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When he’d followed her into this office ten minutes ago, he’d resigned himself to the fact that London wouldn’t budge on this. But being reminded of her passion for her patients gave Drew the motivation he needed to try one more time to convince her to help him.
“You’re against what we’re doing, even after hearing from Dr. Renault how dire things are?” Drew asked. “We’re not talking hypotheticals here, London. Financially, this hospital is on life support. With crap health insurance. After just one week of examining operations, I can tell you that things arenotgood. I need you to help me save this hospital. Too many people are counting on County to allow it to go under.”
Drew could swear he saw the switch flip in her head. The stubborn defiance that had dominated her expression softened into pensive concern, her brows drawing together as she absently flicked at the empty wrapper from her crackers.
“I’ll think about what you said.” She gestured to the door. “I need to finish my lunch and take a twenty-minute power nap before my next consult.”
It took every bit of restraint Drew had in him to rise from the chair and start for the door. He was close to convincing her. His instincts, honed by years of closing deals others declared impossible, told him to go for the kill.
But London wasn’t a deal for him to close. He needed to step back and give her time to think. And pray that she came to the right decision on her own.
13
No matter how hard she tried, London couldn’t seem to shake the uneasy feeling that had settled in her gut after her conversation with Drew. She knew junk food wouldn’t help the situation; it would, in fact, get her in a shitload of trouble if Doug Renault happened to catch her inhaling a Twinkie. Never mind the fact that it wasn’t good for her triglycerides. But that still didn’t stop her from going in search of something sticky and sweet and obscenely unhealthy.
She took the stairs down to the first floor—that counted as exercise, right?—and made her way to the collection of vending machines near the ER’s waiting room, where they stocked thereallygood stuff. A group of nutritionists had sent around a petition last year, demanding an overhaul of the types of snacks offered. The forceful pushback from the rest of the hospital personnel had put a stop to that crusade pretty damn quick.
London browsed the array of cookies, potato chips, chocolate bars, and other processed junk, but nothing really excited her. Until her eyes landed on the devil’s food cupcakes.
“Yeah, baby,” she said, pressing the numbers for the cupcakes. The steel coil stopped moving just as the package reached the edge of the row.
“Oh, no you don’t,” London groused.
She tried to shake it, but it had been bolted to the floor some months ago following an altercation between brawling brothers-in-law that ended with them both pinned underneath one of the vending machines.
“Dammit.”
This day was further proof of why Monday had such a bad reputation. The fucker had earned it.
London fished out another buck fifty and inserted it into the machine. Both packages tumbled to the tray below. Of course.
Though tempted, she knew if she brought them up to her office, she would have both packs eaten within the hour. Her nightly workouts with Drew last week had burned off more calories than anything she’d done in the past year, but she didn’t need four cupcakes.
Okay, so she didn’t need any cupcakes, but she convinced herself that one wouldn’t hurt.
She walked down the corridor to the employees’ lounge. Unlike on the upper floors, where the lounge was about the size of two broom closets tied together, the main floor’s was big enough for several tables and chairs, a couch that had probably been bought during Clinton’s first term, and a Ping-Pong table that was always in use. It looked like an Ortho versus Oncology tournament today.
Aleshia Williams walked up to her, stirring a cup of muddy-looking coffee.
“Becca Duhon said that she saw you in a conference room with Coleman, Renault, and the fine-as-hell guy who’s running that consulting team from New York,” she said. “What’s up?”
“Can a person even sneeze around this place without it being breaking news?” London asked.
“No. So, what’s going on?” Aleshia asked.
“Can you believe they asked me to be an ‘ambassador’ for this project?” London said. “The freaking nerve of them—especially Coleman.” She shook her head. “I told Drew that I would think about it, but there is no way I’m working with them.”
“Drew?” Aleshia asked.
“Uh, Drew Sullivan. He’s the fine-as-hell guy you mentioned who’s over the team from Trident. We went to high school together,” London explained as she mentally chastised herself for the slipup. She knew better than to refer to him in such informal terms while here at the hospital. “Coleman and Renault tried to feed me some bullshit line about my influence over the hospital’s staff and how it would go a long way in convincing personnel to buy into this assessment they’re trying to sell us.”
“They aren’t wrong,” Aleshia said.
“Except I don’t want the staff to blindly go along with this,” London said. “You know as well as I do that this can all end with the hospital being sold.”
“But if you’re one of their ambassadors, you can be our eyes and ears on the inside.”
“So a spy?”
