Page 139 of The Doctors Will See You Now

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

“Ooh, Scott,” one of my companions for the evening, Brenna, giggled directly into my ear. I hadn’t done anything, said anything, touched her anywhere that mattered, but she was primed regardless. Ever since that first episode aired, my personal relationship workload had gone down significantly.

Hell, it was almost like the damn show was foreplay. And maybe it made me an asshole, but I wasn’t complaining.

It’d been almost a week since the mysterious, shit-talking woman of my dreams had come into the ER and left without even giving me her name. I knew next to nothing about her and I wasn’t sure a woman of my dreams actually existed, but she’d starred in a couple of the erotic variety since that night. Close enough.

The instant I’d walked away from her ER bed, grinning and ready to take a closer look at her medical file, a gunshot victim had rolled through the doors on a gurney and in need of five hours’ worth of surgery time. Thirty minutes after scrubbing into the OR, and with my hands inside the man’s opened chest, I’d given a quick verbal order for Deb to discharge Bleeding Woman from Bay Two. She’d done as told, efficient as ever, doing all of the paperwork to release her before setting it aside for my signature for legal purposes.

By the time I’d remembered to track down my sexy mystery woman’s name, it was half past four in the morning, and the result wasn’t what I was expecting at all.

A woman as witty, antagonistic, and drop-dead hot as she was should not be named Frances.

Jesus. Frances. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to give me her name.

But even with a name that should be left in the corner and five hours of surgery time to get over her, I was still interested—a reality even I found surprising.

Unfortunately, four numbers into copying down her phone number—a practice that was actually highly illegal—Deb stole the file back and threatened to castrate me in my sleep if I looked Frances’s information up again.

Something about a Hippocratic Oath and patient confidentiality, and then another little bit about what a manwhore I was.

She wasn’t far off on any of it, especially the bit about it being morally, ethically, and legally wrong. So, as a way to cope, I’d called up three of my not-even-remotely close friends, Hilda, Brenna, and Esmeralda, and strolled over to Club Indigo for a night out of drinking, dancing, and sex.

Of course, that was only my surface reasoning, as good as it was. I was really here, at this club, on this night, because Pamela Lockhead was too.

Mysterious, right?

Assistant to the assistant of the mayor or something equally ridiculous, Pamela Lockhead was also young, impressionable, easily swayed by good flirting and appropriately placed dirty talk, and liked this club on Thursday nights—or so I’d heard.

As far as I could tell, she was the most direct route to the mayor.

I’d been working this connection for months, trying to get a meeting with him. I know it seems a little cliché to be making this huge outcry about public health policy—and a little ridiculous to be chatting up a few women as a means to do it—but changes to the current policy and protocol the last administration put in place as a Band-Aid were absolutely vital, and I was willing to work with what I had. And I, Scott Shepard, had the ability to flirt like no other. Initially, I’d tried to go through the proper channels. I’d met with several heads of emergency departments from other hospitals here in the city, and eventually, even approached a lobbyist group known for targeting health care reform. Just being in contact with that many politicos made me itchy. And in the end, it hadn’t moved fast enough for my interest anyway. The only option was to return to what I knew—malleable women like Pamela Lockhead.

I knew it sounded terrible, but I’d seen the effects of political shortcuts to public health up close and personal on, unfortunately, several occasions now. Terrorism and other public attacks were the unwelcome way of our current world, and that kind of medical emergency added an angle to our procedure that we weren’t properly prepared for. Short on funding, training, and an appropriate list of priorities, the policy had been built on paper, for looks rather than for implementation. Quite frankly, it tied my and other professionals’ hands in ways that occasionally prevented us from actually administering care when the public was in need. And to me, that was unacceptable.