Dr. Perfect: An MM Contemporary Romance Bundle Read online

  Dr. Perfect

  A Contemporary Romance Bundle

  J.P. Oliver

  Peter Styles

  Contents

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  Book 1

  Dr. Perfect

  1. Jason

  2. Mark

  3. Jason

  4. Mark

  5. Jason

  6. Mark

  7. Jason

  8. Mark

  9. Mark

  10. Jason

  11. Mark

  12. Jason

  13. Mark

  14. Jason

  15. Mark

  16. Jason

  17. Mark

  18. Jason

  19. Jason

  Jason

  Book 2

  Single Dad’s Club

  1. Jonas

  2. Arthur

  3. Jonas

  4. Jonas

  5. Jonas

  6. Eddie

  7. Arthur

  8. Jonas

  9. Jonas

  10. Arthur

  11. Jonas

  12. Arthur

  13. Jonas

  14. Leo

  15. Arthur

  16. Jonas

  17. Arthur

  18. Eddie

  19. Jonas

  20. Arthur

  21. Arthur

  22. Jonas

  23. Jonas

  24. Arthur

  25. Arthur

  Book 3

  Out To Get You

  1. Whitt

  2. Reece

  3. Reece

  4. Whitt

  5. Reece

  6. Reece

  7. Whitt

  8. Whitt

  9. Reece

  10. Whitt

  11. Reece

  12. Reece

  13. Whitt

  14. Reece

  15. Whitt

  16. Reece

  17. Whitt

  18. Reece

  19. Whitt

  20. Reece

  21. Reece

  22. Reece

  23. Whitt

  Chapter 24

  25. Whitt

  Book 4

  A Roll In The Hay

  1. Jeffrey

  2. Tarek

  3. Jeffrey

  4. Tarek

  5. Jeffrey

  6. Tarek

  7. Jeffrey

  8. Tarek

  9. Jeffrey

  10. Tarek

  11. Jeffrey

  12. Tarek

  13. Jeffrey

  14. Tarek

  15. Jeffrey

  16. Tarek

  17. Jeffrey

  18. Tarek

  19. Jeffrey

  20. Tarek

  Book 5

  In His Arms

  1. Fred

  2. Hassan

  3. Fred

  4. Fred

  5. Hassan

  6. Hassan

  7. Fred

  8. Hassan

  9. Fred

  10. Hassan

  11. Hassan

  12. Fred

  13. Fred

  14. Hassan

  15. Hassan

  16. Fred

  17. Fred

  18. Hassan

  19. Fred

  20. Hassan

  21. Fred

  22. Fred

  23. Fred

  24. Fred

  25. Fred

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  Dr. Perfect

  A Contemporary Romance Bundle

  Peter Styles & J.P. Oliver

  © 2019

  Disclaimer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are all fictitious for the reader’s pleasure. Any similarities to real people, places, events, living or dead are all coincidental.

  This book contains sexually explicit content that is intended for ADULTS ONLY (+18).

  Book 1

  Dr. Perfect

  Peter Styles

  © 2019

  Disclaimer

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are all fictitious for the reader’s pleasure. Any similarities to real people, places, events, living or dead are all coincidental.

  This book contains sexually explicit content that is intended for ADULTS ONLY (+18).

  1

  Jason

  “Mrs. Ward, are you sure your son had the flu?”

  The robust woman hooked a meaty hand into the crook of her husband’s elbow as if seeking comfort. “Of course, I’m sure. He’s been sick for weeks, but he didn’t want to see a doctor. I begged him. I said, Brent, honey, you need to go to the urgent care center and get checked out. I told him that a hundred times, but he just kept saying it was nothing. I finally stopped bothering him about it because he would get so angry with me every time I brought it up. He never used to get angry with me. He was such a sweet boy, always bringing me wildflowers from the side of the road. I didn’t have the heart to tell him they were just weeds, really. He would just smile so big and—”

  “Helen,” her husband interrupted, his face pale and worried. “They don’t need to know about wildflowers. They’re trying to figure out what’s wrong with Brent.”

  I glanced over at Brent, who had become unresponsive. An oxygen mask now covered most of his face, but his breathing was so shallow I was afraid we were going to have to intubate and put him on a ventilator. Most concerning of all was the color of his lips. Blue. Why the hell were his lips turning blue?

  Dr. Mark Johnson—my partner in crime, as he liked to call himself—was barking orders at the nurses. I could tell from the tightness of his handsome features that he felt just as helpless and confused as I did. He looked like he was about two seconds from calling Dr. Rosenfeld, our supervising physician. Rosenfeld would have to be apprised of the situation eventually since Mark and I were third-year residents and subject to oversight in every serious decision we made, but Rosenfeld was currently trying to resuscitate a patient who was in cardiac arrest. For the moment, we were on our own.

  Twenty-seven-year-old Brent Ward had been admitted for flu-lik
e symptoms, but it had been clear from the start there was more going on than his parents were saying. The guy hadn’t even been able to walk into the Emergency Department by himself, and by the time we got him, he’d collapsed completely. Now his breathing was so damn slow and shallow. And those lips. The color of under-ripened blueberries.

  What’s going on with you, Brent?

  I pressed my lips together and thought for a moment. “Does your son do any drugs that you know of?”

  Helen Ward placed the hand that wasn’t gripping her husband’s arm against the swell of her bosom and gasped. “Of course not.” She shook her head violently, her eyes stretched wide. “Not our Brent. He’s a good boy; I told you that. He just has the flu. Bird flu or something.”

  “These are not flu symptoms,” I told Mrs. Ward, getting agitated. “There is something seriously wrong with your son right now. His lips are blue. Was he having breathing problems when you brought him in? Was he lethargic? Confused?”

  She nodded. “All of those. He said—” She gulped and glanced at her husband. “He was acting strange. I guess from the fever.”

  “He doesn’t have a fever, Mrs. Ward. Was he taking any medication for the flu?”

  She shook her head.

  “And you say he’s been sick for a couple of weeks?”

  She nodded.

  “Off and on for a while now,” her husband added. “Not just a couple of weeks.”

  “How long?” I asked.

  “Weeks,” Mrs. Ward said at the same time her husband said, “Months.”

  “And you’re certain he’s not doing any drugs,” I pressed. “You said Brent still lives with you, correct?”

  Mrs. Ward’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times before she spoke. “I don’t believe I like what you’re implying. Brent is a God-fearing Christian and a good man. Goes to church every Sunday. Even sings in the choir.”

  “Used to,” Mr. Ward cut in. His wife shot him a look of betrayal, but that didn’t stop him from continuing. “He’s been acting funny for a while, Doc. Hasn’t gone to church in months, and he quit the choir sometime last year.”

  “He’s been under the weather,” Mrs. Ward said, her voice quivering. “He’s missed some practices, and he hasn’t felt much like going to church lately. Besides, he wouldn’t want to give this horrible flu to anyone else.”

  “And he’s been moody lately?” At her confused expression, I added, “You told me he never used to get angry with you.”

  She pressed her lips tightly together.

  “He’s been moody as hell,” Mr. Ward said. “Sleeping all hours of the day, not interested in going to church anymore, lost his job a couple months back. There have been some shady characters stopping by, too, but they don’t stick around long. Not like real friends would. I got suspicious and went into his room while he was out the other day, and I found a bottle of pills tucked into his underwear drawer. They were in one of my Neurontin prescription bottles, but those weren’t any of my pills. I know what my pills look like. Saw some white powder on his desk, too, and my first thought was he was doing cocaine.”

  “Why are you saying such horrible things?” Mrs. Ward demanded. “About your own son. You live to give him a hard time, don’t you? You’re never happy unless you’re starting something with him.”

  An argument ensued, but I wasn’t listening anymore. I’d heard enough. I hurried over to Mark, who was running a hand through his dark hair, his eyes haunted as he watched his patient struggle to breathe.

  “Respiratory is on the way with a ventilator,” he said. “He’s going to crash.”

  “We need to administer Narcan,” I said triumphantly, knowing in my heart I was right. I pried open one of Brent’s eyelids and confirmed that the pupil had constricted. “It’s a drug overdose, and my money is on fentanyl. His mother was sticking to the flu story, but his father finally cracked and admitted he found pills in his son’s room and powder on the desk.”

  “Jolene,” Mark yelled and whirled around to find the pretty, red-haired nurse standing right behind him, her blue eyes wide and expectant. She was so close, they’d nearly butted heads.

  “Right here, Dr. Johnson,” she drawled in a Southern accent that was so thick it was almost unreal. “If I was a snake, I’d have bit ya.”

  Under normal circumstances, Mark would have teased Jolene about her endearing proclivity for Southern colloquialisms, but with Brent Ward’s life waning right before our eyes, he was all business. “Get the Narcan,” he barked.

  Jolene was off in a flash, all but running to retrieve one of the overdose kits we kept on hand in the ED.

  Mark turned back to me and leaned against the side of the bed, his normally perfect posture slack with relief. “Good thinking, Jason. Of course, it’s an overdose. Unresponsive, cyanotic, dilated pupils… Jesus Christ, I’m an idiot.”

  “No, you’re not,” I said. “We were told the patient was having flu symptoms and had been sick for a couple of weeks. It set our minds on the wrong track.”

  “No shit,” he said under his breath, moving closer to me until I could feel the heat radiating from his body. “I was running through every flu-like virus I could think of. Hell, I was thinking about the man we saw on YouTube that time. The one who had flu symptoms for a couple of weeks and then ended up losing his arms and legs.”

  “And his lips,” I added quietly. “I know. I thought of it, too.”

  He tugged gently at the bottom of my lab coat sleeve, a simple gesture that always made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. I wasn’t even sure if he was aware that it had become a habit. Maybe it was unconscious on his part, but it meant something to me. A little signal just between us that reminded me we were a team.

  Partners in crime.

  Jolene Starr bustled back over with the overdose kit. Her hands shook as she worked frantically to remove the Narcan spray and affix the tip used for nasal administration.

  “Here you go, doctor.” Her thick accent made everything she said sound lighter than the situation called for. Almost bubbly. Even when she was chewing you a new one, she never sounded truly angry. It was impossible not to like the woman. Besides Mark, she was the closest thing I had to a friend at work.

  “Thanks, Jolene.” Mark took the Narcan from her and administered it quickly, spraying the drug into first one of the patient’s nostrils and then the other.

  Jolene pushed an errant lock of red hair back from her pretty face and watched Mark with the same mix of awe and attraction that he seemed to inspire in everyone. He may have only been a resident, just like me, but Mark Johnson was a god around these parts. He moved like he owned the room and everyone in it. He spoke as if he were about to share the secrets of the universe, so you’d damn well better listen. And good lord, his smile. He could turn on that movie star smile like flipping a switch, and every time he aimed it at me, my knees got weak.

  I had it pretty bad for him, and it was getting harder and harder to pretend I didn’t. But I had to pretend. He could never know that I thought of him as anything more than a fellow resident and friend. No matter how close we got, and no matter how many times I fooled myself into believing that the way he looked at me was different from the way he looked at other people, Mark Johnson was a straight man. I had to accept the fact that we would never be more than friends.

  “What’s going on?” Brent’s mother asked, pulling away from her husband and staring down at her son’s near-lifeless body. “What are you doing to him?”

  Mark gave her a reassuring smile. “Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Ward. We suspect your son is suffering from an opioid overdose, and I’ve just given him the antidote. It’s a drug called naloxone, or Narcan, and it works very quickly to reverse the effects of whatever drug he’s ingested. We should see a change within a couple of minutes.”

  “But what if he didn’t take any drugs? He said he had the flu.”

  I marveled at the woman’s ability to hang onto the more comfortable idea that her son had m
erely contracted a nasty virus. I thought about explaining that, in this case, a drug overdose was the safer option than some unknown bug we would have to first diagnose and then treat. But she wasn’t ready to hear reason. Her husband, on the other hand, nodded with a resigned expression on his weary face.