Placebo Effect (Somerset Surgeons #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

ALLY

The man standing behind me is hot. Right now he’s also bothered, but unfortunately, it’s not in a good way. He’s shifting his weight from foot to foot and scowling at his phone, and every so often he sighs with impatience.

It’s the frustration of a man at the top of the food chain who’s being made to wait for his morning coffee.

And since this coffee line is moving at turtle-speed, I’ve had a lot of time to observe Mr. Hot and Bothered.

He’s tall—a few inches taller than me, which is saying something, since I’m five foot nine.

His hair is dark, almost black, and so are his eyes.

The color of the coffee he’s probably about to order, since I bet he drinks it black.

If we were still in the caveman era, he’d be the guy you’d trust to protect you from the tigers.

But since this is the twenty-first century and we’re in a hospital lobby, he’s probably a doctor. My other clue is the fact that he’s dressed in green surgical scrubs.

And his short-sleeved scrubs show off very nice arms. He’s got just the right amount of muscle, and a dusting of dark hair on his forearms . . .

He glances up from his phone, and I quickly look away. It would be embarrassing to be caught staring.

I really shouldn’t be in this line, since takeout coffee is a luxury I can’t afford.

It’s the one thing personal finance experts all agree on: takeout coffee is a waste of money.

For a fraction of the cost, I could brew my own coffee at home and bring it to work in a travel mug.

If I invested the savings, I’d be a millionaire in sixty years or so.

But I’m twenty-six now, so in sixty years I might be too old to enjoy the million bucks. Hell, I might even be too old to enjoy a cup of coffee, but I’m sure going to enjoy it today.

The length of the coffee line suggests a lot of people think the way I do. I guess that’s not surprising in the hospital—dealing with illness teaches you to seize the day.

But whoever designed this hospital clearly underestimated the demand for coffee.

The coffee shop is really just a counter at the side of the main lobby, and the line is blocking the flow of traffic to the elevators.

I take a step back to let an older gentleman pass in front of me, and my purse bumps into Dr. Hot and Bothered.

I turn to apologize. “Sorry about that.”

“Uh huh,” he grunts, barely looking up from his phone. “You shouldn’t carry such a big purse.”

Wow. Okay. The fact that he’s a jerk makes him a lot less attractive.

I could tell him I don’t plan to schlep this much stuff around every day, but today’s my first real day at this job.

I’m going to be an administrative assistant to Heather Larkin, the Director of Surgical Services.

I spent last week slogging through a painfully dull orientation, but today I should actually get a cubicle.

So I’ll have a place to stash my water bottle, cardigan, tissues, hand lotion, and the pack of sour gummy worms I keep for emergencies. And I can start carrying a smaller bag, one that hopefully won’t offend random strangers in the coffee line.

The line moves painfully slowly; even though we’re in the middle of the morning rush, there’s only one barista working. She looks flustered, and I sympathize with her. I’ve worked as a barista, and the job is harder than it looks.

The customer at the counter asks the barista whether she recommends the dark or medium roast, and the guy behind me sighs again. I glance back and see he’s put his phone away, and his arms are crossed in front of his chest.

If I were running this hospital, I’d make it a priority to improve the coffee shop staffing. I bet patient and employee satisfaction scores would skyrocket.

I take a moment to indulge a fantasy, in which I’m the best admin assistant this hospital has ever seen.

I’ll go to night school to get a bachelor’s degree, then an MBA, and eventually I’ll become the CEO.

And twenty years from now, when I’ve worked my way to the top of the hospital food chain, I’ll eat men like Dr. Hot and Bothered for breakfast.

Okay. Realistically, if I’m still working here in twenty years, I’ll probably still be in a cubicle. If I’m lucky, I may have been promoted to a senior admin assistant. But a girl has to have a dream, right?

The guy behind me sighs again, and I turn and meet his eye. “Would you like to go ahead of me?”

He has the grace to blush. “No. Thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep. Thanks.”

I’d been planning to order a small drip coffee, but when I finally reach the front of the line, my inner devil asserts herself.

“I’ll take a large caramel latte with three shots of espresso. Oh, and whipped cream on top please.”

The barista blinks. “Whipped cream’s an extra ninety-nine cents.”

“That’s fine,” I say sweetly.

It’s an eight-dollar drink, but it’ll take a couple minutes to make, and the guy behind me sighs as the barista rings it through. Worth it.

The barista starts making the drink as I scrabble in my purse for my wallet. And I guess I do have too much stuff, because I still haven’t found it when she sets my drink on the counter. The line behind me seems to have grown, and I feel my cheeks turning red.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I’ll just be a second.”

“I’ll get it,” the guy behind me says impatiently, stepping up to the register. “And I’ll take a large mint tea.”

Mint tea? This man does not look like a mint tea drinker.

It takes me a minute to register the fact that he’s paying for my drink. My stupidly expensive drink.

“Oh, no,” I protest. “You don’t have to . . .”

But Dr. Hot and Bothered is already tapping his credit card.

“Thank you,” I mutter. I glance down at my purse, hoping my wallet will miraculously appear, but no such luck. “I’ll pay you back as soon as I find my wallet. What department are you in? Or if you give me your email, I can send an e-transfer?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says dismissively, taking his tea from the barista. “You should really get a lighter bag. That purse is straining your cervical spine.”

Of course, I find my wallet in the corner of my purse right after Dr. Hot and Bothered walks away.

I also remember that I could have paid with my phone; I’m not sure why I didn’t think of that in the moment, but I’ve never been great under pressure.

The guy must have thought I was either a mooch or incredibly stupid. Quite possibly both.

As I ride the elevator, I realize it’s a bit ridiculous for a new admin assistant to show up with an eight-dollar latte, but what the hell. This drink’s delicious.

The administrative offices take up the entire top floor of the hospital, which feels like a different world than the lobby.

The decor is modern, all clean lines and frosted glass doors, and it’s very quiet.

It’s a far cry from my last job, as a receptionist in a busy family doctor’s office.

If I didn’t know better, I’d never know this was a hospital.

I swipe my badge to get into the executive wing and walk past an empty boardroom to my new boss’s office.

Heather Larkin bustles out before I have a chance to knock on her door. “Good morning, Alexandra,” she says brightly.

“Morning, Ms. Larkin.”

“Oh, please, call me Heather.” Heather’s a cozy-looking woman around my mother’s age, with fading blonde hair and a smear of pink lipstick on her teeth. She looks more like a kindergarten teacher than a senior hospital administrator.

“Thank you.”

Heather smiles. “I’ll take you down to meet your boss.”

I blink at her. “I thought I was going to be working for you.”

As soon as the sentence leaves my mouth, I wish I could take it back. I must have misunderstood, and since I really need this job, I shouldn’t have admitted it.

But Heather smiles. “No, but I can see why you might have thought so,” she says. “I might not have made it clear. I hired you on behalf of the chief of surgery, Dr. Drew Malone. His assistant quit a couple months ago, and he hasn’t had time to hire a new one.”

“Okay.” It’s not what I was expecting, but it should be fine. “What kind of surgery does he do?” I ask Heather curiously.

“He’s a neurosurgeon,” she says. “But he has a secretary who manages his clinical practice. Your job will be to help with his administrative responsibilities as the department chief.” She gives me an encouraging smile. “Scheduling, taking minutes at meetings, that sort of thing.”

“Sure.” But it seems a little strange that Dr. Malone didn’t want to interview me himself, and that Heather never mentioned him until now. Unless she told me and I forgot, but I really don’t think she did.

And how much time can I spend making schedules and keeping meeting minutes?

“Will I work for him full-time?” I ask Heather.

“Oh, yes,” Heather nods. “All the department chiefs have full-time admin assistants.”

“Okay,” I nod. “That sounds great.”

“I’ll take you to meet him,” Heather says brightly, leading me back toward the elevators. “All the other department chiefs have offices in the executive wing, but Dr. Malone chose to stay on the surgical floor.”

“Okay.”

“As you can imagine, it makes communication more difficult,” Heather says with a chuckle. “Of course, we’re hoping you’ll be able to help with that.”

“I’ll do my best.”

She smiles. “That’s all we ask. I’ll email you if there’s something particularly important to bring to his attention. We’ll count on you to remind him to come to meetings, stuff like that.”

“You mean, manage his calendar?” Maybe Dr. Malone is the absent-minded professor type.

“Basically, yes. He’s very busy, and he doesn’t always remember meetings.”

We get off the elevator, and Heather leads me past a nursing station and down a hall of offices. She stops outside a door with a nameplate that reads Dr. Malone, Neurosurgery, and gives a perfunctory knock before pushing it open.