It’s every bit as weird as it sounds and in surgery, weird is definitely what you want.
Perform poorly on rounds and you’ll be banished to the tedious tundra of updating illegible charts and reinserting blown IVs.
I’m typically outstanding on rounds. I’m quick on my feet, confident in my knowledge, well-practiced in the ability to retrieve tiny tidbits of information we spent all of two minutes learning in medical school. I’m also a killer Trivial Pursuit player.
But this is not a typical situation.
“Anyone? Anyone!”
Dr. Dickmaster is the supervising attending on staff today and at the moment, he is not a happy man. He’s never been a jolly fellow—not the sort who’d wear a silly clown nose or pull a coin out from behind a child’s ear. But today, he’s especially ticked.
Because today is the first day that Tommy Sullivan is guarding me.
Damn it all to hell.
When I met him outside the hospital early this morning, just before the start of my shift, he watched me approach with a cocky sort of air about him. Arrogance is a common trait among the aristocracy—I grew up surrounded by it, submerged in it—it’s easy to sense. Tommy Sullivan’s arrogance was the victorious variety, like a cat who already knows he’s got the mouse right where he wants her.
I suspect he anticipated I was going to complain to the Dowager Countess about hiring him, and the fact that he was still on the job was a win in his column. There was a moment, when I had considered voicing my misgivings to Grandmother—but it was only for a moment.
Because Haddocks don’t do drama. We don’t complain or whine—and we never, ever nitpick. We persevere. Push on. It’s one of the secrets to our success.
I ignored the weak-kneed, wobbly feeling that oozed up my limbs when Tommy Sullivan aimed that devilish smile at me and smoothly said, “Good morning, Abby.”
And then I set out on ignoring him.
It shouldn’t have been difficult—I’ve had personal security before, and disregarding them was as effortless as blinking. They blended into the background, like wallpaper in a room you’ve walked through a thousand times—you know it’s there, but you don’t actually see it anymore.
But Tommy Sullivan isn’t the kind of man who can be ignored.
He was built to stand out, to be noticed, and I don’t just mean his looks. He has a presence—the way he stands, the way he walks—with the confident swagger of a man who’s capable of handling things. Handling everything.
Even now, as he leans innocuously against the corridor wall a few feet away—arms crossed, a dark suit molded to his impressive frame like he just stepped out of an Armani advertisement—the nurses can’t take their eyes off him. Their heads turn and their gazes drag his way again and again.
He’s a terrible, awful distraction. And I’m not the only one who thinks so.
“I have asked a question!”
Dr. Dickmaster’s flabby cheeks and pointy nose begin to change color—going from its typical pale to dark pink and fast approaching crimson—like a chameleon on a hot brick. Because nothing, nothing, infuriates a doctor more than asking a question their underlings can’t answer.
“Is someone going to answer me, or are you all just going to stand there looking like double-damned idiots?”
Professionalism is a valued trait in any field—mandatory in most. But no one cares if a king is unprofessional, or if they do, they rarely have the guts to point it out.
In the field of pediatric cardiac surgery, Dr. Wilhelm Dickmaster is not a king.
He’s a bloody god.
And he knows it.
Pissing off a god is never a good idea.
I step through to the front of the group.
“He’s with me.”
But that doesn’t sound right.
“I mean . . . I’m with him. But only for a few days.”
And that sounds even worse.
I’m usually very good under pressure, but at the moment it’s as though I’m having an anaphylactic reaction to the attention. My throat tightens and my tongue goes thick and sandpaper-dry.
Chad Templeton, our weasely chief resident, smirks over at me. The chief resident is the head tattletale—who reports to the attending about who’s late or leaves early, who’s slacking off on labs or charts. And I don’t hold the weaseliness against him per se—sometimes weaseliness is necessary if you want to succeed.
Chad’s just a real wanker about it.
“I . . . you see, Dr. Dickmaster, it’s—well . . .”
Dear God, I’m fidgeting. Surgeons do not fidget. I’m sure that’s written in stone on a wall somewhere.
But then suddenly, the air shifts and a sense of calm settles over me. Because he’s there, standing behind my shoulder. I don’t turn around to see him, I don’t have to . . . I can feel him. The heat and bulk and presence of him.
“Tommy Sullivan, S&S Securities. I’ll be shadowing Dr. Haddock for the next few weeks.”