When Valentines Collide (6 page)

C
hanté was beyond pissed.

No car. No foreplay. No orgasm. Enough was enough.

She slammed the kitchen cabinets as she made coffee, took her morning pills, and slaved over the hot stove. Every time she thought about last night's lousy performance, she broke a glass, a cup or a dish. How and when did Matt become so selfish and so clueless in bed?

Not only had he fallen asleep, he snored loud enough to wake the dead.

Crash!

Another plate bit the dust.

“Good morning.”

Chanté's gaze snapped to her husband as he entered the kitchen, and for a brief moment she weighed the consequences of smashing his head in with a frying pan.

The temptation nearly won out—especially since the bastard had the audacity to be in a cheerful mood.

“What smells so good?” he asked, with a beaming smile.

“Breakfast,” she answered with an overdose of saccharine. “Hungry?”

Suspicion glimmered in Matt's eyes. “You're cooking me breakfast?”

“It's not unusual for a wife to cook for her husband.”

Matthew's brows shot up.

“Why don't you just take a seat at the table? The food will be right out.”

Matt didn't move. Instead, he studied the angles of her plastic smile. “Uh…about last night,” he began. “Did we…you didn't come to my room last night, did you?”

The jerk doesn't even remember! Chanté crossed her arms and weighed her options. “Only in your dreams,” she lied bitterly.

“Oh, I didn't think so.” He shook his head and gave an awkward laugh. “I knew I had a few too many.”

Chanté glared and contemplated the frying pan again. “Breakfast will be out in a minute.”

He hesitated again.

“Go on now. I'll be out there in a second.”

Finally, he gave her a slight nod and then turned in the direction of the dining room.

I'll fix you breakfast all right. One you'll never forget.

 

Matt knew he was in trouble. Why on earth would Chanté fix him breakfast after what Buddy did to her room? The way he saw it, he still had options. He could either run from the house screaming like a banshee, put in a precall to 9-1-1, or drop to his knees and beg for mercy.

The first option had potential.

“Breakfast is ready,” Chanté sang, carrying plates to the table.

Too late. Matthew swallowed a lump in his throat while his brain threatened to short-circuit with trying to come up with an excuse to miss breakfast.

“Uh, Chanté.” He followed his wife to the table.

“Yes, dear?”

Dear?
“You know, I'm not all that hungry,” he said with a nervous smile. However, the sight of fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon and golden-brown biscuits made his stomach roar at the lie.

Chanté lifted an inquisitive brow.

“Maybe I am a little hungry.”

Chanté smiled and pulled out a chair. “Sit.”

Matt hesitated. His fear accelerated at the sight of her lips sliding wider.

“Come on.” She patted the back of the chair. “You're not afraid of me, are you?”

How could he back down from a challenge like that? “Of course not.” He walked over to her, searched her eyes for any telltale signs and then slowly eased into the offered chair.

“There. See?” She patted his shoulders. “That wasn't so bad, was it?”

The corner of Matthew's lips quivered and then he glanced down at the meal before him. Everything looked good—perhaps too good.

Chanté hummed a merry tune like a Disney princess as she walked to the other side of the table to take her seat. “Dig in,” she said.

Matt glanced around. “You know, I think I'd like some orange juice,” he announced, scooting back his chair. “Can I get you any?”

“I'll get it.” She jumped up from her chair and nearly raced out of the room. “You sit there and eat.”

When she disappeared around the corner, he reached across the table and switched the plates. A second later his wife rushed back into the room carrying two glasses of orange juice. “Here you go.”

“Thank you, honey.”

Her smile thinned at the endearment and Matthew grew suspicious of the drink she handed him as well. Mercifully, Buddy chose that moment to waddle into the room.

“What in the hell is he doing in here?” Chanté snapped and jumped up from the table.

“Hey, little Buddy.” Matt scooped up the dog. “How do you keep getting out of your crate?”

“Get him out of here!” Chanté screeched.

Matthew cradled the dog against his body. “All right. Calm down. Don't have a conniption fit. I'll go put him back in his crate.”

“Apparently he needs a stronger crate. Tie him up somewhere outside.”

Buddy barked.

Chanté stuck her tongue out at the dog.

“Now is that mature?” Matthew asked.

“After what he did to my bedroom, he's lucky we're not having him for breakfast.”

Buddy whimpered and snuggled against his owner.

Unmoved, Chanté stomped her foot. “Outside.”

“Come on, Buddy. Let's see if Roger can get you situated somewhere.” Matthew rose from his chair and marched out, all the while cooing and apologizing to the dog for his wife's behavior.

Chanté leaned across the table and craned her neck to see if the coast was clear and then quickly switched the breakfast plates back.

Minutes later, her husband returned with a pinch of annoyance in his expression. The emotion vanished when he discovered his wife had already started eating her meal. He eased into his chair and watched her expression.

Chanté stopped chewing and frowned.

“Is something wrong, honey?” Matthew picked up his fork.

“No.” She smiled but it faltered. “Everything is…fine.”

He returned the smile when she placed a hand over her stomach. “Good.” He dove into his food triumphantly and moaned aloud to emphasize how wonderful everything tasted. “You know, honey. I think this is the best breakfast I've had in a long time.”

“Glad you enjoy it.” Grimacing, she cupped a hand over her mouth. “Excuse me.” She bounded out her chair and raced out of the room.

Matt shoved another forkful of food into his mouth while chuckling to himself.
You have to get up pretty early in the morning to pull one over on me.

In the half bathroom on the bottom floor, Chanté was doubled over with laughter.

 

The studio audience for
The Love Doctor
show grew restless waiting for their host to take the stage. The warm-up team had long run out of jokes and prizes to hand out and the camera crew and stagehands were growing bored.

“Where is he?” Trish from the sound department inquired. “Production is going to run over.”

“Love Doctor! Love Doctor!” the crowd chanted.

“We'd better do something or we're going to have a studio of emotionally imbalanced women storm the stage,” Trish warned.

“Love Doctor! Love Doctor!”

“I'll go check his dressing room,” Cookie volunteered cheerfully and sashayed off.

 

Matthew wasn't feeling too good. In fact, he was feeling downright miserable—and he knew why.

“I'm never going to forgive her for this,” he vowed, exiting his private bathroom. Despite his black mood, he finally managed to pull himself together and leave his dressing room.

“There you are!” Cookie approached, wearing a wide smile. “Everyone is waiting for you.” Studying his face, the intern frowned. “Are you all right? You don't look so well.”

“Fine.” Matthew flashed a smile but proceeded to take tiny steps toward the stage. “Never better.” He stopped and closed his eyes as another wave of nausea threatened to send him back to the toilet.

Cookie stopped, fearful that whatever he had was contagious.

After a few seconds, Matthew sighed in relief when his stomach settled and he continued his slow journey to the stage.

“Love Doctor! Love Doctor!” the crowd chanted.

“There he is!” a spectator shouted from the crowd, and the studio thundered with applause.

Matthew smiled, waved and hit his mark in front of the cameras. However, the moment he opened his mouth his stomach dropped to his knees and his nausea was no longer ripples but huge tidal waves.

“Hello, everyone,” he greeted, struggling to remain professional. Yet, the moment the stage lights turned up, he literally felt beads of sweat pop up along his forehead. “Thanks for coming…and good night.” Matthew turned and bolted off the stage, praying that he would make it back to his private bathroom.

 

“What type of conference is this again?” Chanté asked Edie for the third time as they perused the shoe aisles. “And why do both Matt and I have to attend?”

“It's a relationship conference and you're going because it's an excellent promotional opportunity. A lot of press is covering this thing so you and Matt need to be on your best behavior.”

Chanté sighed and rolled her eyes. “I don't know, Edie. I sort of need a break from Matthew—especially after last night's fiasco. I wanted to kill that damn dog…and him.” She hesitated and then cast a sidelong glance over at her friend.

“What?”

Chanté debated on whether she should tell everything that had happened. “I went to Matthew's bedroom last night.”

Edie's eyes lit up. “You did? Well, good for you!” She gave her a strong hug and noticed Chanté's lack of response. “Not good?”

“I'd rather have played Scrabble.”

Edie grimaced.

“No kissing. No foreplay. No nothing,” Chanté whispered angrily. “He just tossed me back onto the bed, pumped like an Olympic record was on the line…and then rolled over and went to sleep.”

“Ouch.”

“Damn right. I wanted to kill him.” She stopped there, not confessing to tampering with Matthew's breakfast. No need to paint herself in a bad light. “I just don't get it,” Chanté complained. “He wasn't always like this. I remember a time—Ooh, girl. The earth moved, angels flew down from heaven and I thought I'd need physical therapy in order to walk again. Now? It's wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am and, by the way, where is the baby?”

Edie fell silent as she cocked her head in sympathy.

“I used to think we were just in some kind of rut. You know, stress from the jobs, the pressure to try and beat my biological clock. Before I knew it, long lovemaking sessions were downgraded to quickies and we've been stuck in that same gear ever since.”

“I'm sorry.” Edie draped an arm around her friend's shoulders. Now she was convinced more than ever that she was doing the right thing in tricking Chanté and Matthew into sex therapy. “Look, go to this conference. When you get back, I'll make sure you get a break. I'll talk to Julia in the publicity department and arrange a book tour for you. That'll keep you out of the house for a little while.”

“True.” Chanté sighed, but then perked up. “Ooh. These are nice.” She picked up a pair of leather pumps.

“Don't you already have a pair like that?”

“No. It doesn't have this cute little buckle on the side. I'm going to try them on.”

Edie just shook her head as she followed her friend to a nearby chair where she asked a saleswoman for the correct size. “No offense, but how many shoes can one woman own?”

“Hey, when I was growing up, I never owned more than two pairs of shoes at a time.”

“And now you have a whole department store in your closet.”

“All right, I admit it. I love shoes. Sue me.”

Edie continued to shake her head. “So what do you say? Will you do the conference?”

“Separate hotel rooms?”

“C'mon. How will that look at a relationship conference?”

“Like we're trying to preserve our sanity.”

“Chanté.”

“All right. All right.” She held up her hands.

“You'll do it?” Her editor perked up.

Chanté drew a deep breath and tried to figure out just how long she and Matthew could share a hotel room without a homicide detective showing up.

“Please?” Edie folded her hands in mock prayer.

“All right. I'll do it,” she huffed. “Just make sure the room is stocked with enough alcohol to dull my pain.”

Edie smiled smugly behind Chanté's back.
One down, one to go.