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.
Chapter 9
“I’m not going anywhere with that psycho!” Matthew spat to Seth and then ducked his head back over the toilet bowl. “If you haven’t noticed, she damn near tried to kill me this morning.”
“Am I to believe that you did nothing to provoke her attempted murder this time?”
“No,” he lied, coming up for air again. “Well...not exactly.”
“Uh-huh.” Seth finished wringing cold water from a face towel and then tossed it to his client. “What exactly did you do? It wouldn’t happen to have involved a four-legged friend I told you not to take home?”
Matthew placed the towel over his face, in part to cool his forehead and in part to hide his guilt while he reviewed last night’s major disasters...and one mind-blowing sex dream.
“If it’s taking you that long to answer the question, I don’t think I want to know what happened.”
“That’s probably best.” He paused and then added, “I think my, uh, streak ended last night.”
Seth’s eyebrows rose in surprise, but then quickly crash-landed. “You think? I take it since the porcelain god is your best friend today that it didn’t go too well?”
“Horrible,” Matthew groaned. “I was drunk and it had been so long...I grew too excited...and was a little quick on the trigger.” He glanced up at Seth. “And that’s not the worst part.”
“You didn’t.”
He nodded. “I did. I fell asleep...and then this morning I wasn’t sure if I’d dreamed the whole thing. When I asked Chanté about it, she said that it never happened, but I don’t know.”
It was Seth’s turn to groan.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Matthew said defensively. “It just did. And then this morning when she was cooking breakfast I started to apologize...and I couldn’t quite get the words out. Me! King of the talk shows couldn’t find the words to apologize to my wife. How pathetic is that?”
“No wonder she tried to kill you.”
“Nothing excuses that.”
“And what excuse is there for taking a chainsaw to someone’s car?”
“Hey! Just whose side are you on?”
“No one’s side since you’re both crazy as hell.” Seth folded his arms as he leaned back against the sink. “C’mon, Matt. About this conference—it’s going to be great for you publicly. A few of the other top relationship gurus are going to be there.”
“Dr. Phil?”
“If I’m not mistaken,” Seth lied smoothly. “It’s just for a couple of days. Surely you and Chanté can put your differences aside for a couple of days to pose as the perfect couple?”
Matthew groaned his doubt, especially since his mind was already churning for his next payback for being damn near poisoned. “I don’t know, Seth. I think what we need is a vacation from one another. Maybe you can set me up with a book tour or something. Get me out of the house before I make America’s Most Wanted list.”
“All right. You do this conference and when you get back, I’ll get you your tour.”
* * *
After hosting another long night of The Open Heart Forum, Chanté broke her promise and issued Thad yet another rain check. Mostly, she didn’t feel like hosting another pity party. What good would it do?
“Piss or get off the pot.” How many women had she told that to over the years? If you’re not happy, why stick around?
“And the hypocrisy award goes to...me.”