Valentine's Fantasy: When Valentines CollideTo Love Again

by Adrianne Byrd

  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’?”

  Chanté swept her dark, angry glare over him.

  Heat flared anew within Matthew, but it had nothing to do with anger. Standing this close, staring into her fiery eyes, and smelling the soft fragrance in her hair, he was delirious with lust.

  This made no sense. He couldn’t stand her.

  Five months.

  “Move out of my way,” she hissed.

  “I want to talk more about your evening,” he hissed back, and then added a smile. “Isn’t that what all loving couples do—communicate?”

  “We’re not a loving couple so let’s just skip the bull.” She ducked under his arm and stormed to the bar. “And if you want to talk about that little comment I made about you on the air tonight...” She stopped and flashed him a smile. “It was a joke.”

  His anger returned. “A joke my ass. You did that to get back at me. Admit it.”

  Chanté folded her arms across her chest. “And what if I did? What are you going to do about it—divorce me?”

  “Don’t tempt me!”

  Frustrated, Chanté stomped her foot and glanced around the room to throw something—anything. She grabbed a nearby statue, but was stunned when the damn thing wouldn’t move.

  “What the—?”

  “Superglue,” Matthew replied with a smug smile. “Your screaming tirades have gotten a little on the expensive side.”

  Big, bright patches of red flashed before her eyes and she reached for something else, only to discover it, too, had been glued down.

  Her husband laughed, plunging deeper under her skin. In a last desperate act, she pulled off a shoe and hurled it at him.

  Matthew ducked. “Hey!”

  She launched the second shoe and it nailed the side of his head.

  “Ouch!” He rubbed his bruise and then took off running toward her. “You’ve lost your mind.”

  Chanté squealed as she lunged from him. “Get away. Leave me alone.” She bounded up on the sofa and rushed across its cushions.

  “I’m going to make you pay for that.”

  “Don’t you dare touch me!” She jumped down, slid on her stocking feet, then raced in the opposite direction.

  Matthew crashed into a bookcase and yelped in pain when a few hardcovers landed on his head. “Damn it!”

  Chanté glanced over her shoulder as she exited the living room. To her surprise, her husband was right on her tail. She’d crossed the foyer and was just inches away from the staircase, when his strong fingers bit into her shoulders.

  “Gotcha!”

  Chanté swung as she pivoted.

  Matthew ducked, lost his balance, and fell backward—taking her down with him. He landed with a hard thump and had no time to register the pain before his wife knocked what little air he had left out of his lungs.

  In no time, her hands and legs flailed out in attack.

  “Will you stop it?” He wrestled with her, trying to catch hold of her.

  “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”

  He latched on to one arm, but failed to catch the other one before it landed a hard blow against the same spot her flying shoe had hit. “Ouch!”

  Matthew captured the other hand. He rolled on top and pinned her beneath him.

  Even then Chanté kicked and squirmed.

  “Be still,” Matthew demanded.

  “Go to hell,” she spat.

  “What? This isn’t 666 Hell’s Drive?”

  “Very funny.” She gave a last futile tug, and then went limp beneath him.

  “Give up?”

  “Never.”

  Her chest heaved while she dragged in deep breaths. It, consequently, drew her husband’s lustful gaze. It was crazy, but she felt good lying beneath him—her curvy body soft but pulsing with raw energy. He was turned on—and she knew it.

  Five months.

  “What are you doing?” she asked in alarm.

  He leaned down close until their faces were just inches apart. He filled his senses with her floral-scented hair and the faint hint of Chanel No. 5.

  “What will you do if I kiss you right now?”

  “What?”

  “I want to kiss you.”

  Chanté renewed her escape efforts, but the wild bucking and squirming only succeeded in turning them both on more.

  When his lips landed on hers with surprising gentleness, Chanté’s mutinous body melted as though cold water had been splashed onto a fire.

  Their tongues danced, caressed, and sent small shock waves of pleasure clear down to her toes. She wanted him, and judging by the hard bulge in his pants, he wanted her, too.

  She could give in just this once. After all, it had been five long months. What was the harm? God knew she still loved him—probably always will.

  “Tell me you want me,” he commanded softly. “We don’t even have to go upstairs. We can do it right here. Right now, but I want to hear you say it.”

  I want you. Chanté panted and tried to gain control of herself.

  “Tell me.”

  She met her husband’s fevered gaze while the war continued to rage inside of her. Bend—be flexible. But giving in to him wouldn’t magically erase their problems.

  “Who knows, tonight might be the night...”

  A baby. She closed her eyes. Always a baby. Forcing ice into her veins, Chanté lifted her chin, and with her next words extinguished the small fire crackling between them. “I want you to get the hell off of me.”

  Chapter 3

  Matthew didn’t sleep a wink.
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  How could he when all he could think about was marching down the hall to the master bedroom—his old bedroom—and demand his wife perform her wifely duties?

  Fat chance.

  He chuckled under his breath and watched as the sunlight beamed through the thin slits in the venetian blinds. The rays warmed his face but he wondered when it would touch his heart.

  This was not supposed to be his life.

  He was never the type of man who trembled at the idea of settling down, having the white picket fence or having the customary two point five children...

  Children.

  Coming from a large family of four brothers, four sisters and a host of cousins, nieces and nephews, Matthew had always assumed that one day he, too, would raise a small army of children. He’d originally delayed those plans to support his wife in her career. But when they actually started planning five years ago, there was a snag. Chanté could get pregnant, but ten weeks into the pregnancies, like clockwork, her body would reject the fetus.

  Five years. Nine miscarriages. Nine heartbreaks.

  Matthew swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Children were what was missing from their home—from their lives. He knew it, she knew it and all their friends knew it, too.

  And yet, it wasn’t in the cards for them.

  He sighed; mourned for the children he didn’t have, and then reached for his copy of Chanté’s latest book, I Do. “Following an argument, we need time to cool off. When one person hisses a sarcastic comment and the other, hurt and angry, feels justified in topping the insult. The volleys begin. By the time we realize the mistake we’re making, it’s too late to ‘take it back.’”

  He slapped the book closed and hung his head in shame. Seth was right. “I should have apologized.”

  A loud rip caught his attention and he jerked his head toward the door. When he heard it again, he frowned and went to investigate. Upon opening the bedroom door, he couldn’t wrap his brain around what he was seeing.

  “What in the hell are you doing?”

  Dressed in sexy, silk pink boxers and a matching lace chemise, Chanté stood with a large roll of duct tape and a pair of scissors. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “It looks like you’ve lost your mind.” He took another glance at the silver duct tape running down the center of the floor, the wall, and even the ceiling. “Do you know what’s going to happen when you peel that off?”

  “I’m not going to peel it off.” She huffed. “Since a real divorce doesn’t suit either of our interests—at the moment—it doesn’t mean that we can’t go ahead and divvy things up.”

  He heard her and his brain replayed what she’d said, but it still wasn’t making a lick of sense.

  “Split everything in half,” she clarified at his look of confusion. “Fifty-fifty.”

  Matthew crossed his arms over his bare chest and leaned against his bedroom’s doorframe. “You don’t think people might notice? I mean, the tape clashes with the furniture.”

  “Then we won’t invite anyone over,” she settled, turning on her heels and marching away.

  “You’re joking, right?” He started after her.

  “No.”

  He reached the top of the staircase just as she bolted from the bottom of it. “Can we please talk about this like two rational adults?” he shouted.

  “I’m through with being rational.”

  “Obviously.”

  Chanté stopped and glared up at him. “I’m tired of this lie—this life. I’m tired of...”

  He sucked in a deep breath as his eyes narrowed on her. “Go ahead. Say it.”

  Chanté clamped her mouth shut and stormed away.

  Matthew descended the stairs two at a time, ignoring the ugly silver tape down the center. “Say it, Chanté.”

  She ignored him and continued toward the kitchen. It, too, had been duct taped in half. The sight of it ignited his anger.

  “You have something to say, Chanté. I want to hear it.”

  “Since when?” She rounded on him.

  He stopped within inches of her. “I’m standing right here.”

  Their glares fused as they stood in a stalemate.

  “What else are you tired of, Chanté?” he asked.

  “You.” She lifted her chin, now that she’d said the word. “I’m tired of having to deal with you. Satisfied?”

  “Quite.” Matthew turned and stomped out of the kitchen.

  Chanté watched him leave with a wave of regret and relief. She had no explanation as to why she baited him. She also didn’t understand why she was so angry all the time. She could psychoanalyze herself. After all, she was a professional; but the truth is: doctors made terrible patients.

  Why couldn’t she just say what was really on her mind? Because it would destroy him. She shook her head and turned toward the sink and filled a glass with water, where she proceeded to take her morning vitamins and pills.

  The phone rang and Chanté snatched the cordless from the kitchen’s wall unit. “Hello.”

  “What on earth did you do?” Edie asked in a high, strained voice. “No, scratch that. I know what you did. I need to know why you did it.”

  Chanté sighed as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “You’re talking about last night’s program?”

  “Are you kidding?” Edie’s voice rose another octave. “That’s all everyone is talking about. My boss has left six messages on my voice mail. She’s worried how all this is going to affect your book sales.”

  “Edie—”

  “Not to mention, my assistant has fielded calls from the big three networks. Even The Enquirer called and stated they’re going to run a story about you two not sleeping in the same bedroom.”

  “How did they—?”

  Something loud roared from outside. Chanté lowered the phone. Was Matt doing something in the yard? She placed the phone back against her ear.

  “—we’re going to have to do some damage control on this thing.”

  “Edie, let me call you back.”

  “No. We need to talk about this now.”

  Chanté peeked out of the kitchen window and didn’t see her husband.

  “Seth and I have a few ideas. What do you think about going on Larry King Live?”

  “What? Are you sure all of this is necessary?” Chanté headed toward the front door.

  “Vital. If this doesn’t work, we’ll have to sell our souls to get you on Oprah.”

  Chanté opened the door, screamed and dropped the phone. “Stop! Stop!”

  Now dressed in protective clothing, Matthew headed toward his wife’s brand-new Mercedes with a chainsaw.

  “What are you doing?” she yelled.

  “Divvying our assets, hon.” He smiled as he lowered his goggles and proceeded to cut the car in half.

  “Stop, stop!” she screeched, but the loud buzz of the chainsaw drowned her out. Chanté raced toward the car, but jumped back before sparks showered onto her flammable outfit. “You’re crazy,” she shouted and stomped her fluffy pink house slippers.

  Matthew didn’t spare a glance in her direction, but he smiled like a kid in a candy shop as the saw cut through the car like warm butter.

  Chanté charged toward the garage, looking for something—anything. From the corner of her eye she spotted a pile of steel pipes on Matthew’s workbench and quickly grabbed one before returning to the yard.

  The chainsaw jammed halfway through the Mercedes’ roof and Matthew climbed down, wondering if he had something stronger to finish the job when he saw an angry pink blur rushing toward him and he removed his goggles.

  With a firm grip on the steel pipe, Chanté swung at her husband’s head like Barry Bonds going for another home run record.

  Matthew ducked and felt the air swoosh past his head as he dropped the chainsaw.

  The force of the swing twisted Chanté around in a complete circle and before she could adjust, her husband charged and tackled her to the ground.


  This time the air was knocked out of Chanté’s lungs as the steel pipe bounced out of her hands.

  “What the hell were you trying to do—kill me?” Matthew barked.

  “Damn right,” she growled and tried to twist away and reclaim the pipe.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Matthew scrambled above her and pushed the pipe further out of reach. “You’re absolutely certifiable. You know that?”

  “Me?” she shrieked. “Look what you did to my car!” Chanté squirmed and then started pelting him with her hands—a constant occurrence, especially in the last six months.

  While the wrestling match grew fast and furious in the grass, the sprinklers came on and immediately drenched the couple from head to toe.

  “My hair,” Chanté sputtered. “I just had it done. Let me up!”

  Matthew tried, but the grass was slippery now and he had a hard time getting his footing.

  “Get up!” she insisted, smacking him again.

  After one too many pops against the head, Matthew waved a finger at her. “Has anyone ever told you that it’s never okay to hit?”

  Her answer was to smack him again.

  “Uh, excuse me.”

  Chanté and Matthew froze, and then slowly turned their heads to see old man Roger, the lawn guy, peering curiously over at them.

  “Uh, is everything all right, Mr. and Mrs. Valentine?”

  Their smiles were instant and their expressions as innocent as they could manage.

  “Everything is f-fine,” Matthew said, finally climbing off his wife and pulling her up with him. For a few strained and awkward seconds they stood before the elderly gentleman in the sodden grass while the sprinklers continued to drench and plaster their clothes against their bodies.

  “Uh-huh.” Roger eyeballed them as if they were Martians.

  Chanté snuggled against her husband and slid her arms lovingly around his neck. “We were just trying something new. You know...to keep things...fresh.” She planted a kiss on Matthew’s cheek. “Isn’t that right, hon?”

  Matthew’s smile tightened. “Right...hon.”

  Roger’s dusty brown face wrinkled as he scratched his short-cropped, cotton-white hair. “Uh-huh.”