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

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.