Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
“I said to do the test.” His authority can’t be denied. He is used to getting what he wants and doesn’t care who he needs to trample to get it. “And I will not repeat myself for anyone.”
Dr. Abdulov’s head bobs in sync with his Adam’s apple. “Very well. I will organize it now.”
When he gestures for me to exit before him, I lock eyes with the stranger. I’m not seeking his permission to leave—though I’m sure he is accustomed to everyone in his realm doing precisely that. I am thanking him for his support before I lose the opportunity.
If the vein in Dr. Abdulov’s neck is anything to go by, I won’t just be marched out of the hospital for being insubordinate. My entire medical career is about to be trampled on. I doubt I’ll even be allowed to sterilize equipment after my performance. Tell me one medical student who has called their supervisor a pig and continued to practice medicine. I can’t think of a single incident.
Dr. Abdulov’s brisk breaths fan my neck when the stranger stops him from shadowing my steps by asking to speak with him.
“In private,” he adds when Dr. Abdulov’s grip on my arm—which is nowhere near as grabby this time—hinders me from exiting.
“Of course.”
Dr. Abdulov strives to wipe the riled expression from his face before he spins to face the dark-haired gent. Although Mrs. Ivanov’s door closes quickly with me on the outside, nothing can override the putrid scent of fear leeching out of Dr. Abdulov. It is as potent as the sterile smell I scrub from my body every evening but barely strong enough to supersede the lusty aroma that engulfs me when the stranger watches me over Dr. Abdulov’s shoulder for several heart-pumping seconds.
His watch is full of haughty arrogance, and it mists my skin with sweat.
I won’t mention what other parts of my body get damp.
I’m meant to be celebrating a medical triumph that rarely occurs between a third-year surgical intern and a lead surgeon, not my body’s insane reaction to a man whose looks alone would have him chewing through women as often as he does underwear.
Furthermore, I was on the verge of being homeless before I called my superior a pig.
Now “verge” looks set to be removed from the equation.
CHAPTER TWO
“Dr. Hoffman?”
Behind my locker door, I hide my grimace before removing it entirely.
Once I’m confident my expression represents a third-year surgical intern instead of the whiny brat it wants to portray, I answer, “Yes.”
I know who’s accosting me before I pop my head out of my locker. The head of the residency program at Myasnikov Private has the same burly tone as Dr. Abdulov, but since they pay him too much to socialize with the interns as often as his less-revered counterparts, I don’t hear it as frequently.
I skipped the dressing down Dr. Abdulov no doubt planned to unleash earlier this morning. It wasn’t by choice. When my grandmother called to say my grandfather was having a medical episode, I raced out of the hospital minus a lecture and my personal possessions—although I did gain another reason for my minimal sleep schedule.
The mystery stranger hasn’t left my head since our eyes collided. His handsome face was pulled in a frown, but that didn’t detract from his appeal. His first impression exuded downright sexiness, and his smirk alone conjured up hundreds of wicked thoughts when I finally crawled into bed a little after six.
If I had an iota of energy left after helping my grandfather through a severe bout of respiratory insufficiency, I would have tried to put the visual to good use.
Alas, my nether regions remain as unbasted as my grandmother’s overcooked Christmas turkeys.
Although I had planned to arrive for my shift earlier than the assigned time, the alarm I swore I set didn’t sound until minutes before my next double shift.
I nod like I have no clue what Dr. Sidorov could want to discuss when he asks, “Can I speak with you?” before I follow him into the hub of Myasnikov Private.
Top-of-the-line desks and bulky leather chairs are nothing out of the ordinary for private hospitals run with profits in mind more than integrity, but it still frustrates me.
Dr. Sidorov’s desk cost far more than the B12 deficiency test they tried to deny Mrs. Ivanov.
When did possessions become more important than ethics?
My heart sinks when Dr. Sidorov gestures for me to sit across from him before he slides a multipage document across his desk. I put on a brave front when my grandmother planted her hands on each of my cheeks before she told me how proud she was of me, but I can no longer hold back my fear that I am about to lose my ability to practice medicine.
It’s so prominent my vision is too blurred to read the thick black ink in front of me.