His Forbidden Love (Manhattan Billionaires #2) - Ava Ryan Page 0,15
thinks it over. “I am. I’m looking forward to doing some good in the world.”
“Good. You’ve been such a slacker up until now,” I say gravely.
“Private bathroom with shower and sauna for the docs,” he says, grinning as he points.
“Nice.”
He keeps going and turns the corner into an office.
“Oh, it’s beautiful,” I cry, taking a good look around as he sits behind the desk and I sit in front of it. Another great view of Bryant Park and the public library. Walls painted a pale but cheerful yellow that’s the exact color of my favorite pair of scrubs back when I was an intern. And the artwork? A giant framed print of one of Monet’s water lily paintings. “I love Monet. I used to have a waterlily scrub cap.”
His brows go up. “Really?”
“Really,” I say. “But back to you. I hope you’re not going to spend every day on facelifts and breast augmentations.”
“Why not?” he says, his interest sharpening. “Don’t you believe in paying the bills? And beautifying the world by straightening noses and lifting eyelids?”
“You have plenty of money to pay your bills now,” I say tartly. “And the resources to—”
“What? Help kids who’ve been burned like your friend Kelly? Work on better reconstruction procedures? Better skin grafts and pain management?”
“Exactly,” I say, startled by his memory of something I mentioned once years ago. Although I shouldn’t be. Having worked closely with him, I know exactly how brilliant he is. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a photographic memory. “I think that’s more important than eradicating neck wattles on the Upper East Side.”
“Agreed. And that’s what my team and I plan to do. State-of-the-art stuff.”
I can’t stop a grin from exploding across my face. If a man with Dr. Jamison’s skills and resources puts his mind to it, he’ll make great strides in the area. I know it. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Good,” I say, lapsing into a wistful daydream about how great it would be to work at a place exactly like this. A place with the vision, the resources and the intrepid leader to bring it all together. Oh, man. What I wouldn’t give.
“Glad you approve,” he says. “When can you start?”
I blink and refocus on him, slow to come out of my spiraling fantasies. “Start what?”
“Your fellowship.”
My breath stops. I mean stops dead, as though someone pulled the plug on the ventilator supplying me with air. I manage to crank my mouth open, but that’s as far as I get at first.
“I don’t have a fellowship,” I say carefully.
“Try to keep up, Harlow,” he says, giving me a pointed look. “What do you think just happened here?”
I frown and glance around, desperately asking myself the same question. “I think you just showed me around your office,” I say, my voice pitching higher.
“Sorry,” he says, managing to look zero percent sorry and one hundred percent smug. “Thought I mentioned this was a job interview. That explains the scrubs. I would’ve worn a suit, but whatever.”
This was a—?
“You know very well that you didn’t tell me this was a job interview,” I say.
“My mistake.”
Oh. My. God.
I press my hands to the top of my head in a futile attempt to slow down my racing thoughts and grab one to hold on to. I’m not this lucky. Opportunities of a lifetime don’t just fall into my lap.
So that’s one thing.
The other thing?
The idea of working with him again thrills me as much as it terrifies me. Heavy-handed arrogance and occasional bullying aside (and those traits describe every surgeon, frankly), he’s a great teacher. I’d learn so much. I’m positive of that. As for keeping my latent feelings for him under control? Questionable. I might even go so far as to give that a poor prognosis.
And that’s the bottom line here: I can’t work for him. For my own good.
Not that I can tell him that.
“It wouldn’t work,” I say, trying to keep at least some of the regret out of my voice. “I’m not in the market to work with someone who’d treat me like an indentured servant. Which is how you see me.”
“I get that you’re no longer my intern. Trust me,” he says, watching me with that implacable gaze of his. “But it sounds like you’d need a complete personality transplant from me.”
“I’m not working for you, but no. Not complete. Just less reign of terror. More collegial.”
“How much less?” he asks.
I think that over. Why not? This is all make-believe anyway. “Seventy-five percent.”