Valentine's Fantasy. Janice Sims

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      * * *

      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.

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