Janice Sims - Valentine's Fantasy

But she said nothing.

In a way, the quiet was more unsettling than any explosion.

“Baby?”

“Do you think he’ll have an affair?”

Seth drew in a deep breath while he replayed what he’d seen in Matt’s dressing room and what he knew of his friend’s character. He wanted to say “no, absolutely not,” but something kept the words from falling from his lips.

Edie sat up. When their eyes met again, Seth read the sadness she felt for her friend. It had nothing to do with book sales or public image.

“We have to try harder,” she whispered. “Everyone knows they’re soul mates.”

“That doesn’t mean anything, if they don’t know they’re soul mates,” he reasoned, caressing her arm. “We can lead deer to water, but we can’t make them drink.”

With a slow nod, she turned toward the window. As she gazed out at the full moon, Seth watched as a smile crept across her face.

“We’re going to have to do more than just lead them to the water,” she said.

Seth frowned, lost on her meaning.

Edie faced him again. “We’re going to have to throw them in.”

Chapter 6

Somewhere around two a.m., Matthew began to worry. Would this be the night Chanté decided not to come home? He held his breath as his eyes scanned the dimly lit property. For the last five months he tried to prepare himself for such an occasion, but at this moment he realized he could never truly be prepared for that.

Day after day, he taught and counseled couples on how to rebuild a broken marriage, but he was absolutely clueless on how to fix his own. The sudden beam of a car’s headlights piercing the night made Matthew’s shoulders deflate with relief.

His marriage would see another day. Break out the champagne.

Matthew moved away from the window and returned to the sofa. He opened his laptop and spread out a folder of paperwork around him. When the door opened, his heartbeat sped up while he questioned if his wife would buy his “working late” act.

The door closed and he heard the locks engage. Soon their nightly script of light bantering would ensue.

Juvenile—yes. Necessary—absolutely.

However, at the sound of Chanté’s heels clicking up the stairs, Matthew realized there was an unexpected change in the script. He removed the computer from his lap and rushed to the living room’s archway.

“I’m glad to see that you remembered our address,” he quipped, crossing his arms. He mentally berated himself for saying the words with blatant concern. He was supposed to sound aloof and nonchalant.

Chanté stopped halfway up the stairs and turned to face him. “Can we not do this tonight? I’m really tired.”

Matthew moved from the archway, instantly concerned about the overwhelming sadness in her eyes and her slumped posture.

“Is there...?” He stopped himself at her sudden flash of anger.

“I think you’ve done enough, don’t you?”

He had no response for the soft reprimand. All he could do was watch her turn and climb the rest of her stairs. Exactly one minute later, her high scream filled the entire house.

Matt’s heart leaped into the center of his chest as he flew up the stairs. When he rounded the corner to Chanté’s room, he quickly skidded to a stop while his eyes grew wide as silver dollars.

The entire room looked as if a tornado had hit. Curtains were pulled from their rods, paper, cotton and goose feathers were spawned across the floor—along with most of the bedding.

“What the hell happened in here?” Matthew asked, though the moment the question was out of his mouth, he suspected the answer.

Chanté rounded on him with fire in her eyes. “You know damn well what happened. You did this!” She stalked toward him.

Raising his hands in surrender, he took a retreating step. “Wait, it’s not what you think.”

A low growl caught their attention and Chanté slowly turned toward her walk-in closet.

Buddy trotted out, growling and shaking his head with a leather pump clenched between his teeth.

“What in the hell?” Chanté screeched.

“Buddy, no.” Matthew raced into the room and knelt to rescue the prized possession. “Give me that. How did you get out of my room?”

“Buddy?” his wife snapped. “This mongrel belongs to you?”

Matthew pried the shoe out of the dog’s mouth, but then groaned at the numerous teeth marks around the heel.

Chanté approached with her fist jabbed into her hips.

He glanced up. “Uh, looks like we were a little too late.”

“Uh, you think?” She snatched the shoe from his hand. “These are Weitzman pumps. Do you know what I had to do to track these down?”

He quickly scooped the dog into his arms before his wife did something rash. As a matter of fact, he realized that he better stand up if he wanted to keep his own teeth. “Chanté, calm down. This was an accident.”

“An accident? You expect me to believe that? What the hell is a dog doing in this house in the first place? You know I don’t like dogs.”

“Well, I do. And I think it’s high time I had one. I need something around here to be happy when I come home.”

She sucked in an indignant breath. “And who is going to take care of him?”

“I’ll take care of him!”

Chanté swept out an arm to indicate her bedroom. “Does this look like you’re taking care of him?”

“He must have gotten out of his crate.”

“Did you come to that conclusion all by yourself, Dr. Valentine?”

“It was an accident. It won’t happen again.”

Rage trembled through Chanté’s body like a bolt of lightning. “Get out!” she seethed through her clenched teeth.

“Chanté...”

Pivoting on her heel, she marched toward the door and held it open. “I said, get out.”

Realizing that she wasn’t going to listen to reason, Matthew waltzed out. He’d barely crossed the threshold when the door slammed behind him.

Matthew stood still for a long moment, reviewing what had just happened.

Just apologize. Seth’s advice rang in Matt’s ear and reverberated through every cell of his body.

But apologize for what? Okay, maybe he could start with the car and the damage the dog did to her room—or even his callous remarks on national television. But all of that transpired in the last week. It would hardly cover the past five months.

It’s a start.

Matthew turned around and knocked on the door.

Chanté didn’t answer.

He drew a deep breath and tried again—this time a little louder. When she didn’t answer the second time, he knew he was officially being given the silent treatment.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” he murmured to the door.

Buddy lifted his head and delivered a sloppy lick against Matthew’s cheek.

“At least you still like me.” Turning, Matthew followed the gray duct tape back to his room.

* * *

Thinking she heard something, Chanté shut off the shower and waited to see if she’d hear it again. After a minute, she shivered from the cool chill of the bathroom and turned the hot water back on. The steady, warm pulse of the water did a considerable job of easing the tension from her body.

However, she fully intended to make herself a hard drink once she climbed out of the shower—maybe even two.

As she lathered and rinsed, lathered and rinsed, she churned an inventory of Matthew’s prized possessions over in her mind. Which item would pack the most wallop and which one would hit below the belt?

How long are you going to keep this up?

The question threw her, mainly because she didn’t have an answer. This tit-for-tat game they played was taking on a life of its own, and in a weird way, it fed something in her—in Matthew, too, if she wasn’t mistaken.