College. That’s funny.”
“She also has a syndicated talk radio show and is a bestselling author.”
“I know about her accomplishments. I’m proud of what she’s done—”
“So it’s not so hard to understand she just wants to be taken seriously in her profession.”
Matthew shook his head. “I’m telling you, I know my wife. She’s not mad about something I said on Letterman. There’s something else that’s bothering her and she just won’t spit it out.”
“She keeps asking for a divorce,” Seth reminded him.
Matthew shook his head again. “She doesn’t want a divorce or she would have been gone by now. It’s something else—I’m sure of it. She just won’t talk to me.”
“Two psychologists who can’t talk. I think that falls under irony.”
“Very funny.”
Seth chuckled. “How long now since the Love Doctor has been locked out of his own bedroom?”
Matt grunted and lowered his gaze.
“Five months, right?” the agent continued, during Matt’s silence. “Look, you’re a big shot in your field—four number one New York Times bestsellers and a syndicated television talk show, but maybe it’s time you listen to advice other than your own. Apologize and move back into your old bedroom. If you don’t, things between you and Chanté are only going to get worse.”
Chapter 2
Chanté breezed into WLUV’s studio with her head held high but with her lips showcasing a nervous smile. The station’s small crew greeted her with wide toothy grins, however, no one’s eyes managed to meet hers. To top it off, on more than one occasion, she heard snickering whenever she turned her back.
“Oh, don’t pay it any mind,” Thad Brown, Chanté’s extremely young, talented and laid-back producer advised as he settled behind the glass partition separating them and reversed his New York Yankees baseball cap.
“Easy for you to say,” Chanté mumbled, and then placed on her headset.
“To be honest, I thought it was pretty funny,” Thad said into his microphone. “Of course, I’m a little hurt I didn’t know this embarrassing tidbit about you. I thought we were best friends.”
“Thad—”
“Yeah, yeah. I forgot. You have a new best friend—a hotshot publishing editor.”
“Thad,” she warned.
“Okay. Okay.” He shrugged with a lopsided smile. “But when you start hobnobbing with Oprah...call me.”
“First, I’ll have to call my mother.”
“You’re on a hot streak. Hell, I bought your book yesterday and I’m halfway through it. Real good stuff. A lot better than—well, it could have been professional jealousy that sparked Dr. Matt’s comment on Letterman the other night. Did you ever think of that?”
The On Air sign lit up.
“A little competition will do Matthew Valentine a world of good. Maybe his loyal readers will actually demand he write new material instead of rehashing the same trivial tripe of his last three books.” She laughed and rolled her eyes. “And don’t get me started on those Jerry Springer rejects he says he counsels on his show.”
Still laughing, Chanté lifted her eyes to Thad and was stunned to see him frantically pointing upward. When her gaze landed on the sign, her voice failed her.
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?”