Page 1 of Doctor Do-Over

One

WRYAN

Today’s been a crazy day. I wish Eddie were here with me, but he had an emergency dental procedure and couldn’t come. This is the first convention I’ve attended without him since he became a part of my life. He’s doing fine now, and we’ll be reunited in London. I can’t wait to see him. He’ll be with me for all the stops in Europe. Unfortunately for me, my agent stayed behind too. The venue was accommodating and provided an assistant for me. She was great and loves my books, but she was in my space, messing up my organization. She kept touching me and allowed readers to touch me as well. Eddie intimidates people, which keeps them at a respectable distance.

At this con, the publisher announced that my new release is a standalone, different from what I’ve written in the past. It is also a more adult novel. Some of my loyal readers are upset by the news, but I’m growing up and want to pursue more mature characters and themes.

So here I sit in the hotel bar, trying to calm my nerves with a glass of wine. The cool liquid slides down my throat as I close my eyes and relish the slight bite of sour in the grapes. I’m glad I’m finally old enough to drink—and that my brother and fatheraren’t here to interfere with my calming technique. They take being the men in my life to the extreme, enforcing rules like no dating, no drinking in public because someone might spike it, and no skintight outfits. I glance down at the bodycon dress I bought a couple of days ago and smile.

I like being in New York. The chaos of the city irritates my nerves, but it also makes my creative juices flow. I went to college here and loved it. Since graduating last May, I’ve been traveling for book promotions and meetings with publishers, directors, and production companies. My first series is being adapted into a television show, and I’ll have a role in the process with final decision-making. I should be ecstatic, and I am. Yet, sitting here, my body feels coiled tight, and I need a chance to relax and reset myself.

Since I’ve been here, I’ve come up with a brand-new series that I can’t wait to pitch to my agent. I’ll start writing it during my European tour. I’ve been a graphic novelist since I was sixteen. My first series, about a group of young kids with superpowers and descendants of the gods in a dystopian Earth, made it to theNew York TimesandWall Street Journalbestseller lists within the first couple of weeks. Since then, I’ve had a couple more hit series, but this new one will be different for me. Instead of writing about teenagers, I’m going to focus on young women trying to make it in the big city while secretly being vigilantes. My latest work features mature themes and romance, but this next project won’t be a graphic novel; it will be a traditional book. I still plan to create illustrations, but they won’t be in the full graphic novel format. I’ve been considering using the images for chapter headers and such.

“May I sit here?” a deep, soothing voice asks from next to me.

Normally, I’d jump and freak out at someone getting this close, but a feeling of calm emanates from him. I was bullied so much as a teenager because of my looks and my family thatI’ve developed a fight-or-flight mentality. My medical conditions also made me stand out to the bullies. Even today at the convention, a fan walked up and pulled me in for a hug without asking permission. It freaked me out. I tried to push away, but he held on tightly, whispering weird things in my ear. When security approached, he let me go and melted into the crowd before I could have him stopped. That’s one of the reasons I usually have Eddie with me. People won’t walk up to me when he’s around.

“Of course you can sit,” I answer.

I turn to look up at the man. He has dark hair with a slight wave that falls over his forehead and brushes against his collar. The scruff on his face shows he didn’t shave today, and I find myself wanting to drag my fingertips through the coarse hair to see if it tickles. His lips tip up in a smile, and I focus on his green eyes, which have a yellowish ring around the pupils. They make me feel as if he can see everything I hide from everyone. The pain of being mixed race. The hurt from being bullied and introverted. The frustration of my family never trusting me to make my own decisions. The loneliness of always feeling left out. It’s like he can see it all.

“I’m Tanner,” he says as he takes a seat.

My body hums with awareness. Flutters of desire stir deep in my core. I want this man. He’ll be perfect.

He flicks his fingers at the bartender, beckoning him over. Tanner’s arms are cut, with defined muscles and prominent veins. My family, all in the medical field, would laugh and call his veins nurse porn. He’s dressed in slacks and a short-sleeve pullover shirt. He’s tall, though everyone seems taller than my five-foot-two petite body.

“Jack, neat,” he orders, then turns back to me, raising one dark, thick brow while the other falls over his eye in question.

I’m so focused on checking him out that I don’t realize I haven’t responded.

“Wryan.” I give him my real name. All day I’ve used my pen name. It’s nice to just be me again. I love my readers and what my career has become, but I like to just be Wryan, the girl from Rhode Island. The woman who desires a man.

“Ryan? Like the guy’s name?” He hums with interest. “I have a friend named Ryan.” He chuckles. The sound is gruff, like something he doesn’t do often.

“I do too.” I smile shyly and cock my head to the side. My curls fall across my forehead, covering one eye, and I brush them back. “His wife works with my brother. But my name is spelled W-r-y-a-n. My mom was all about unique names for me because she couldn’t do that with my brother. He had to be a junior, named after all the males in my dad’s family. He hates it, so he goes by his initials.” I laugh, covering my mouth out of self-consciousness. I snort sometimes and think my laugh sounds weird. It’s one of the many products from all the bullying I endured growing up.

Tanner gently grips my wrist and pulls my hand away. I should be freaking out about him touching me, but I’m not. My heart rate is calm, except for the zing of electricity where he’s touching me. This is odd for my body. I normally have an accelerated heart rate because of one of my conditions.

“I like your laugh. Don’t cover it.” He releases my wrist and brushes back one of my curls that has fallen across my face, hiding my eye again. I can’t stop the sigh that passes my lips.

“I get teased about it,” I say breathlessly. “Growing up, so many people made fun of my laugh and me.” I wave my hand up and down my body.

“Kitten, you tell me who, and I’ll take care of them.” His voice is thick with emotion as he glides his knuckles down my cheek. He wraps his hand around the back of my neck and gentlysqueezes. My pulse quickens as my body instantly comes alive. My core spasms, and I start to pant slightly. “Oh, kitten, you like that?”

“Yes, Sir.” The words slip from my lips without thought.

“Want to explore this, kitten?”

“Please,” I beg, and his grin turns devilish.

I don’t know why I’m reacting like this. It should scare me as he tightens his fingers ever so slightly, but the pressure against my veins sends a thrill through me. I’ve done research on breath-play. It intrigues me. I never thought I’d find someone who would want to play with me. My brother doesn’t talk about it, but I know he’s a whipmaster at the BDSM club in our hometown. He wouldn’t allow me to apply for membership when I turned twenty-one; however, maybe I’ll do it when I get home and tell him to fuck off. I need to start standing up to my family. Being the baby and only girl really sucks.

I’ve always felt awkward and different. My first boyfriend was so afraid of my brother and father that he wouldn’t do anything more than give me chaste kisses. I lost my virginity on my eighteenth birthday to a guy who only dated me because he wanted to say he’d nailed someone famous. I was okay with it, but the experience wasn’t very satisfying for me.

“Check, please.” Tanner lifts his other arm, getting the bartender’s attention. “Hers too.” He tips his chin toward my glass.

“Yes, sir.” The bartender turns to the register.

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