he’s always going on about what a great place it is to live.

While he loves the country life, never in my wildest dreams had I imagined that all his praise of the town would make any difference to me. He hates the city, and I’m not super keen on the country, but we sacrifice those little quirks of ours when we visit each other.

My order has been taken, and while I wait, I ring him. He’s overseas, but he should be awake by now.

“Hey, Alex,” Mark says when he answers. “How’s things?”

“Good. I’m in your hometown right now,” I reply.

“You’re moved already? Wow, that was quick.”

“Sorry, man,” I say with slight sarcasm. “I couldn’t wait for you to get back.”

Mark chuckles. “No, and besides, you’d be waiting a while. I’ll be out here for another month or so yet, maybe longer. I haven’t decided.”

“How is it out there?”

“Hot,” Marks says. I can hear the smile in his voice. “I don’t know how Mom and Dad stick living here. But at least we have air conditioning.”

“You are in Africa, you know.”

“Really?” Mark comes back sarcastically. “And I thought it was the Antarctic.”

The waitress is on her way over with my plate, and I cut the call short. “My lunch is arriving. We’ll talk again soon.”

“Any time,” Mark replies, and then I end the call.

“There you go, sir,” the waitress says, placing the plate in front of me with a smile. “Can I get you anything else?”

By the tag on her red uniform, I know her name is Beth. She’s pretty, with mousy-blonde hair framing a round face. She’s a few years younger than me, I reckon about mid-twenties. Beth is looking at me, fluttering her lashes and giving me her best goo-goo eyes.

Sorry, sweetheart. Not interested.

“No,” I shake my head, “I’m good. Thanks.”

“All right. Well, let me know if you change your mind.” She smiles at me again, her gaze lingering before she walks away.

I’m used to the attention from the ladies. It has something to do with the fact that many of them like the tall, dark, handsome type with a little bit of broodiness and emotional damaged thrown in for good measure. I fit the bill on all counts. While I keep my black hair pretty short, I sport a full moustache and beard, which also seems to have them weak at the knees.

But I did the relationship thing, and I came away with more scarring than a patient with third-degree burns. So, that won’t be happening again. Now, I’m putting all my energy into my business. A business I’ve organically grown, and, a business that is currently thriving.

When I look down at my plate, I have to admit, I’m pretty impressed. Not only is the presentation way more than I expected from a place like this, but it’s obvious it’s been prepared by someone who knows what they’re doing.

I don’t frequent diners like this often. Sure, I’ll have the odd pizza now and then, but it’s a rare occasion. Most of the time, it’s high-end restaurants. I’m very particular when it comes to what I put in my body, and besides, I can afford it.

When I take a bite of the steak, it melts in my mouth.

That’s pretty impressive.

Maybe I’m being a snob. Or maybe I remember what diner food tasted like before I became as successful as I am. I just didn’t expect that kind of skill out here in the middle of nowhere.

The rest of the meal doesn’t disappoint, and the more impressed I am, the more an idea gels in my head.

Back in the city, I have my own chef. Pretentious? Maybe. But with the long hours I spend in surgery, I’m not really in any fit state to come back to my apartment and start making a nutritious meal from scratch.

I make a lot of money attending to a high-class clientele, who want nips and tucks as often as they want breakfast.

It’s more women than men, what with all those ridiculous magazines telling fifty-year-olds that they need to still look twenty. But over the years, the average age of my clients has got younger and younger.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging. It’s my job, and I love it. I talk them through the process and I give them what they ask for. It just never ceases to amaze me how women who are already beautiful, come to me and tell me that they want me to try and improve on nature.

So, yes, I have a personal chef. A chef who is currently on a paid sabbatical while I get this deal done.

I wonder if the chef here is available for some work?

There are several meetings and a couple of dinner parties already penned into my calendar, one of which is with Spire Healthcare . I could do with someone who knows what they’re doing. I’m a surgeon, not a cook. Besides, I’ll be too busy entertaining my guests.

The waitress returns to me when she sees my plate is empty. “You look like you enjoyed that,” Beth beams, lifting my plate expertly.

“I did. Compliments to the chef. That was delicious.”

“I’ll tell her. Now, can I get you anything else?”

Her?

“I’ll take a coffee,” I say, trying to ignore my immediate surprise that the chef isn’t a guy. I’m not a misogynist. Truly, I’m not. I just didn’t expect the chef to be a woman, and for no other reason than the role is filled mostly by men.

Mark’s sister is a chef.

Yes, she is, but she’s still in a minority, right?

“Just a coffee?” the waitress asks. “You don’t want to try our pecan pie?”

I tap my stomach and shake my head, trying not to get frustrated at the woman for not just doing as I ask. “Thanks, but I’ve had plenty. A coffee will be fine.”

“All right,” she sings, “but you don’t know what you’re missing.” Then, with empty plate in hand, Beth walks away.

Pecan pie did actually sound delicious, but I like my trim, muscular figure and I work hard at the gym to maintain it. Your health is your wealth—not that some of my patients take that on board, no matter how many times I tell them.

The coffee arrives, and though I don’t take sugar, Beth oozes her sweetness all over me again. “There you go.”

“Thanks,” I say shortly, hoping my slight abruptness gives her the hint that I now would like to be left alone.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else I can get you?”

I’ll be honest, for a surgeon, I don’t have a lot of patience, which is a huge fault, I know. But since my messy divorce, I’ve found I deal with people far better when they’re unconscious on my operating table where the anesthetic ensures that there’s no conversation.

“I’m sure,” I say, and then look down at my phone.

“All right. Well, I’ll be right over there if you need anything.”

This time, I don’t even look at her when I nod, and a few seconds later, she turns and walks away.

With coffee in hand, I check my emails. They’re never ending, and I’m glad I have an assistant to deal with most of them. An assistant who has been with me for many years. An assistant who also thinks I’m nuts for buying a house just to secure a deal with a healthcare company.

Before I left the office last week, Barbara stopped me at the elevator, a worried frown lining her brow. “Are you sure you’re doing the right thing, Dr. Bennett?”

I smiled down at the wiry, middle-aged woman, who is as fanatical about her health as I am. “It’s a bit late now, Barbara. The house is bought.”

Of course, she knew that. It had been Barbara who had found the house. She had also, under my instruction, been the one who had dealt with the realtors and organized the contracts with the lawyers.

“Don’t worry. It will be fine,” I said, trying to put her mind at ease.

“But what if they realize…” she trailed off.

“Then I have a huge house in the country that I’ll need to get rid of,” I joked, stepping into the elevator. Before the doors closed, I said, “I’ll call you when I get out there.”

After dealing with some emails, I finish the last dregs of my coffee and then look up, trying to catch Beth’s eye.

Oh, now you want her attention.

I ignore my conscience, the bane of my life that punishes me far too often, and smile as Beth approaches.

“What can I get you?” she asks, flashing me her perfectly white teeth.

“Can I speak to the chef?” I ask.

Beth is clearly a little taken aback by the request, and with a look of doubt, she says, “I’ll have to go and check.”

I nod. “Thank you.”

Beth hurries off, and as I watch her, I’m already thinking about the menu for the first dinner party.