Valentine's Fantasy: When Valentines Collide / To Love Again

Static filled the airwaves.

Thad cringed and rolled his hands, urging her to speak.

“Good evening...and welcome to The Open Heart Forum. I’m thrilled you could join us. I am your host and friend, Dr. Chanté Valentine. If you’re trying to salvage a relationship or if you’re experiencing trouble moving on, I urge you to pick up the phone and talk to a friend.”

Thad slumped back into his chair and sighed in relief.

With her nerves still tied in knots, Chanté settled into a groove.

From the computer screen on her desk, she read Thad’s notes regarding her first caller and launched into her introduction. “Hello, Maria. Welcome to The Open Heart Forum.”

“Hello, Dr. Valentine.” A young, giddy voice filtered on to the line. “I can’t believe I actually got through. I have to tell you, I read your book, I Do, and I’m a big fan.”

“Why, thank you.” Chanté smiled. “What’s on your heart tonight?”

“Uhm...actually, I was wondering if everything was all right with you and your husband—The Love Doctor?”

Chanté blinked and glanced up.

Thad grimaced, shrugged, and then mouthed an apology.

Chanté forced a chuckle. “Yes. Yes. Everything is wonderful between Matthew and I.”

“Oh. Well, I didn’t think much about it when I saw Dr. Matthew on Letterman, but then I heard you a few minutes ago...?”

“No. No. I was just joking with Thad, my producer. Everything is fine,” Chanté lied.

“Well, it just sounded like—”

“Maria, I’m reading here you called in about a friend of yours?” She kept her voice sugary sweet.

“Well, yes. You.”

Chanté frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Maria laughed. “Don’t you always encourage your listeners to view you as our friend?”

“Yes. Yes. Of course.” Chanté covered quickly. “And thank you, Maria, for your concern. But I assure you, Matthew and I are fine. Thank you for your call.” She disconnected the line and then returned her attention to the computer screen.

“Okay. Our next caller is Sienna. She’s calling in from Decatur, Georgia. Hello, Sienna, what’s on your heart tonight?”

“Hello, Dr. Valentine. I’m a first-time caller and longtime fan.”

“Welcome to the show.”

“Thank you. I just have one question.”

Chanté relaxed. “Sure. What can I help you with?”

“I was looking on the Internet and I couldn’t find anything about Kissessme College. Is that a real school?”

Chanté glared at her producer and slid her finger across her neck to let him know exactly what she was going to do when she got her hands on him.

* * *

“I’m going to kill her!” Matthew swore as he toted his autographed Reggie Jackson baseball bat and paced the spacious foyer of their multimillion-dollar home.

Their dream home. Ha! It was more like a palatial prison—one of their making.

“Maybe I imagined it,” he reasoned, but then shook his head. His wife had turned on him on national airwaves. He couldn’t believe it. “I should just give her that damn divorce.”

Anything would be better than a public castration.

“Jerry Springer rejects,” he mumbled under his breath. “I ought to—”

The front door rattled. Matthew stopped in front of the foyer’s threshold leading toward the living room and turned to watch the door. As it crept open, he adjusted and readjusted his grip on the bat.

“Matthew?” Chanté’s voice floated through the cracked door.

Waves of anger rushed up the column of his neck.

“Matthew?” she tried again, but didn’t dare step into the house. “I know you’re in the foyer. I can see you through the side paneling.”

His shoulders deflated now, the element of surprise had been taken from him.

“What are you going to do with that bat?”

He’d almost asked “what bat?” when he became cognizant of what he must look like. “I think better with it.” He placed the bat next to a crystal vase on the foyer table. “As much as I want to kill you, I’m not interested in doing the time.”

As soon as he spoke those magic words, Chanté pushed the door open farther and entered the house.

Despite his anger, Matthew’s gaze traveled up his wife’s long, toned legs and black, mid-thigh skirt. Boy, she always did know how to wear the hell out of a skirt—or anything else for that matter. Just months away from the big 4-0, Chanté labored to maintain her Tyra Banks-like figure and there wasn’t a man who’d crossed her path that didn’t take a moment to appreciate all her hard work—including him.

His eyes continued their journey over her every luscious curve until they reached her thin, delicate neck. He sighed as he envisioned wrapping his hands around it.

“You’re still up,” she stated the obvious as she closed the door.

“Was there any doubt?” He drew another deep breath in hopes to cool his temper. “How was work tonight?”

Chanté set her briefcase down next to his baseball bat. “It was all right.” She shrugged as she pulled the pins from her hair.

Matthew’s heart squeezed at the sight of her long, thick, currently dyed auburn hair spilling down her back. Sidetracked, he struggled to remember the last time he ran his fingers through the soft strands—or tugged it during the throes of passion.

Five months.

She headed toward him and had almost passed by when Matthew broke through his reverie and jutted his arm across the threshold to block her escape.

“Surely it was more than just ‘all right’?”