Chapter 11
ELEVEN
ALLY
“That actually wasn’t so bad,” I remark, as Dr. Malone and I ride the elevator back down to his office.
He smiles. “I told you they wouldn’t mind.” He pulls out his phone to read a message, then turns to me. “Peter Tate is asking if you have any dietary restrictions? For dinner Wednesday.”
Right. Dinner Wednesday. With the Tates and Dr. Malone. In a way, it’s a good thing that it’s barely forty-eight hours away; I won’t have time to build it up to something bigger than it is.
“No, no dietary restrictions. Uh, should I bring anything?”
He shakes his head. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Okay. And when Peter Tate said it was informal, did he mean . . .?”
Dr. Malone smiles. “He meant it. The last time he invited me to dinner, his wife cooked.”
“Okay.”
“I can drive you on Wednesday, if you’d like?” he offers. “Or, if you’re more comfortable driving yourself, I can give you directions to their cottage.”
“I don’t have car,” I admit. “So I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind.”
“No problem,” he says. “If you text me your address, I’ll pick you up around six-thirty.”
“Okay. Thanks, Dr. Malone.”
“You should really start calling me Drew,” he suggests. “Or people won’t believe we’re dating.”
“Okay, Drew.” His first name feels strange on his tongue. “Uh, you can call me Ally. If you want.”
His eyes flicker toward me. “Okay. Ally.”
We reach his office, and I grab my purse from the desk drawer. I’ll have to clear out this desk, since I’ll be working for Heather Larkin from now on. But there isn’t much—a cardigan, a tube of hand lotion, a box of Kleenex. I can come a little early tomorrow and move things upstairs.
As I’m buttoning my coat, Dr. Malone emerges from his inner office. He’s wearing a black leather jacket over his scrubs, and it’s a good combination. A little edgy. I used to think doctors only looked this good on TV, and my stomach gives an involuntary flip.
“Do you want a ride home?” he asks. “Since I kept you late for the meeting.”
“Oh, no, I’m fine, thanks,” I say quickly. “The bus stops right outside the hospital, and there should be one in ten minutes or so.” I doubt my neighborhood is anywhere close to where he’s going. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear he’s never been north of Duke Street.
“Okay,” he says with a nod. “Have a good night, Alexandra.”
“You too, Dr. Malone. Drew.”
When I get home and start dinner, I spot the loaf of whole wheat bread on the counter and wonder if I should keep making his lunch. I’m a white bread eater myself, and I bought the wheat for him.
I pull out my phone and tap out a text.
Me: Would you like me to keep making you lunch? I don’t mind.
His reply comes back five minutes later.
Dr. Malone: No, it’s fine. You’re working for Heather now.
I remember him saying he doesn’t eat at the hospital cafeteria, so I wonder if he’s going to make his own lunch? Or just skip it altogether? Which can’t be healthy, especially since he clearly works out regularly. He’ll need the fuel. . .
I give my head a shake. I’m being ridiculous. He’s a grown man, and he was obviously managing to feed himself before I showed up.
I realize I haven’t spent all the money he gave me for groceries this week.
Me: Okay. I kept food receipts, I owe you about $40. I’ll give it to you Wednesday.
Dr. Malone: Don’t worry about it.
I tap his name to pull up his contact, and change his name to Drew. I need to get used to using his first name.
Drew arrives at exactly six-thirty on Wednesday to take me to dinner at the Tates’. I’ve been watching out the window, so as soon as the black Volvo SUV pulls up at the curb, I hustle out to meet him.
He gets out of the car to open my door. “Hey, Ally,” he says. “You look very nice.”
“Thanks.” I spent a while yesterday debating what to wear, since none of my clothes seemed appropriate for a dinner party with billionaires. I finally settled on a pink sweater, navy slacks, and black ballet flats.
After all, we’re going to dinner at a cottage, not to the symphony.
And I think I called it right, because Drew’s wearing his black leather jacket over a gray Oxford shirt and dark blue jeans. From a formality standpoint, we fit together pretty well.
I decide to return his compliment. “You look nice too.”
“Thanks.”
We get in the car, but before Drew pulls off the curb there’s a commotion at the house next door. The front door opens, then slams shut behind an obviously angry woman. She screams something at the closed door, then stomps over to a rusting Honda Civic and peels off down the street.
“Interesting neighbors,” Drew remarks as we drive away.
“Yep,” I agree. “I think she and her boyfriend are having some problems.”
“They don’t bother you?”
“Not really,” I say with a shrug. “And as you pointed out, they keep things interesting. I considered living in the Esplanade, but I figured the neighbors would be dull.” The Esplanade is a swanky condo building by the lake.
The corner of his mouth hitches up a little. “You’re not wrong.”
My stomach sinks. “You live in the Esplanade.” I say it as a statement rather than a question, because the look on his face gives him away.
“Yeah,” he confirms. “I don’t mind boring neighbors.”
“To each his own, I guess.” I’d prefer a boring neighborhood too, if I could afford one. “And I didn’t mean to imply you were dull.”
The side of his mouth hitches a little higher. “Right.”
“Do you have a view of the lake?”
He nods. “It’s the main reason I bought the place. The sunsets are great.”
“I’ll bet.”
He stops at a red light and glances over at me. “You can come over and see it sometime, if you want.”
“Thanks.” I hope he doesn’t think I was angling for an invitation. Watching a sunset with Drew in his Esplanade condo seems like something we would do if we were actually dating, not faking it.
And on the subject of faking it, there are a few things I need to clarify before we get to the Tates’.
“So I want to make sure I have our story straight,” I begin.
Drew raises an eyebrow. “Our story?”
“Yeah, for when people ask about our relationship. On Monday, you told the Tates that I was your girlfriend. But when we met with Dr. McGregor and Heather, we said we were going to start dating.”
“Ah,” he says with a small smile. “You want to define the relationship.”
“Well, yeah, I guess I do. I had to meet with someone from HR yesterday morning—”
“You did?” Drew interrupts, sounding surprised.
“Yeah, I was going to text you about it, but I knew it was an OR day, and you were on call, so I didn’t want to bother you.”
“You can always text, Ally,” he says. “I put my phone on silent while I’m operating, but I check it between cases. What happened with HR?”
“I met with a woman named Gloria,” I tell him. “She basically wanted to go over the whole thing again, and I repeated everything we told Dr. McGregor and Heather. She asked if I felt pressured because of the power differential, and I said not at all.”
“But there is a power differential,” he says, glancing at me again. “That’s undeniable.”
“Sure,” I admit. “But you never pressured me. I told Gloria you’ve behaved like a gentleman, and I’m dating you because I want to. I think she was convinced.”
“Thanks, Ally.”
“No problem.” I pause. “But we still need to define the relationship. Are we just starting to date, or . . .”
Drew stops at another red light, and his eyes flicker toward me.
“If you’re okay with it, it’s probably best to give the impression that we’re in a committed relationship.
It fits the narrative we want to project, that this isn’t just a fling.
” He pauses. “And it’ll help me out with the Nina Tate situation. ”
“So boyfriend and girlfriend, all of that?” I need to be absolutely clear about this. I don’t want to claim I’m Drew Malone’s girlfriend if he’s telling people we’re casually dating.
“All of that,” he confirms. “If that’s okay with you.”
“It’s fine with me,” I say slowly. “But people might wonder how it happened so fast. And we don’t want HR to question whether we started dating before we told them about it.”
“But we didn’t,” he points out. “There was only the tennis that one time, and there was nothing inappropriate there.”
“True,” I agree. “But we’re basically saying we went from dating to a committed relationship within a couple of days. And you told the Tates I was your girlfriend before we talked to anyone in HR, so if they ever talk about it . . .”
“Some relationships move quickly,” he says mildly. “And I doubt the Tates will compare notes with HR.”
He makes it sound so simple. “Okay.”
We’ve reached the outskirts of Somerset, and Drew turns left onto a country road. I realize he isn’t even using GPS navigation; he knows the way to the Tates’ cottage from memory.
“So you’re pretty close with the Tates, huh?” I ask. “You’ve been to the cottage before?”
He shrugs. “I’ve been to their cottage a couple of times. I got to know them pretty well after I operated on Amber three years ago. She was in the hospital for a couple weeks after the surgery.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t have her transferred to Toronto. Not that you’re not capable, of course, but—”
“Oh, everyone was surprised they didn’t transfer her to Toronto,” he says wryly. “The Tates could’ve taken her anywhere in the world, and Somerset’s the smallest neurosurgical center in the country. Not to mention I’d only been an attending surgeon for three months.”
“Wow. That must have been stressful.” Actually, stressful seems like an understatement. Operating on Amber Tate must have taken balls of steel.
“Uh huh. But Peter Tate only asked about a transfer once, when she was in the ER and I called to get consent for the operation. I told him that in my opinion, Amber’s best chance was immediate surgery in Somerset, and he said go ahead.”
“Damn. You weren’t tempted to recommend a transfer? So it wouldn’t be your responsibility?”