7 Days and 7 Nights (18 page)

“Look, you just have to make the best of this situation. Dawg doesn't want to get married and you do. It's right to go out and try to get what you want.”

“But, but, that's what Dr. O said.”

“Well then, as strange as it feels to say so, Dr. O must be right.”

There was a long pause.

“You okay, JoBeth?”

“Yeah.” She gave a small sniff and an embarrassed little laugh. “Sorry to get so heavy on you. I just . . . I guess it's time to go get ready for my date.”

Matt sank down in his chair and eyed the computer screen warily.
Diane,
he typed as calmly as he could,
I need
another caller. Just make sure she isn't going to cry.

21

Kevin Middleton was considerably shorter than JoBeth remembered. When he rose from his side of the picnic-style table in the back room of the Smokehouse Barbecue, she couldn't help noticing that he barely topped her five foot four inches. The hand he extended in greeting was also small, and JoBeth had the disturbing thought that she could probably outwrestle him if she had a mind to. She covered the thought with a quick smile.

“Hi, Kevin. It's good to see you.”

“Same here, JoBeth. You sure are looking fine.”

“Thanks.” JoBeth slid onto the bench across from him and opened the menu the waitress handed her. She scanned the items briefly and then looked over the top of her menu at the man her parents had chosen for a son-in-law.

“I was sure sorry to hear about your folks. I always meant to get by and see them, but it just didn't seem . . .” His voice trailed off and JoBeth knew then that he hadn't forgotten the awkward end of their relationship, the long, dragged-out months during which Kevin and her parents lobbied for marriage while she stalled without understanding why.

Would she sit across a table from Dawg someday while he tried to recall what he'd seen in her? She pushed the thought firmly from her mind.

“They talked about you up until the very end,” she said. Now there was your classic understatement. Through three years with Dawg they had never missed an opportunity to chastise her for what she'd thrown away. “They always thought you were the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Shows how purely intelligent they were.”

She looked up quickly in surprise and was relieved to see a smile on his face.

“They were fine people.” Kevin lifted the glass of sweet tea he'd ordered and held it out toward her like a salute. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, taking each other's measure. JoBeth saw a medium-sized man of medium coloring with unremarkable brown eyes. There was nothing flashy about him, but she noticed he'd put himself together with care. The manicured fingernails and carefully pressed oxford shirt proclaimed him a man aware of the picture he presented, as did the freshly barbered hair, each strand perfectly in place.

Watching him converse with the waitress, JoBeth gave him points for the way he handled himself. He was friendly without passing over the line into flirtation, just as Dawg had always been. And when he placed his order, it was clear he knew his mind.

Kevin took a sip of his sweetened tea and then turned his attention back to her. He seemed less tentative than he'd been when she'd first joined him, and JoBeth reminded herself that this lunch had to be awkward for him, too.

“I haven't been to the Smokehouse in ages. Do Hank and SandySue still own it?” she asked.

“They do. And I still handle all their accounting. They opened a second location in Snellville, and there's talk about franchising.”

“You said this business would take off, and I guess you were right.” She was starting to remember a lot more than that. There'd been lots of Thursday night dinners at the Smokehouse as guests of Kevin's grateful client. Sunday afternoons after church had been spent at her parents'. “I'm thinking about going back to school to finish my business degree.”

“Why, that's great, JoBeth. You always did have a good head on your shoulders.” He smiled and his features sharpened. “Except, of course, when you dumped me.”

JoBeth could feel the blush spread across her cheeks. Both he and her parents had expected her to become Mrs. Kevin Middleton; even she had assumed it would happen one day.

“I never dumped you. I just wasn't ready to get married back then.” Lord, she sounded like Dawg. “I don't think I understood how much that probably hurt you at the time, and I'm sorry for that.”

When their combo plates arrived, they ate quietly for a while. In his own precise way, Kevin managed to put away almost as much as Dawg, though he didn't seem to expect to finish what she left on her plate, like Dawg did.

They made small talk as they ate, and while she didn't feel any major fireworks in Kevin's company, she reminded herself that she'd had plenty of that with Dawg, and it had gotten her exactly nowhere.

Studying Kevin over what remained of her chopped pork, JoBeth thought about how funny life could be. The man across from her didn't make her heart race or her palms sweat, but she could tell by the way he was checking her out when he thought she wasn't looking, that he was still interested. And not just in her mind, either.

An hour into their “date” they split a slice of mud pie and nursed cups of coffee. She still wasn't dazzled, but had to admit that Kevin Middleton was a nice, solid man who would make someone a nice, solid husband. As it turned out, their minds appeared to be running along similar lines.

“You know, I wasn't sure what to think when you called me. I've been busy, I've been dating. Life's been pretty good,” Kevin said.

JoBeth took the last bite of mud pie, chewing it carefully, taking her time with it while she tried to figure out where the conversation was headed.

She'd just put her hand over her coffee cup to discourage the last round of refills, when Kevin finally got to the point.

“But I've never found anyone I could imagine settling down with like I could imagine it with you.”

JoBeth's gaze flew to his face.

“I'm thinking this whole thing could be fate's way of giving us another shot at a life together.”

JoBeth tried to open her mouth to say something. She knew she should protest, speak up, do something. But Kevin Middleton had already taken the snap, and while she sat there openmouthed, he took the conversational ball and drop-kicked it right through her goalposts.

“We don't need to call the caterers right now or anything, JoBeth. But I think we should spend some time getting to know each other again.”

He beamed at her, delighted, the dapper young accountant pinning down a workable plan for the future. “Why don't we spend tomorrow up at my lake house? I could invite a few neighbors over for supper.”

His voice became an intimate whisper that did
not
make her heart go pitter-patter. “Or we can be completely antisocial and spend the day alone.”

Charles Crankower sat in the WTLK control room watching Matt Ransom construct a turkey sandwich.

On Saturdays, WTLK, like most radio stations, ran at considerably less than its usual warp speed. Sales and administrative staffs were off, and other than promotional appearances and special events, only those responsible for putting programming on the air reported to work.

Here in the main control room, a lone engineer monitored the syndicated program that currently played on the air, but Charles's attention remained riveted to the Webcam's view of Matt and Olivia's current quarters.

Idly, he zoomed the camera in to the kitchen, giving up a big chunk of the living room in order to study Matt's movements more clearly.

He watched Ransom spread designer mustard on the insides of two slices of bread, then add a dash of mayonnaise, which turned the condiment into a muted shade of gold. He piled several deli slices of turkey on one piece of bread, added two slices of what looked like Swiss cheese, and topped it all with a whopping slice of tomato and a large leaf of lettuce.

After adding chips to the plate, Matt positioned a pickle spear on the other side, then opened a beer. Without bothering to put the ingredients away, he slid the plate and bottle across the counter and walked around to sit on a barstool.

Charles studied his subject through the camera lens and grinned to himself. Matt Ransom sported a look and posture any male over the age of twelve would recognize. In stark contrast to the tension that had practically ricocheted off him before last night, his movements now were loose and comfortable, and he had a loopy smile on his face.

Matt had definitely gotten laid, and based on the way he appeared to be humming under his breath, it had probably happened more than once.

Charles thought about that one for a minute, allowing himself to imagine Matt Ransom and the straitlaced Dr. O going at it. He felt almost giddy. The promotional opportunity of a lifetime was knocking on his door, and all he had to do was invite it in.

Exposing a sexual relationship between Matt and Olivia would be bad news for the doctor's reputation and career, but the amount of attention it would generate for the station was unlimited.

At first, people would tune in for the lurid excitement of it all. Then they'd be tuning in to find out why a respected therapist with a decidedly feminist attitude would put out for Atlanta's Bachelor of the Year. The fact that they'd known each other before and kept that information secret just made the whole thing juicier.

Charles watched Matt turn his back on the camera as he took his seat at the counter. He looked like he was settling in for a while, so Charles used the remote to zoom and pan the camera, changing the angle and scope at random, curious to discover what else the camera might reveal.

Interestingly enough, it was possible to make a sideways move to the right, tilt the lens down, and pick up a new sliver of room close to the French doors. Charles had assumed that area was out of range because the lens had to point the other way to pick up the largest slice of the room. He suspected the occupants of the cage no doubt thought of this as a safe spot, but the camera had an eyeball lens and could theoretically do a 360 if necessary.

Charles filed the information away for future use and zoomed back in to see if he could get close enough to identify the magazine Matt was reading.

Ransom's producer entered the control room just as Charles gave up on the tight shot. They eyed each other with suspicion.

“I hear you're going to be running the show for Dr. Moore tonight.”

“Yep,” Ben replied.

“Were you surprised when Matt did Dr. O's show?”

“Well, sort of.” Ben looked like he might say something else, but apparently thought better of it.

“Any idea what she's going to do?” Charles asked.

“No. Matt says she's still a little under the weather. I think she's just going to field calls like he did.”

“Come on, Ben. You and I both know the only weather that woman's been under is Hurricane Matt.”

He heard the producer's reluctant bark of laughter. But then the kid bit his lip and looked away.

“The only thing I don't understand is why your boss is protecting her. He could have left that Webcam on and walked away with the whole enchilada.”

“Maybe he's just got a little more class than you give him credit for.”

“Oh, what? Matt Ransom doesn't kiss and tell? Puhlease! We're talking career here and beaucoup bucks. Matt is one of the most ambitious, competitive on-air talents I know. None of this makes any sense.”

“Maybe he figures he can beat her fair and square. I've got the tally here, and after Matt's show last night and his guest stint this morning, the doctor's lead is down to almost nothing. She'd have to stand on her head naked tonight to pull ahead again.”

Charles zoomed in on the doctor's closed bedroom door, trying to picture Dr. O resorting to such a thing. “Well, who knows. If she slept with Matt, standing on her head might not be such a stretch after all. Of course, the website votes don't mean squat compared to the consultant's report.”

They didn't yet have the final report, but Charles knew the numbers had been phenomenal from day one of the remote. The press snapped up every morsel he fed them, and even the consultant had been walking around the station with a smile on his face.

The company was happy, T.J. was happy, and Charles knew that made him look good. But being a hero would be even better—and could keep the national office out of his hair for years to come.

It didn't matter whether Matt or Olivia won the ratings war, at least not to him. The station was a big winner no matter whom the audience preferred. But if he could engineer something totally unexpected, something bigger than the skirmishes Matt and Olivia had waged so far, his career would be made. And that, of course, was job number one.

Charles looked at the sliver of room again and tried to imagine how he could use it. He panned left to the furniture grouping and back again to the balcony, but nothing popped out at him and shouted, “Do this!” He stared at the screen a little longer and then moved the camera back to its wide-angle shot.

Charles told himself not to despair. He had a day and a half to come up with something he could use to his advantage, and his first move would be to take over the camera operation and monitoring full-time. Then, like a spider contemplating two juicy flies, he'd be ready when one of them stumbled into his web.

22

Thirty was too old for hangovers. Olivia buried her face in her pillow and drew her legs up into the fetal position. Reaching down to pull the sheet up over her head, she encountered bare skin and stopped in surprise. Keeping her eyes shut, she felt around for her pajamas and discovered she wasn't wearing them. Or anything else.
Shit
. Her thirtieth birthday came flooding back to her in graphic detail, and she cringed. Thirty should be too old for stupidity, too. But apparently it was not.

Fortunately, she appeared to be alone. Neither snores nor body warmth emanated from the other side of the bed, which meant Matt was definitely gone.

Head pounding, Olivia pried her eyes open and made a valiant attempt to bring the room into focus. She noted the closed door, the black dress lying in a heap on the bed (
shit
, again), and finally the clock beside the bed.

She squinted at the Roman numerals in an attempt to make some sense of them, certain there was no way they could be right. “Shit.” She blinked and tried again, but the little and big hands continued to point to the four and the twelve.

Olivia rolled over on her back and turned her face carefully toward the window, where bright sunlight pushed its way past the drapes. If it was four o'clock in the afternoon, “shit” didn't begin to cover it.

Trying not to panic, Olivia got a grip on the cell phone next to the bed and hit speed dial. Her mouth was as dry as the Sahara, and her head pounded like the concrete beneath a jackhammer, but before she went in search of aspirin and the biggest glass of water she could find, she had to know the worst.

“Diane?”

“Mmmph.” There was a gulp followed by the sound of cellophane being crumpled—all the earmarks of Diane's old standby, the Oreo Diet.

“Olivia. Is that you?”

“It's me.”

“What happened? Are you okay?”

“I'm okay. But I think I need to ask the questions here.” She grabbed her throbbing head with her free hand and braced herself. “Why didn't you wake me this morning?”

“I tried to.”

“But?”

“But Matt answered your phone and he wouldn't let me speak to you.”

The surge of disappointment was immediate. Obviously, he'd seen his chance and grabbed it. When had she started expecting something more from Matt Ransom?

“What happened to my show?”

“Why—”

“I can't believe I let this happen. It's the end of the remote, isn't it? Oh, God. I left a great big hole in the schedule. T.J. must be totally pissed off.”

“Olivia?”

“I mean, how unprofessional can you get? I should have had my head examined before I agreed to be locked up in here with—”

“Dr. O?”

“What!” Olivia snapped.

“There wasn't a hole.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Matt did your show.”

“It's not nice to tease a woman teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown, Diane. What are you saying?”

“Well, Matt said you were sick, maybe with food poisoning, and that you'd decided to switch shows for the day as a publicity gimmick.”

“Matt did
Liv Live
?” Olivia's throbbing head tried to take it in. “You're telling me Matt Ransom went on the air and did my show?”

“Um-hm.”

“They must have eaten him alive.”

Diane laughed. “Don't tell him I said so, but in his own totally offensive way he was really pretty good.”

“He gave advice? To women?”

“Yeah. He offered the male point of view and then decimated everyone with the horrible, though probably accurate, way men actually think.”

Olivia smiled to herself at the picture. “You're kidding.”

“No. I'm not.”

“So I'm not totally disgraced and on my way out?”

“Well, everyone knows you had too much to drink. And the Webcam did get mysteriously disconnected in the middle of the night. But there's no proof of anything, and for some reason that no one can fathom, Ransom's not talking.”

Incredible. Olivia closed her phone and propped herself up against the pillows, tucking the sheet up under her chin. The Matt Ransom she'd known in Chicago would have brought the camera right into the bedroom with them if it would bolster his career, but for some reason he'd refrained from exposing her. Literally.

The throbbing in her head dulled, probably because there wasn't enough room in there for both hangover and confusion. A memory of their lovemaking tried to elbow its way in, but she tossed it out, not willing to crowd her poor brain further.

Dressing hurriedly, Olivia considered the contradictions between the man she knew and the behavior he'd exhibited, but she couldn't come close to reconciling the two. Either Matt Ransom had turned over some wonderful new leaf, or he had something even more awful than professional embarrassment up his sleeve.

She found him in the living room lying on the couch with his eyes closed. The last inning of a baseball game played out on the TV, but Matt was in no position to notice.

Olivia went into the kitchen, found two Extra Strength Tylenol, and washed them down with an industrial-sized glass of water.

Her thirst quenched, she clicked off the television and took a seat on the second couch. For several minutes she watched him sleep and listened to him breathe while she attempted to sort through her contradictory feelings.

In sleep, Matt Ransom looked like a lot of things he wasn't—namely sweet, vulnerable, and easy to handle. In fact, if it weren't for the shadowy stubble covering his face, he might have been a little boy tuckered out after a strenuous day of play. Except for all the really incredible stuff that started just below his neck.

Olivia let her gaze travel down the length of his lightly muscled torso, hesitating for just a moment at the waistband of his jeans before traveling on to the part of him with which she had become intimately reacquainted.

This was no child. And if he was tired, it was because he'd stayed up all night making love to her. Being with Matt turned her into someone she barely recognized. She wanted to hate him for it, but just thinking about last night brought a satisfied smile to her lips.

No, anger wasn't going to cut it. There was no blame to be cast. He hadn't pressed alcohol on her, he hadn't taken anything she hadn't been embarrassingly anxious to give, and this morning, when he'd had the chance to expose her to her listeners, he hadn't. Matt Ransom just kept popping out of the box she kept trying to stuff him into.

Yanking her gaze back up to his face, she found his eyes open.

“Well, good morning, sleepyhead,” he said.

“I wish it
were
morning.”

He gave her a smile that made her want to curl up next to him on the couch. She combated the weakness by reminding herself that doing one teensy-weensy honorable thing didn't make a man trustworthy.

“Really? I don't know how you face all that angst first thing in the morning. If you ask me, those women are way too—”

“Matt,” she interrupted. “I'm trying to say thank you.”

“Oh, it was nothing. I enjoyed myself too, Livvy.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

“We're talking about you filling in for me. Diane told me what you did.”

“Oh . . . your show. Well, I enjoyed that, too, in a way, but it wasn't anywhere near as great as—”

“Matt,” she warned.

“Why, Liv, you're blushing.” His eyes danced. “You're very cute when you blush.”

“I'm not in the mood for jokes or compliments, Matt. I haven't figured out what you're up to yet, but I won't let my guard down like that again.” She felt the heat climb to her cheeks again and dropped her gaze.

“Ahhh.” Matt stretched his arms out and then folded them to pillow the back of his head. “Would you care to be more specific?”

“Last night was a one-time thing. It won't happen again.” She watched his face carefully, looking for some sign of the regret she felt, but his smile never faltered.

“I assume you're not referring to the meal.”

“You know perfectly well what I'm referring to.”

“Well, why don't you go ahead and spell that out, too. We guys can be incredibly dense sometimes.”

She cleared her throat. “I'm sorry I came on to you, um, under the kitchen table.”

He nodded sagely, but the dimple in his cheek nearly split his face in two.

“I shouldn't have done that,” she continued. “And we shouldn't have had sex. It was inappropriate and counterproductive, and it muddies the water between us.”

Matt crossed one ankle over the other and settled deeper into the couch. “Ahh, Livvy. There you go again, making this more complicated than it needs to be. The water's perfectly clear.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He shrugged. “We had sex. It was great, really great. But it's no big deal.”

Olivia stiffened.

“It's just sex, Livvy. There's no reason to beat yourself up over it.”

She stood, drawing herself up to her full height.

“Silly me. I forgot it's just a physical thing for you.” She looked down at him, her eyes carefully blank, determined to match his careless tone. She'd cut out her tongue before she admitted how deep his lack of interest cut. “I guess we're both in agreement then. We have three shows left between now and Monday morning. It's time to take the gloves off and come out swinging.”