Page 138 of The Doctors Will See You Now

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?