Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82868 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
She starts to cackle. “Of course you are. Everyone is, my dear. Starting to write is the easy thing. Only a very few people actually finish a book.”
“People have jobs. And families—”
“Oh there are myriad reasons. And no one wants a book from everyone who starts writing one. Frankly, most publishers don’t want a book from most people who finish them. But if it’s your medicine, so to speak, then that’s fine. Write for your own reasons.”
“I really want to finish it. I took last week off and got to the second plot point. I could barely keep up with how fast the words were coming out.”
I glance up at her and she’s staring back at me. “What are you writing?”
“A cozy mystery. Set in a hospital. The protagonist is the security guard who’s a former professional footballer. He’s spent his life underrated, but the police find themselves relying on him to solve murders and mysteries in the hospital.”
She nods. “I don’t hate the concept.”
I let out a half laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I rep some of the best thriller writers in the genre. If I say I don’t hate it, you should take that as the best compliment you ever received.” She narrows her eyes at me. “I tell you what, if you manage to finish it in the next two weeks, I’ll read it. After that, I’m not doing anything but handing stuff to other agents. Already they’re acting like sharks around chum.”
“You will?” My heart lifts in my chest and I stand. “I can give you what I’ve got so far, if you want?”
“No. I want a completed manuscript. Like I said, starting a book is the easy bit. It’s the finishing that’s hard.”
“I’m going to finish mine,” I reply. I know I can’t remain as a doctor. It’s like the last week I made my way through a series of one-way turnstiles and now I can never go back to where I was. I have to make a change, and it feels like Mrs. Fletcher might be my exit strategy. Even if she doesn’t like my work, the chance to have a literary agent read my work is an opportunity I can’t pass up.
She shrugs. “Sure. It’s good to write what you know, and you know hospitals. I’m not promising I’ll get to the end of it, but I’ll make it to the first plot point.”
“Fair,” I say. “And I’ll get you a diagnosis—one way or the other.”
“Sounds like a good deal,” she says.
For the first time since I stepped back onto hospital grounds, I feel enthusiastic about my day. I’ve got two weeks to finish a book that makes Mrs. Fletcher want to read to the end. Challenge accepted.
Eight
Ellie
I’ve created a smorgasbord of deliciousness, even if I do say so myself. I step back and admire last night’s cooking portioned into plastic boxes. If I don’t have a full day today, at least I’ll have a full stomach.
First up—breakfast burrito.
I remove the box and set it aside, then put everything else back in a paper bag so no one can see what it is. I tuck the bag into the back corner of the communal fridge and hope labeling it with my name is enough to keep anyone from snooping—or stealing—what’s inside.
I take the plastic container, along with the fork I brought in, and head downstairs. I’m just back in my chair when Zach comes through the door.
“Good morning, Dr. Cove,” I sing. I feel really good about today. I’ve been tracking the insurer recognition applications and two have come through this week. I even had someone book in for an appointment tomorrow. Things are on the up.
“Morning,” he grumps.
“Can I run out and get you a coffee?” I ask.
“Maybe in about an hour,” he replies.
“Certainly.”
His gaze falls on my breakfast burrito. I want to keep my cooking for myself, but the way Zach is looking at my burrito makes me want to feed him. “It’s a burrito. Would you like some? I brought way too much with me.”
He freezes and meets my eye for the first time this morning. My heart hitches and my stomach swirls at the unexpected eye contact. “You made it?” He says it like he’s hoping I’ll say yes—like if I made it, it must be good. It’s ridiculous that such a small indication of flattery and appreciation can make me feel so good, and I’m embarrassed at the pride that floods my veins.
My parents thought it was just a career I gave up at eighteen. It was so much more.
I pull back my shoulders. “I did. It’s pretty good, actually.”
“I’ll take some.” His voice sounds like the chocolate-and-coffee sauce I made once to go with Shane’s steak. It’s rich and lush and gives me goose bumps.
“Certainly.” I grab a plate. “I have some great news for you,” I say, following him into his office. “You have a patient consultation tomorrow morning. All booked in for eleven thirty. We haven’t really gone through prices for self-pay patients, so I said I would call her back to confirm. I’ve done a little research and I think three hundred pounds would be acceptable for a first consultation. Two fifty for follow-ups. You don’t want to under-sell yourself but at the same time you’re new and you don’t have that many patients.” Or any, I don’t say.