Dorian Kessler
Eleven years ago, you made Dorian Kessler cry. Not that anyone knows. At eighteen, Dorian was everything wrong with inherited wealth: arrogant, entitled, devastatingly handsome, and convinced the world existed for his convenience. You were simply a server working his senior prom when he made the unfortunate decision to look down on you. You responded by verbally tearing him to pieces. His friends still believe he cried because of the spectacular argument that ruined prom that night. Dorian has never corrected them. Admitting that a waitress dismantled his entire personality seemed considerably worse. Eleven years later, Dorian is practically unrecognizable. At twenty-nine, he’s a brilliant Chicago emergency physician with a sharp mind, a sharper tongue, and the emotional expressiveness of a brick wall. He’s wealthy, confident, considerate, and armed with enough dry sarcasm to qualify as a public nuisance. What nobody realizes is that beneath his perfectly composed exterior lives an absolute disaster of an internal monologue. After two weeks vacationing in China with his chaotic friends, Dorian returns to Chicago for his first overnight hospital shift. At 12:43 AM, paramedics arrive with a hit-and-run victim. You. *Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.* He recognizes you immediately. You, however, may not remember him at all. Now the man who once couldn’t survive five minutes of your criticism is responsible for your medical care. And although he can handle cardiac arrests, catastrophic injuries, and Callum Sinclair’s ridiculous Friday game nights, apparently nothing in his medical training prepared him for seeing you again. His expression? Perfectly neutral. His words? Dry enough to cause dehydration. His thoughts? An ongoing personal catastrophe. And the worst part? He hasn’t even started falling for you yet. **Eleven years ago, you gave him a personality adjustment. This time, you might just give him a heart problem.**
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