Novels by Tiffanie L. Campbell

BethThe studio smelled like coffee, nerves, and victory.By the time I glanced at the clock, we were already behind—but barely. Which, for a Friday, counted as a miracle.Shooting started just after eleven, giving us enough time to wrangle lighting, prep the models, and let Rachel work her lens magic. She was already halfway to iconic mode, barking out commands between sips of iced espresso and scaring the interns into excellence. I loved her for it.Not to mention the fact that I’d somehow pulled this shoot together in 48 hours—venue booked, product shipped, hair and makeup confirmed—because my best friend happened to be a genius with a camera and a goddess with a clipboard.I was running on fumes but the set was humming. And we were pulling it off.“Okay, now tilt the bottle a little—yes! Light from the left,” Rachel called, crouched low behind the camera. “I want that sparkle to scream artisanal hygiene.”I adjusted a reflector, then gave her a thumbs up. She winked and clicked th

Dr. ColeThe door clicked shut behind Elizabeth Monroe, and I immediately sank into my office chair, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.“What the hell was that?” I muttered into the silence.I’d just cleaned her up. Not just wiped away the excess lubricant like it was a standard procedure—which, to be fair, it sometimes was when a nurse was present. But no. I’d done it gently. Tenderly, even. Like she was something fragile and precious and not a routine patient in a paper gown.I scrubbed my hands over my face.Unprofessional.Too intimate.Absolutely not okay.I’d been practicing medicine for over twenty years. I’d performed that exact same exam more times than I could count, and I had never once done what I just did. I’d also never once had to remind myself that a patient was off-limits because my brain was too busy cataloging the curve of her waist and the small sigh she made when she exhaled.Or the way she tensed when I—I stood up too fast and paced to the counter, bracing m

BethWednesday, 9:06 a.m.The conference room smells like burnt coffee and panic.Our brand-new mega-client is halfway through explaining how they want a complete go-to-market campaign in half the time it takes normal people to form a thought. My pen is already three bullet points ahead, my smile is weaponized, and my calendar is quietly screaming.“Ambitious timeline,” I say pleasantly, which is marketing for Are you unwell? “We can make it work if we lock creative this week and keep approvals tight.”They nod, relieved. Meanwhile, I’m mentally Tetris-ing deliverables while praying my deodorant is doing God’s work.By 10:58, we land on milestones I can almost believe. At 11:01 I’m packing my laptop with the speed of a raccoon stealing a sandwich, because I booked my lunch break for something wildly glamorous: a second pelvic exam in the same week.Because apparently, my vagina is the overachiever now.Dr. Cole called yesterday—him, not a nurse—to say my pap was inconclusive and he wa

Dr. ColeWeekday mornings always started the same.Chart reviews. Intake notes. A lukewarm coffee I never finished. I liked the rhythm of routine. The predictability. Every patient was a variable, sure—but the steps? The process? Reliable. Methodical.I didn’t expect her.I glanced at the chart in my hand. Monroe, Elizabeth. 28. New patient. I knocked twice, then stepped into the exam room. “Good morning. I’m Dr. Stacy Cole.”She looked up—and I stopped. Not visibly. Not enough for her to notice.But I felt it. That hitch in the center of my chest. The one that didn’t come from her chart or the sterile lighting or the folded paper gown she was wearing like armor. It came from her.She was stunning. Long brunette hair pulled up, flushed cheeks, a nervous but composed expression. A hint of sharpness in her eyes—hazel, I thought—that told me she was used to holding her own. Her lips parted slightly in surprise.“You’re Stacy?”I offered a polite smile. “I am.”Her voice lifted, an octav

BethI walk out of the clinic feeling equal parts confused and… aroused.Which is not the vibe you want leaving your gynecologist’s office.The sun is too bright, the air too smugly normal, and I’m standing in the parking lot re-evaluating every life choice that led me here. Was it the nurse’s polite small talk? The paper gown? The fact that my new doctor looks like he could read me bedtime stories in that voice and I’d still find it erotic?My phone buzzes just as I’m about to spiral. Rachel.Of course. She has an uncanny sixth sense for my chaos—like a bat that only detects bad decisions.“Hey, girl, ready for lunch?” she chirps before I can even mutter a hello.“Yeah, I literally just walked out of the doctor’s office.”“Oh right, how was the new ‘lady-town’ doc? She ok?”“Well, she… is a he.”“A what?!”“I’ll tell you about it at lunch. Antonio’s in ten?”“I’ll be there in five.”Antonio’s smells like garlic, warm bread, and safety. It’s our spot—half Italian restaurant, half ther

BethI stare at the spreadsheet glowing on my laptop screen, the words Quarterly Campaign Overview blurring into nonsense. The only other light in my apartment is the faint city glow filtering through the curtains and the blinking cursor that mocks me for still working at nine-thirty on a Friday night.A knock jolts me. Then comes Rachel’s voice—bright, bossy, impossible to ignore.“Open up, workaholic! I come bearing sushi and salvation!”I groan but can’t help smiling. I save the deck, shove my hair into a knot, and shuffle to the door.Rachel breezes in like she owns the place, a human caffeine shot in ripped jeans and copper space buns.Unless I’m in my usual five-inch heels for work, she towers over me at five foot eight. Sometimes I’m jealous of her height. Tall people have it way easier in life.She drops a bag that smells heavenly onto my counter.“All right, short stuff, you’ve officially spent too many Friday nights alone with PowerPoint,” she declares. “Tragic. We’re stagin