The Doctor and The Dungeon Master

THE DOCTOR AND THE DUNGEON MASTER JIFFY KATE Copyright © 2022 by Jiffy Kate All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Printed in the United States of America First Printing, January 2023 Jiffy Kate Books, LLC www.jiffykate.com Editing – Gemma Brocato Cover Design and Formatting – Blue Moon Creative Studio Proofreading – Jenny Simms CONTENTS Chapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17EpilogueBonus EpilogueThe Rookie and the RockstarChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3More Books by Jiffy Kate ONEGRIFFIN Early spring in New Orleans is probably my favorite season. We’re past the insanity of Mardi Gras but not quite to the drenching heat of summer. The best part is it’s Friday afternoon, and Cooper and Brody are meeting me at Come Again for our weekly tradition of beers and bullshitting. Normally, I’d head straight there, but work kicked my ass this week, and as much as I’m ready for some downtime with my boys, I also need this walk to the bar to decompress. So I take the long way around Jackson Square, and I even stop to watch a group of street performers play an amazing rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” After they’re finished, I toss a few bills in the bucket and walk toward the fence where some of my favorite local artists have set up shop. A new painting I haven’t seen before catches my eye, so I stop for a minute and visit with George, the creator. He’s been selling his artwork here for years. A lot of the pieces in my apartment are his. “I think you need that one,” he says, walking over to stand beside me. Adjusting my glasses, I give him a nod. “It’s a great piece. Reminds me of that one you did of the Crescent City Connection bridge hanging in my living room.” It’s a gorgeous painting with deep blues used for the water and sky, complementing strokes of pink and purple. Every time I look at it, it makes me feel calm. “Think you could hold it for me, and I’ll stop back by on Sunday?” “It’s yours,” he says, pulling out a piece of paper and writing sold on it. “Thanks, George,” I tell him, giving his shoulder a pat. He laughs. “I know you’re good for it. Besides, if you don’t come back, I know where to find you in that fancy-pants office of yours.” That he does. When I got promoted a couple of years ago to team lead, I bought a large piece from him of the New Orleans skyline, and he delivered it to me and even helped me hang it. “See you on Sunday,” I call out as I continue on my way to Come Again. I’ve almost made it to the bar when I hear my name being called from somewhere behind me. The voice sounds familiar, and it sends shivers down my spine, but not in a good way. However, curiosity gets the better of me, and I turn to investigate. Sure enough, I see someone waving through the crowd to get my attention. Vanessa. I haven’t spoken to her in three years, but she looks the same. Her long red hair is pulled up into a high ponytail, and she’s impeccably dressed. It’s the toddler sitting snugly on her hip that makes me do a double take. The Vanessa I knew didn’t want kids. As a matter of fact, she didn’t even like kids. At least, that’s what she told me when she broke up with me the night before our wedding. “We don’t want the same things,” she’d said. As the memory crosses my mind, I consider making a run for it and getting lost in the crowd. I’m so close to Come Again I can see the worn wooden doors beaconing me like a light in the dark. “Griff,” she calls out again. “Wait up.” I let out a deep sigh and turn back to face her, giving her a lift of my chin in recognition. There’s no sense in running. She’s like a bulldog. When she sees something she wants, she latches on and doesn’t let go. So if I run now, she’ll just follow. Besides, I don’t have anything to hide when it comes to her. She was the runaway bride who left me. I didn’t do anything wrong. That little tidbit of knowledge took a few months of talking to a therapist to come to terms with, but that’s all in the past. “Hey,” I say as we close the distance between us. “How are you?” “I’m great,” she says, giving me her signature 100-watt smile. “How’ve you been? I haven’t seen you in forever!” No shit. I don’t usually make a habit of hanging out with my ex-fiancée. “I’ve been good,” I tell her, eyeing the little dude clinging to her. He’s adorable. “Who’s this?” “This is my son, Gabe. We’re actually in town celebrating his birthday with his grandparents. He’s turning two tomorrow,” she gushes as she nuzzles his chubby little cheek. “My husband already wants another one, but I’m not sure. I’d like to wait another year, I think. What about you? Are you married? Have any babies?” “I guess you could say I’m married to my job,” I joke, but it falls flat. “Don’t tell me you’re still playing on computers for a living,” she guffaws, making Gabe laugh too. I could brag a little on myself and tell her I’m one of the top software engineers in the country—my team was even nominated for the Touring Award