No matter how early I got in, Sicily was always there first.
Today, she was in skinny black jeans, boots, and a blue sweater that fit snugly against the small of her back, highlighting the curves she had at every angle. Her hair was in loose, bouncy curls, and she always looked like a bombshell, ready for more than just the office, maybe even the runway.
Jesus fucking Christ, it was distracting.
Maybe I needed to make a dress code for the office—burlap sacks.
But knowing her, she’d still rock it.
I walked past her desk. “Morning.”
She beamed when she looked at me, always so happy to see me every single day. “Morning. Coffee and breakfast are on your desk.”
“Thanks.” I gave her a smile before I headed into my office. It was clean and organized, even though I left my papers everywhere at the end of the day. She came in after I left and filed everything, scanned it into the computer, and tidied up. My flowers were always fresh, and it always smelled good, not like the leftover food I threw in the garbage can near my desk.
I left my bag on the surface of the desk, took a look at the city, which was covered in January fog, and then sat in the leather armchair. My fingers absentmindedly wiped the sleep from my eyes, and I took a drink of my Americano before I grabbed the breakfast sandwich she left for me.
Then I got to work.
My phone was linked to the sound system she installed for me, so I listened to rock music as I reviewed paperwork and hustled to get everything filed before the first patient walked in.
A knock sounded on my closed door before Sicily poked her head inside.
I glanced at the clock, wondering if it was already time for the first patient.
I still had twenty minutes.
Sicily approached my desk. “You got a minute?”
“No. But I’ll make a minute for you.” I hit pause on my phone, so the music stopped.
Affection was in her gaze before she looked at her notebook. “I’m organizing the charity gala. Two weeks from Saturday. Is that okay?”
“Sure.”
“You’ll need to make some kind of speech. Is that alright?”
I nodded.
“I know this is kind of weird, but how do you feel about a documentary team following you for a TV series?”
My eyebrows rose. “Seriously?”
She shrugged. “I mean, a lot of people will see it, could get a lot of donations that way.”
I didn’t want a camera crew following me all the time, but I couldn’t deny it was good publicity, and it would allow me to help more people. “I’m open to it.”
“Great. I’ve already got a TED Talk scheduled for next week. I’m guessing that’s okay?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.” Derek still got anxiety when he did appearances, but that stuff never bothered me.
“Great. And also—”
“I hate to cut you off, but I really have to get through this, Sic. Can we talk later?”
“Actually, it’s about your first patient of the day. Ginny Tompkins.” She set down her things and moved around my desk to pull up all the scans. “Her mother just called from the car, wanted to inform me that her daughter has really bad anxiety about this and we need to be careful what we say to her. She’s terrified of surgery. She’s under the impression she’s coming in for a dentist appointment.”
I took over the mouse and scrolled through the images. “How old is she?”
“Five.”
I stilled then shifted my gaze back to her. “She’s had a hole in her heart for five years? Why? This should have been taken care of when she was born.” This little girl was struggling every single day when there was a simple surgery that could have repaired that. On top of that, she would have healed much, much quicker if she were younger. When kids turned five, it was a lot more difficult and traumatic.
“I guess they couldn’t afford it.”
I immediately bit the inside of my cheek, pissed off that this little girl was living like this because of money.
“They came from California. I guess they heard about you from someone, so they flew out here in the hope your charity could comp the procedure.”
I leaned back in the chair and pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling so much anger inside my chest, and I had nowhere else to put it.
Sicily turned quiet.
“Fuuuuuck.” I dropped my hand from my nose and looked at the computer again. “We’re an advanced country, but sometimes I feel like I’m in fucking Uganda.” I propped my cheek against my closed knuckles, staring at the sizable tear in her heart, which would be difficult to close because it was large compared to the small size of her heart. “I’m one guy.” I dropped my hand and turned to her. “I’m one fucking guy. I can’t save the goddamn world. Why is it this way? It’s fucking bullshit. No one should be denied life-saving surgery because they can’t fucking afford it—”