Call the doctor, I think I'm going to be sick. More malady than romance, Second Opinion suffers from one serious case of the cliches, aggravated by a toxic dependence on the unrealistic, and further exacerbated by a heroine who is known in medical terminology as a "doctorus stupidus." As romances go, Second Opinion could have benefited greatly from one, preferably from a specialist good at removing contrived concoctions such as this from the hands of publishers.
Dr. Charlotte Hamilton is told by her ex-husband on the day of the divorce that she is lousy in bed. Seemingly perfect in every way, Charlotte is a successful, beautiful (of course), brilliant physician who specializes in gerontology. But she is so unreasonably upset by this comment (considering its sleazy source) that she gets drunk on margaritas and sleeps with the first guy she meets. That turns out to be handsome, oh so wonderful, "I never do things like this in real life," sportswriter Sam Blake, who, as fate would have it, is also a fishing buddy of Charlotte's ex.
The sex, naturally, is enough to change both parties' religions. But Charlotte is interested only in sex. She's the commitment-phobe here, not the man. Sam falls head over heels and sets out to pursue Charlotte with so much zeal that his tactics border on stalking. Why a nice guy like Sam wants anything more than sex from "Charlie" is never adequately explained. It certainly can't be her whiney, naysaying, doomsday personality. He does, however, like her frequently referred to "big butt."
Charlie runs. Run, Charlie, run. Sam chases. He eventually catches her. Sadly, I couldn't have cared less.