Page 11 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

Chapter eight

Despite the Venti Starbucks cup decorating her desk, the middle-aged receptionist guarding Mount Sinai’s cardiovascular surgery center looks completely exhausted.

There’s no line, thankfully, but her eyes don’t move from her computer screen when I approach, my off-brand UGGs squeaking across the linoleum flooring.

I drum my fingers along the bottom of the glass partition. “Excuse me?”

She still doesn’t look at me. “Last name and appointment time?”

I’ll be honest: I spent the entire forty-minute commute figuring out what I’d say to Adrian once we were face-to-face, and no time figuring out how I’d get that face-to-face time.

Clearly, it was too much to hope I’d run into him buying coffee across the street or loitering in the parking lot.

“So, here’s the thing…” I clear my throat. “I don’t have a formal appointment here, but there’s a doctor I need to speak with.” Her eyes still don’t move from the screen, so I add: “Urgently.”

“Which doctor?”

“Adria—Dr. Ellis, I mean.” The title feels foreign on my tongue.

The receptionist finally looks up at me, lips pursed. “You have an appointment with Dr. Ellis?”

“Well, not formally, but—”

“Are you a patient of his?”

“I mean, no, but—”

“Then I suggest you leave before I call security,” she suddenly snaps, eyes narrowed like I’ve just asked for her mother’s maiden name and bank account routing number.

My mouth drops open. “What?”

“Oh, I see exactly what’s going on here,” she continues, pointing one manicured finger directly at me. “You’re not slick.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“Sure you don’t,” she scoffs, and her hand hovers threateningly over the call button.

“He may be a public figure, but that does not give fanatics like you the right to just show up here and harass that poor man just because he’s an Ellis.

” Her finger twitches. “So, you might as well save yourself the trouble. It’s not happening on my watch. ”

I blink. “A fanatic?”

“Oh, you're not the first,” she snaps. “We’ve had more than a few of your type try to sneak past those double doors so they can proposition Dr. Ellis for all sorts of things.” Her gaze roves over my wrinkled cotton pajamas and the ugly neon coat plucked straight from the Goodwill shelves.

“You may be the worst dressed of the bunch, though.”

My cheeks burn, and I suddenly wish I’d taken ten minutes to change and wash off last night’s mascara before impulsively flying out the door. “You don’t understand,” I start. “I’m not…”

I close my mouth.

But that’s exactly what it looks like, doesn’t it?

Me, a nobody, trying to swindle an audience with somebody so important his last name gets thrown around as an adjective. I might as well have marched into City Hall, demanding to speak to the mayor.

How humbling, I think. Ten years ago, Adrian was inside me, and now, I can’t even get inside the same room as him.

Because it’s no longer a campus that separates our social classes—it’s a chasm the size of the Mariana Trench.

And if I don’t want to end this already horrible morning sandwiched between two sedentary hospital security guards, I’m going to need a new approach.

I take a deep breath, shifting my gaze toward the receptionist’s desk.

Come on. Give me something.

Besides an extensive collection of ballpoint pens, there’s not much.

A handful of dachshund figurines, one sign that says SAUSAGE DOG LOVER, and a framed photo of a noticeably younger Sally with her arms wrapped around.

..a boyfriend? I squint—no. Not a boyfriend.

Definitely a relative. A cousin? A brother?

They've both got the same needle-thin eyebrows, and the bottom of the frame is captioned with: FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS.

So…dead relative, I conclude. I can work with that.

I take another deep breath, blinking several times until I’m sure my eyes are at least watery, and then meet the receptionist’s stony stare head-on.

“I’m sorry,” I say, voice wobbling. “I didn’t come here to ask Dr. Ellis for money or anything.

I’m not one of those fanatics. It’s just…

” I pause, shaking my head. “I’m sorry, it’s still difficult to talk about.

” Another deep breath. “Dr. Ellis operated on my cousin a couple of months ago. At John-Hopkins.” My lip trembles.

“He didn’t make it, but Dr. Ellis did everything he could… ”

Although I’m not actually crying, sniffling loudly and squeezing my eyes shut has the same effect—and the receptionist takes her finger off the call button to slide a box of tissues toward me.

“I live here in New York,” I continue. “And I couldn’t thank him in person that day, but I read online he was working here now and—” I shake my head. “I’m sorry. It was stupid of me to think I could just waltz in here and thank the man who did everything he could for my cousin.”

The receptionist doesn’t say anything as I pretend to blow my nose into the tissue.

Was that too much?

Did I go overboard with the dramatics?

Maybe I should’ve gone for brother, not cousin—

There’s a soft exhale from behind the glass, and the hostility in her face melts away. “You don’t need to be sorry,” she says, and there’s no edge to her voice this time. Just understanding. “I had similar feelings when my brother passed away.” Her gaze flickers to the photo and— bingo.

I knew it was a relative.

“It just feels wrong,” I sniffle. “Not thanking Dr. Ellis after all he did…but I understand. He’s a very important man, and people take advantage of that. I don’t want to be any trouble. Thank you for your time.” I do my best imitation of a kicked puppy as I adjust my jacket.

Come on.

Don’t let me leave.

The receptionist’s eyes dart back to her computer screen, and she sighs. “Well…”

Well?

I lean forward.

“It looks like Dr. Ellis is just finishing up surgery,” she says, clicking away. “So, it’ll be a few minutes, but if you’re willing to wait…”

“I’m willing to wait,” I blurt out, and when I realize how eager that sounds, I dial it back with: “I mean, yes, I don’t mind at all.”

She bites her lip. “I can’t guarantee he’ll have more than a minute or two.”

Well, I only need five seconds and one look at him to tell if he’s lying to me.

“Thank you so much.” My smile—and sigh of relief—are completely genuine this time. I ignore the twinge of guilt. “You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”

“You can take a seat over there,” she says, gesturing to the array of empty couches in the surgical waiting room, but when I turn to do just that, she calls out, “Oh, miss?”

I pivot. “Yes?”

“What was your brother’s name? So, Dr. Ellis knows who you’re here on behalf of?”

I open my mouth, intending to give her the first fake name that pops into my head, when another impulsive (and potentially stupid) idea sparks.

“It’s Mickey Mabel,” I tell her, smile widening. “I’m sure he’ll be familiar with the case.”

***

I rehearse what I’m going to say to Adrian a hundred times in my head.

Be direct—but not angry.

Composed too. You don’t want him to know you’re rattled by any of this.

I am rattled though.

I was rattled last night at the party; I was rattled this morning, and I’m rattled even now, sipping herbal tea and watching whatever HGTV show is lightly playing on the waiting room flat screen.

The truth is, I have no idea what to expect from Adrian.

Which means I’ve got to be prepared for anything and everything.

I take a sip of my tea.

It’s supposed to be some “calming blend” of lavender and chamomile, but it tastes like grass, it’s not calming me down, and I really wish I had a Red Bull right now.

My knee bounces nervously.

Direct, not angry.

Composed. Unshaken. In control.

Direct, not—

The acoustic double doors swing open with a pneumatic sigh, and Adrian strolls through, looking every bit like he’s just wandered off the set of Grey’s Anatomy.

My knee stills.

How is it he manages to look good in absolutely everything?

The baggy blue hospital scrubs do nothing to disguise his powerful, lean build, and when he reaches up to untie the surgical cap and tousle his dark curls effortlessly into shape, I’m as envious as I am attracted. My hair would come out in a Gordian knot if I had to wear one of those caps.

I take a deep breath.

Remember: direct, not angry.

Composed. Un—

His dark eyes find mine, and the rest of the world becomes background noise.

This is it.

I can’t read beyond the polite smile he grants the receptionist or the other people in the waiting room, but as soon as he’s close, Adrian ticks his head toward the exit.

He doesn’t pause to make sure I follow him, but I do, my heart pounding louder than my footsteps.

Direct, not angry.

Composed. Unshaken. In control.

Except, I feel anything but as we cross onto the desolate sky bridge, and he leads me to an alcove sectioned off with yellow tape and an IN CONSTRUCTION, DO NOT LOITER sign. Large trunk-sized columns enclose us on all sides.

As if he can read the question forming in my head, Adrian says, “I assume you wanted privacy for this conversation.”

I was thinking an office, I want to say. Somewhere people can still hear me if I scream.

Instead, I just nod past the lump of trepidation building in my throat. “Here is fine.”

Here being the deserted corridor where it’ll probably take a janitor three days to discover my corpse.

I swallow.

Composed. Unshaken. In control.

Adrian leans against the column across from mine, his shoulders so broad they nearly match the width of it—and my survival instincts start shrieking that I’m alone with an apex predator.

A murderer.

And I’m about to accuse him of trying to ruin my life.

Uncertainty bubbles in my belly.

Where’s the playbook for accusing your sociopathic ex-boyfriend of trying to ruin your life? Should I be starting this interaction with small-talk, screaming, or a throat punch?

I mean, option two seems like a last resort, I decide. And three would probably end worse for me than him, so…