Page 2 of Faking It with the Off-Limits Doctor

When I look down at my plate, I have to admit, I’m pretty impressed. Not only is the presentation way more than I expected from a place like this, but it’s obvious it’s been prepared by someone who knows what they’re doing.

I don’t frequent diners like this often. Sure, I’ll have the odd pizza now and then, but it’s a rare occasion. Most of the time, it’s high-end restaurants. I’m very particular when it comes to what I put in my body, and besides, I can afford it.

When I take a bite of the steak, it melts in my mouth.

That’s pretty impressive.

Maybe I’m being a snob. Or maybe I remember what diner food tasted like before I became as successful as I am. I just didn’t expect that kind of skill out here in the middle of nowhere.

The rest of the meal doesn’t disappoint, and the more impressed I am, the more an idea gels in my head.

Back in the city, I have my own chef. Pretentious? Maybe. But with the long hours I spend in surgery, I’m not really in any fit state to come back to my apartment and start making a nutritious meal from scratch.

I make a lot of money attending to a high-class clientele, who want nips and tucks as often as they want breakfast.

It’s more women than men, what with all those ridiculous magazines telling fifty-year-olds that they need to still look twenty. But over the years, the average age of my clients has got younger and younger.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging. It’s my job, and I love it. I talk them through the process and I give them what they ask for. It just never ceases to amaze me how women who are already beautiful, come to me and tell me that they want me to try and improve on nature.

So, yes, I have a personal chef. A chef who is currently on a paid sabbatical while I get this deal done.

I wonder if the chef here is available for some work?

There are several meetings and a couple of dinner parties already penned into my calendar, one of which is with Spire Healthcare. I could do with someone who knows what they’re doing. I’m a surgeon, not a cook. Besides, I’ll be too busy entertaining my guests.

The waitress returns to me when she sees my plate is empty. “You look like you enjoyed that,” Beth beams, lifting my plate expertly.

“I did. Compliments to the chef. That was delicious.”

“I’ll tell her. Now, can I get you anything else?”

Her?

“I’ll take a coffee,” I say, trying to ignore my immediate surprise that the chef isn’t a guy. I’m not a misogynist. Truly, I’m not. I just didn’t expect the chef to be a woman, and for no other reason than the role is filled mostly by men.

Mark’s sister is a chef.

Yes, she is, but she’s still in a minority, right?

“Just a coffee?” the waitress asks. “You don’t want to try our pecan pie?”

I tap my stomach and shake my head, trying not to get frustrated at the woman for not just doing as I ask. “Thanks, but I’ve had plenty. A coffee will be fine.”

“All right,” she sings, “but you don’t know what you’re missing.” Then, with empty plate in hand, Beth walks away.

Pecan pie did actually sound delicious, but I like my trim, muscular figure and I work hard at the gym to maintain it. Your health is your wealth—not that some of my patients take that on board, no matter how many times I tell them.

The coffee arrives, and though I don’t take sugar, Beth oozes her sweetness all over me again. “There you go.”

“Thanks,” I say shortly, hoping my slight abruptness gives her the hint that I now would like to be left alone.

“Are you sure there’s nothing else I can get you?”

I’ll be honest, for a surgeon, I don’t have a lot of patience, which is a huge fault, I know. But since my messy divorce, I’ve found I deal with people far better when they’re unconscious on my operating table where the anesthetic ensures that there’s no conversation.

“I’m sure,” I say, and then look down at my phone.

“All right. Well, I’ll be right over there if you need anything.”

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