Carl:Caveman Instinct series 2.5

By: Hazel Gower


To all my fans who love this series. Thank you for your emails and messages for more caveman.


A huge shout out to my editor Diana for working with me. Thank you for all your hard work and suggestions. You’ve helped this book shine.

To all the women in my Hazel’s Haven thanks for your support.

To Lisa, thanks for your input.

Lastly, but certainly not least, thanks to my family and Jess for always being my support system and listening to me bitch and moan when characters aren’t doing what I want them to. I love you.



My family believes they’re gifted by gypsies to find their soulmate, but I always thought it was bullshit. I don’t think it’s a gift. I believe we’re cursed. I’m forty five and still haven’t found my mate, and my nephews use me as an example to prove my theory that we’re cursed. After watching my brothers and two of my nephews find their soulmates, I’ve given up hope. Now I’m known as the cranky reclusive uncle. I don’t care what my family thinks as long as they leave me in peace.

Not only am I from one of the most powerful family’s, the Silverman’s, I’m one of the best doctors in Australia. I devote my days to bettering my skills and don’t care how others see me. Everything changes though when I find out the curse is in fact real, and meet my soulmate Annabelle. There’s a problem though, she doesn’t seem very impressed by me.


My life changed in a moment when Carl Silverman, pompous know-it-all, kidnapped me from the hospital where I was visiting my mother. He’s convinced I—quiet, plain, little old librarian —am his soulmate. I feel a strange pull towards him and I can’t deny our attraction, but I don’t know if I’m ready for a relationship with someone like Carl.


Caveman Instinct – Volume 2.5

Hazel Gower

Chapter one


“Oh my. Who is that? He’s delicious.” I could feel eyes on me, but I didn’t even bother looking. I wasn’t interested.

“Shhhh, quiet. Don’t let him hear you. He’s an arsehole. He may look good enough to eat, but he’s poison. That fine specimen is the famous doctor Silverspoon.”

“No way.” The first voice now whispered. “He’s real? I thought the doctors just made him up to scare the interns.”

“No. He’s real, and he’s the biggest douche around.” The voices faded, but I didn’t care anyway.

They always talked about me and I didn’t give a flying fuck what any of them thought of me. The nasty gossip had been going on for years and I knew it would never change. They were all beneath me. I was a Silverman, but I was still the doctor they avoided. I was the doctor interns begged not to be put on rotation with. My nick name was Silverspoon, because they said the silver spoon is stuck up my arse. Ha, ha. I didn’t find it funny, but apparently all my work colleagues find it hilarious. There was even a running joke they played on new people telling them to call for Mr. Silverspoon, or told them it was my name and so when they introduced themselves they called me by that. When I was younger the name had hurt, but as I aged I realized I didn’t care what the ignorant idiots thought of me, what anyone thought of me. The only person I cared about was me. No one else was going to care for me if I didn’t. I was one of the best damn doctors in the hospital. Probably the state. So I ignored their jokes and snide comments.

Being the youngest of four and a late in life baby to my parents, I watched my much older brothers move out of home, fall in love, and have children. I always thought I would follow in their footsteps. It never happened. As the years went by, I never met any woman and that dream faded. I stopped believing in love, or what my family called the gift of the gypsies, a gift that helped every Silverman find his one true love.

When I first started my residency I was too busy to care that I hadn’t found anyone. When I finished my residency and choose to specialize in general, I started to worry that I hadn’t found my one, my soul mate. My older brothers had been married for years and all had children. I hadn’t even met anyone. So I started going out and dating, seeing if I could find the woman who was meant to be mine, hoping to feel something. I admit the closer I got to forty, the less I believed in the stupid gift and the more I came to see it as a curse.

At almost forty six, I thought the gypsy gift, or curse, was a made up story to help keep the Silverman men faithful to their women. I didn’t believe for one friggin’ second that my very young nephews had suddenly fallen under the curse. I called bullshit.

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