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)
I take a moment to collect my thoughts before I say, “Mrs. Fletcher, you don’t owe me anything. I don’t feel comfortable working with you if you feel an obligation because I treated—”
“Absolutely not. I never feel any obligation to anyone. Like I said, you’re a talented writer. You know, some writers…” She pauses like she’s trying to figure out the words she needs. “You can tell when you’re reading an author who loves to write. I can tell you do. More than that, you’re good at it. I don’t like talent to go to waste. It’s as simple as that. If you’re committed, you can have a very successful career. But maybe you love practicing medicine more than you love writing, and writing is just a hobby for you…?”
I hear the question she isn’t asking, and it feels like when I answer, the words will be a binding contract. When I voice them, there’ll be no going back.
“I don’t love medicine.” I exhale. “I love to write.” The confession feels reverent. Yes, I told Nathan, but he’s my brother. It’s the first time I’ve spoken the truth to anyone who matters.
“I can tell.” I can almost hear her smile on the end of the phone. “I want to help you because you have talent. And because you’re a jolly nice chap. If you don’t love being a doctor, you have a real alternative. And I want to make that happen for you.”
“Where do we start?” I ask. I’m ready for this. Finally. For years I’ve tried to fight against it, but now I’m ready to fight for a future I actually want.
“Well, that’s the other problem. My retirement date is set in stone because I have a ninety-day cruise booked the week after my leaving date. I have three months left. With Christmas coming up, realistically, I need to be able to shop your book before people break for the festive period. And no publisher buys anything past the first week in December. I need a revised manuscript two weeks after I send you my notes. That’s three weeks from now.”
Two weeks. Unless I call in sick, there’s no way I’ll be able to get it done.
Shit. I want to do this. I really want to. I just need to find a way.
“Okay. I’m in.”
“You think you can fit it into your schedule?”
The truth is, I’m not sure. But I’m not willing to let this opportunity pass me by. Not when I’m so close to a dream I’ve been too scared to admit means the world to me. “Absolutely,” I tell Mrs. Fletcher. “I’ll make it work.”
Ten
Ellie
The dream about Zach Cove I had last night is playing on a loop in my head. In it, I walked into his office to find him inexplicably naked, baring the most beautiful bottom I’ve ever seen. Not to mention his muscular thighs, hard abs, and arms that looked like they could lift Big Ben. And when he turned around—I’m not generally a penis person. I think they’re ugly, weird things. Don’t get me wrong, used in the right way, they can be magical, but the look of them just bouncing about in the shower or jiggling while getting changed—well, I always look away.
Last night, Zach’s penis was downright bewitching. Dream me couldn’t keep my eyes off it—like I understood what it was capable of and therefore had nothing but the deepest respect and veneration for what stood in front of me.
Unlucky for dream me, that’s when I woke up. A little sweaty. As if Dr. Cove and I had both been in bed and very busy all night long.
I know it’s stupid, but this morning when he came in and seemed to have a spring in his step, I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d had the same dream I had.
I hang up my coat and pick up the coffee I’ve just brought in, along with the container of snacks I made last night. I have a feeling this week is going to be good. Dr. Cove is definitely in the best mood I’ve ever seen him in. I’m sure this is the week he’ll be throwing himself into his new practice.
I knock on the door and he calls for me to come in. I plaster on a grin and try to tamp down the feelings of embarrassment I feel oozing from my every pore.
“Your coffee,” I say.
He’s not sitting, tapping away at his laptop as usual. He’s standing and seems to be…packing up his bag.
“Thanks.” He looks up. “I’m leaving.”
My heart sinks into my stomach. “Oh, right. Will you be gone for the rest of the day?” I ask, trying to sound like it doesn’t matter to me either way. But if he’s leaving, he won’t be here if any patients call and want to see him for an emergency appointment. Unlikely, but I live in hope.