There were two things I was certain of before I opened my eyes. One, I should have put my phone on silent, and two, my face felt like someone had tried to give me a facelift without anesthesia—or so I’d imagine.
I had no idea what time it was, but from the way the sun’s rays were trying to set my bedroom on fire, I knew it was at least after nine. Which, considering the events that took place last night, was still too fucking early to rise and shine.
When a garbage truck outside my SoHo apartment started serenading me with its trash-crunching powers, I groaned audibly and opened my eyes for the first time.
The world didn’t look any more beautiful or optimistic despite daylight’s glorious rays. If anything, the harsh sunlight made me want to go back to sleep. I was maybe thirty seconds away from accomplishing the heavenly task when my phone started chirping again. Oh my God, who is calling me right now?
I hadn’t even started my day, but already, I wasn’t a fan.
I rolled to my side and snatched my phone off the nightstand before violently tapping the green phone icon to accept the call. “Stop it,” I muttered into the receiver. “Stop. The. Calling.”
“That bad?” Amanda’s slightly amused voice filled my ear, and I sighed in annoyance. My best friend was a morning person. And while, normally, I didn’t mind mornings, spending a couple hours in the emergency room to get my face stitched up after my date tossed me into his headboard sans a sexy ending didn’t equal a happy start to my day.
I should’ve found a way to disconnect all contact to the outside world and hibernate for the next seventy-two hours.
“Oh, hello, traitor,” I greeted. “Just FYI. You basically fed me to the horrible first-date wolves last night.”
“Excuse me?” She barked out a laugh. “How was your awful date my fault?”
“Because you wouldn’t help me escape it!”
“Oh, c’mon, Low. You were being ridiculous. You fucking asked me to call in a bomb threat to the restaurant.” I rolled my eyes. I took that one back, goddammit!
“I just needed a fake emergency,” I retorted. “And since you refused to help out your best friend, I ended up in the emergency room last night, thank you very much.”
“What?” she asked on a shout. “The emergency room? Oh my God! Are you okay?”
“Just a minor head injury that required some stitches. No big deal.”
“No big deal?” she exclaimed. “How is that no big deal, Low? What in the hell happened?”
“Well…let’s just say that if you ever enter a man’s bedroom and his headboard is made out of glass crystals like he’s Don fucking Corleone, do not engage in sexy times on his bed. You might end up bleeding all over his pristine white sheets after he accidentally tosses you toward it.”
“Holy shit, Low! You got injured while having sex last night?”
“It’d be nice if your side of this conversation would stop ending in questions. And we really don’t need to rehash it. I’m fine. My head is fine. Everyone is just fine, no thanks to you.”
The phone went dead silent for a few moments until Amanda’s stuttering giggles filled the void. They started out quiet, but eventually, her laughter dam broke, forcing breathless—and far too loud—laughs over the airwaves.
I cringed in response. My head wasn’t ready for the noise. “Stop laughing, asshole! It’s not that funny.”
“OhmyGod. Yes, it is,” she disagreed, nearly snorting. “I can’t believe you ended up with a sex injury.”
“You’re a terrible best friend.”
“Hey, now,” she retorted, only mildly offended. “I made sure you were actually okay first before I found enjoyment out of the logistical side of your injury. Cripes, I can’t believe Barron the Bore fucked you straight into the emergency room last night.”
“Wait…Barron the Bore? That sounds like an established nickname.”
“Uh…”
“Did you know he was boring before you set me up on this thing?”
Amanda had set some kind of goal of finding me a man who would encourage me to settle down. Obviously, it was a lost cause. I would never settle down, and the only reason I’d agreed to the date in the first place was because my craving for penis had gotten out of hand.
“Uh…” she muttered again.
“Amanda Marie,” I urged in my best mom voice impression. “Tell me the truth right now.”
Silence.
That double-crossing bitch. She’d known Barron was as thrilling as a bowl of oatmeal before she’d set me up on that goddamn date from hell.
“I’m hanging up on you now,” I muttered in warning before doing just that. I tapped the red phone icon to end the call and tossed my phone onto the sheets beside me.
The damn thing pinged a moment later with a text message notification.
Amanda: I love you.
Me: No, you don’t.
Amanda: Yes, I do. People click with all sorts of unexpected personality traits, Low. I really thought there was a chance you would hit it off.
I sighed heavily. Then something occurred to me.
Me: You’re still laughing, aren’t you?
Amanda: Yep.
Me: I need a new best friend.
Amanda: You just need to give your best friend the exact, detailed version of your sexcapades last night. Also, I feel like I should warn you, if you’re looking for a new best friend, you don’t give a very good first impression.
Me: Hey!
Amanda: #sorrynotsorry
She really was a bitch. Luckily for her, I kind of liked that in a friend.
Amanda: Details?
I sighed again. All this fucking exhaling was wearing me out.
Me: It wasn’t anything too exciting. After Barron attempted the worst oral in the history of oral, we moved on to the sex. And while we were doing the sex, which surprisingly, wasn’t terrible sex, he tried to flip me over and ended up pushing me toward his headboard. Which, that fucker was made out of glass crystals. Word to the wise, glass crystals and foreheads are no bueno.
Amanda: Why in the fuck is his headboard made out of glass crystals?
Me: Exactly my point.
Amanda: What a weirdo. I’ll admit it’s hilarious, but I’m glad you’re okay. Take some pain medicine, caffeinate, and call me later once you’ve finished working.
Amanda: P.S. I need your help with packing! Like seriously, how does someone pack for a long trip to Europe in only one suitcase. It’s impossible. Help. Me.
I’d almost forgotten that my best friend would be leaving for her big trip to Europe soon. Her PR company had recently signed this up-and-coming—and extremely hot—Spanish musician named Mateo, and the lucky bitch would be gallivanting all across Europe for the next month promoting him.
If that didn’t remind me I needed a career change, I didn’t know what would.
Although, PR was definitely out for me. Actually, anything related to celebrities was out. I’d had more than my fill through my Gossip column.
Me: Ugh. Stop flaunting your Europe trip in my face.
Amanda: Love you ;) And you better call me later or be prepared for a full-on catfight.
Me: Calm your tits. I’ll call you later.
By some miracle, I found the strength and willpower to move from bed, but it didn’t take more than the beginning of the climb to realize I wasn’t going to be a big fan of movement today. “Ow, fuck,” I muttered to myself and held a hand over my newly stitched forehead as I slowly stood up beside my bed.
Sex injuries are no joke.
It was safe to say last night sucked serious goat taint.
There is no penis out there that’s worth this kind of hassle.
The mere idea of attempting another first date or even one-night stand had me shaking my head. Never again, Harlow. Never fucking again.
Sure, a girl needed the D sometimes, but holy hell, I’d maybe give changing up my masturbation routines a try first before attempting another situation that resulted in last night’s version of hell. Even if the hottest guy with the most perfect penis were sitting in my living room right now, with his sexy man parts hard and on display, I’d tell him to get the fuck out. Take your bad-news penis somewhere else, fictional dude of my daydreams!
Plus, I needed coffee, ibuprofen, and a long Gossip-column writing session. There was literally no better motivator than the fear of losing your job over a missed deadline.
But even though I’d been one of Gossip’s lead columnists for over three years now, I still had no idea how I’d managed to achieve that promotion. It wasn’t like writing gossip columns about the rich and famous was my life’s passion. When I wasn’t actively searching for my next column inspiration, I certainly wasn’t sitting around obsessing over Rhianna’s new hairstyle or if Bradley Cooper and Jennifer Lawrence would be a good match. Though, from a gossip columnist’s perspective, I do, in fact, think those two would be fucking adorable together.
The negative spin most people hear about gossip columns was true: Don’t believe everything you read.
Even I dabbled in overexaggeration and occasional embellishments for the health and longevity of a story, but my morals had limits. I’d never once in my career written or published something slanderous that was truly detrimental to someone’s life.
But did I bring my readers the sexy scoop on their favorite celebrities?
Of course.
And that was why, after my unfortunate trip to the emergency room last night, and my first introduction to the undeniably sexy physician, Dr. Scott Shepard—because holy hell, he is sexy as fuck—I knew exactly what my readers would love to hear.
Hello, Dr. Erotic. Harlow Paige readers are about to get the scoop.
If I’d learned anything last night, besides never have sex with a guy named Barron, it was that Dr. Scott Shepard was exactly as advertised—seductive and charming with a smile that flirted even better than he did. Sandy brown hair, deep chocolate eyes, and a tall, sculpted body that screamed touch me, the man was walking sex, even when he wasn’t having it. He even had a bit of a beard, and generally, I wasn’t a fan, but somehow, Scott could even pull that off and make it sexy, something about his overbearing confidence was built to convince me—and other women—that everything about him was Goldilocks level just right. And I couldn’t deny I’d quite enjoyed our banter session—probably more than the sex that landed me there.
But that was as far as it went for me.
Sure, he was handsome and charismatic, and it was easy to get lost in his chocolate brown eyes. But I didn’t make a point of playing with fire, and Dr. Shepard was a smoke show waiting to burn your motherfucking hands. That man most likely had a different woman every night of the week. Which was part of the reason why I’d all but demanded he didn’t look at my name while he tended to my sex injury wound. The last thing I needed was to be on a first-name basis with a man like that. When you played with fire, you most likely got motherfucking burned.
Plus, if I was being really honest, while I was sitting on his ER bed, I’d already made a mental note to bring my readers the Dr. Erotic dish, and I couldn’t remember how medical files were set up. Was it just my first and last name? Or my whole name?
I had a feeling it was probably the former, but I didn’t want to take any chances on the latter. Sure, he’d promised not to look at my name, but what if he did look at my name? Would he see Frances Paige? Or Frances Harlow Paige?
I definitely did not want Dr. Shepard to be privy to the fact that I was using myself as an inside source for a column that just so happened to be about him. That was just bad business. A gossip columnist never revealed her sources unless it was for good reason—read: never.
Three ibuprofen, half a cup of coffee, and fifteen minutes later, I was cozy in my favorite writing spot and my fingers were ready to make this column my bitch.
Paging Dr. Erotic fans! I’ve got some dirt to dish!
Dr. ERotic: Certified, Class A flirt and Commitaphobe.
Between Grey’s Anatomy and Scrubs and even Joey Tribbiani playing Dr. Drake Ramoray, sometimes, I wish that the hot doctors I see on TV and in movies were, in fact, real-life doctors. Wouldn’t it be nice if Dr. Avery was your family practitioner or Dr. Carlisle Cullen was your dermatologist?
What if I told you that there’s a real-life version of your hot doc fantasies residing in an emergency room in your city? What if I told you his name is Dr. Scott Shepard, better known as Dr. ERotic from the reality series, The Doctor Is In?
Slow your roll, ladies. Before you start plotting your next medical emergency, read the following warnings carefully…
Dr. Scott Shepard is not the next Dr. McDreamy, or even McSteamy.
Sure, he’s sexy AF. And his signature smirk has the power to bring all the ladies to his ER.
But I have the Gossip that might have your, “Oh yes!” turning into a “Hell no.”
An inside source revealed that Dr. Shepard does, in fact, live up to his Dr. ERotic title. Not only is he easy on the eyes, but he’s a certified, Class A flirt.
Word on the street says the reality star and emergency room physician is a total commitaphobe and his little black book is filled with nurses, fellow doctors, supermodels, actresses, and even the up-and-coming pop star, Laney Lane.
Yikes! At this rate, he’s going to need to start purchasing his little black books in bulk…
It appears that monogamy and commitment are a big no-no for Dr. Shepard.
Don’t go looking for forever in Dr. Erotic’s direction.
But for my favorite adventurous ladies who’d love to get an insider’s view of Dr. Shepard’s bedroom, an orgasm, and nothing more, an insider tells us he frequents NYC hotspots such as Club Indigo and Melt, and has occasionally been spotted taking the subway to work.
Get out there, ladies. A city full of fun is waiting.
Kisses,
Harlow Paige