7 Days and 7 Nights

by Wendy Wax

  “Oh, I get the point all right. It’s just like Matt Ransom said. My big mistake was not being clear up front. I love you, JoBeth, but I don’t want to get married. I’ve been married, and it’s not the picnic you seem to think it is.”

  A hush fell over the diner as the last of the lunch crowd gave up the pretense of eating. JoBeth pried her gaze from Dawg’s for a slow scan of the room. Even the McCauleys were staring in shocked amazement at her and Dawg. Emmylou tittered out loud.

  “Well, now you’ve managed to humiliate me in person.” Was that her voice going all shrill and quivery? “Why don’t you just take out an ad in the damn paper— ‘JoBeth Namey gives great milk but she’s not worth marrying.’ ”

  Dawg shot her a look of such wounded outrage that she almost managed to get herself under control. If he’d apologized then, or offered one ounce of reassurance that he’d never thought of her that way, she might have been able to avoid what came next. But keeping quiet had never been Dawg’s strong suit.

  “Now that is about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

  “Stupid? Now you’re calling me stupid?” Her hands stilled. Embarrassment spiked up her spine, fueling her anger, which was a lot easier to deal with than the hurt and desperation she’d been feeling. Then he got that annoying look on his face, the one that said he was the calm, rational one, and she was some harebrained female, and her hands wrapped tighter around the aluminum pie plate.

  “The stupidest thing I ever did was waste three years loving you.” The next thing she knew, she was hefting the pie plate in her right hand, savoring its weight. “But I sure do hate to leave you without something to remember me by.”

  A smart man would have backed off then, or at least put some distance between himself and an angry woman with a partially cocked pie, but Dawg just sat there glaring back at her, his face only inches from what remained of the strawberry rhubarb.

  “Do what you gotta do, JoBeth. You are not making a lick of sense anyhow. And you haven’t been since you started calling that Dr. O.”

  She knew better, really she did. It wasn’t going to solve anything, and it certainly wasn’t going to win her any waitressing awards. But a herd of wild animals couldn’t have made her put the pie down at this point.

  She heard a collective gasp as she lifted the pie and pushed it firmly into the middle of Dawg’s irritating face. No one spoke as she ground the pie back and forth with the heel of her hand until the flaky brown crust worked its way into the grooves of his face.

  Dawg sat completely still. He barely blinked as the red-colored goo began to drip down his chin. For a minute she half expected him to stick his tongue out for a taste like they did on TV, but he didn’t move a muscle.

  Momentarily stunned by what she’d done, JoBeth froze, too. The silence ended just as suddenly as it had begun. The buzz of excitement built around her but it was once-removed, like something that was happening to someone else. She could barely think, let alone come up with an appropriately cutting remark. And instead of the elation she expected, she felt only regret . . . and the insistent welling of tears she refused to shed.

  JoBeth placed the empty pie plate down on the counter in front of her. Then she untied her apron and laid it gently on the Formica next to it.

  A dull ache settled around her heart as she faced the man she’d hoped to grow old with, but it was too late now for regrets. She straightened slowly and looked Dawg Rollins straight in the eye—the one not currently covered with crust.

  With a small smile and an apologetic shrug, she pulled her order pad from her pocket and passed it over to Emmylou. She didn’t think she’d have any trouble getting the rest of the afternoon off.

  “I’m sure Em’ll clean you up, Dawg. And I’ll take care of your tab.” She paused for a second to survey the damage she’d done before offering her parting shot. “But it looks like dessert’s on you.”

  7

  Matt wiped steam from the bathroom mirror. Still humming the tune he couldn’t seem to push out of his head, he lathered his face and then shaved in time to the mental beat. A slash of deodorant, a splash of aftershave, and he was set.

  With the towel tucked around his hips, he left the steamy warmth of the bathroom. From the hallway he spotted Olivia behind the kitchen counter, knife aloft, and spent a moment or two imagining just what sort of meal she might be making with the provisions she’d laid in.

  Olivia kept her head down and her gaze on the counter, but the stiffness of her shoulders and the rigid tilt of her head revealed her awareness of him. He almost felt sorry for her, trapped as she was with a man who knew just how much heat simmered beneath her cool facade.

  A gentleman would allow her to pretend indifference. But no one had ever accused him of being a gentleman.

  In his bedroom he dropped the towel and dressed quickly, then padded, barefoot, out to the living room.

  Olivia looked up from her seat at the kitchen table.

  “What’re you eating?”

  Olivia stopped in mid chew. He waited patiently while she swallowed and then took a sip of her Diet Coke. She dabbed delicately at the corner of her mouth with her napkin, as if she were dining in a five-star establishment.

  “Peanut butter and jelly. I made an extra sandwich if you’re hungry.”

  “That’s what you’re having for dinner?”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “Peanut butter and jelly.”

  “That’s right.”

  “For dinner.”

  “Yep.” She dropped the last bite into her mouth, chewed it thoroughly, and swallowed. “Is this a problem for you?”

  “No. I’ve just never met anyone over the age of ten who would consider that an actual meal.”

  “And I suppose you’re a connoisseur?”

  “Well, I know the difference between PB&J and . . . dinner. But if your taste buds are willing to settle, who am I to criticize?”

  “Who indeed?”

  “So is this what you eat every night, or are Monday nights special?”

  “What are you, the food police?” She dabbed once more at her mouth and then got up to throw her napkin away, erasing all evidence of her meal.

  Matt shrugged. “I’d just hate to see you waste away on my watch.”

  Olivia went to the pantry and pulled out a bag of chocolate chip cookies. He watched as she removed one cylinder, opened the plastic casing, and took out three cookies. Replacing the bag, she moved over to the counter, munching happily. “I’m hardly wasting away. And I’m sure even you have heard of comfort food. Lots of people like to eat foods that remind them of their childhoods.”

  “Not me. I prefer my comforts grown-up. And without chocolate bits.” He leered at her—just in case she hadn’t caught his meaning.

  She bit daintily into a cookie and ignored him. Pointedly.

  Undaunted, Matt began to assemble ingredients for his dinner. From the fridge he pulled wrapped packages containing paper-thin medallions of veal and sliced mushrooms. From the case of wine, he selected a Barolo and pulled two wineglasses out of the cupboard.

  Olivia finished the final chocolate chip cookie and slid onto a barstool.

  “Can I pour you a glass?”

  “You’re going to drink before you go on the air?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But . . .”

  “But what? I have roughly three and a half hours until I go on, I don’t have to drive to work, and I’m not planning to operate any heavy machinery.”

  “But . . .”

  “We don’t have any heavy machinery here, do we?”

  She studied him from beneath spiky lashes. Her eyes were a lovely shade of green flecked with tiny shards of hazel. And they were not amused.

  Since she hadn’t exactly refused, Matt poured a generous glass of wine for both of them and set hers in front of her. He swirled the heavy red liquid and sniffed appreciatively before taking a satisfying sip of his own. Then he started to cook.


  Within minutes he had dredged the veal in flour and had butter melting in a large sauté pan.

  Olivia eyed him suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

  “Making dinner.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “You cook?”

  “That’s right.” Without taking his gaze off her, he emptied the mushrooms into the waiting butter.

  “But you’re using flour and . . .” She peered over the counter at the ingredients he’d assembled. “And mushrooms and . . . and utensils . . .” She pronounced the last word as if it were foreign and didn’t quite fit on her tongue.

  “Yep.” He allowed himself a small smile but held a tight rein on his laughter. “Too bad you’ve already eaten. I make a mean veal marsala.”

  “Veal marsala.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “You’re making veal marsala?”

  Olivia looked as if she’d just discovered the world was actually flat after all, and he couldn’t resist passing the perfectly sautéed mushrooms under her nose as he removed them from the pan and set them aside. She sniffed audibly, a reflex action that told him she’d probably cave in and join him if he asked her again.

  Which left him feeling smug, in charge, and completely in control. Until Olivia licked her lips. He watched, fascinated, as the tip of her tongue darted out and worked its way across the bow of her mouth. His own hunger spiked, though it had nothing to do with the meal he was preparing.

  She took a sip from her glass, and then she ran her tongue over her lips once again. They were wet and dewy with wine, and Matt considered volunteering to dry them off with his own. He glanced up quickly but caught no hint of malice or sexual intent in her eyes. They were, however, full of hunger and lust—all of it focused on his veal marsala.

  Matt put pasta in a pot of boiling water and broke up a loaf of Italian bread. For a few minutes he cooked in silence, sipping his wine while he contemplated the situation. However attractive he found Olivia, no matter what the sight of her tongue skimming over her lips did to him, she was the competition. Only one of them would walk out of this apartment with a radio show on WTLK. And while he doubted he’d be on the street for long, he had no intention of coming in second.

  Feeding Olivia would be like offering aid to the enemy. He wanted her off balance and uncertain. Could he use food and drink to help achieve that end?

  He drained the linguini, put a large helping on the plate next to the veal, and then topped the cutlets with marsala sauce. The aroma made his mouth water.

  Matt slid his plate across the counter, topped off both their wines, and moved around to claim the stool next to Olivia’s. Her entire body tilted precariously toward his plate, and her eyes were locked on the result of his culinary efforts.

  “Gosh, I feel bad eating in front of you like this.” He tried to look truly apologetic, but it was hard to pull it off when she looked as if she might land face first in the center of his veal.

  He waited for her to say something. A little polite begging and the second helping could be hers, but she just closed her eyes and breathed deeply, no doubt committing the smell of veal marsala to memory for replay during her next PB&J extravaganza.

  “No, no. Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’m, uh, just going to finish my wine and watch the food, I mean . . . tube, for a bit. You go right ahead and meat . . . I mean, eat.”

  Matt clinked his wineglass against hers and took a healthy sip, enjoying the flush of embarrassment that rushed up her cheeks at the obvious Freudian slip. He watched her as he slipped a forkful of veal and mushroom into his mouth, and had the satisfaction of seeing her wince with envy. His cooking had thrown her off balance, which was exactly the way he wanted her. Surely he had enough resources at his disposal to keep Olivia Moore permanently off kilter. All he had to do was identify them.

  Her green eyes clouded under his perusal. She took a sip of wine, swallowed it, and stole a surreptitious glance at his plate, as if to reassure herself she wasn’t imagining things. “Did you know how to cook in Chicago?”

  “Hmm?”

  “When we knew each other in Chicago, did you already know how to cook like this?”

  He couldn’t remember sharing a single meal with her, though he knew there’d been many. What he remembered was her earnest innocence and the joy with which she’d given herself to him.

  “Did I have a kitchen back then?”

  He could tell from the stain spreading across her cheeks and the way she shifted in her chair that her memories were no more food related than his.

  He watched her worry her bottom lip with her teeth and realized he’d been overlooking the obvious. As an experiment, Matt leaned in closer and let his lips brush against her ear. “I couldn’t tell you where or what we ate in Chicago, but I remember exactly how you tasted, Olivia.”

  He paused for a moment, waiting for a reaction, and sure enough, her eyes fluttered closed. Encouraged, he continued. “I’ll never forget how cool and smooth your skin used to feel under my tongue.”

  Matt reached a hand out to brush his knuckle down the curve of her cheek. “And I remember the little sounds you used to make when I was inside you. And how you used to sink your nails into my back when you were ready to come.”

  He used the truth and their memories to probe beneath the cool exterior, hoping to find the woman who had once dwelt inside. “Do you remember?”

  Olivia’s eyes were suddenly wary. Unsure whether she was about to turn tail and run or round on him with teeth bared, Matt turned and glanced up at the Webcam monitor. What he saw there at first stopped him cold and then filled him with delight. He cocked his head and studied the video image a moment longer while he considered the possibilities.

  The shot revealed the mostly empty bottle of wine, the two wineglasses, and himself and Dr. O engaged in what appeared to be an intimate tête-à-tête. The average viewer would see only what was framed in the camera, and that didn’t include the snarl springing to Olivia’s lips or the warning glint stealing into her eyes.

  “Nice try, Matt.”

  She uncrossed her long legs and sat up straighter on her stool. The steely look she sent him made him grateful that Mother Nature hadn’t seen fit to endow her with the defense mechanisms of either the skunk or the porcupine. With the Webcam and its misleading image in the forefront of his mind, he maintained the illusion of intimacy by staying put.

  “Don’t think you’re going to use what was between us, Matt. I already regret that we ever had a past, and I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure we don’t have a future.”

  He put a hand out to cup the back of her neck and used his thumb to caress her cheek once more. She tensed at his touch, but he ignored it, keeping his voice low and his body language intentionally intimate. “You go ahead and give it your best shot, Olivia. But I still remember every delicious thing about you, and as you may have noticed, I’ve learned a thing or two about good food over the last eight years.”

  “You really think you’re every woman’s fantasy, don’t you? You’ve been listening to your own show too long. I am not even remotely tempted.”

  “Liar.” Even to his ears, the word sounded suspiciously like a caress. Matt smiled as Olivia slipped out from beneath his hand. He couldn’t help admiring the picture she presented as she made her exit—striding across the living room with her head held high and her shoulders thrown back. She sat on the edge of the couch, her posture painfully correct, and picked up the TV remote like a queen reaching for her scepter. Very carefully she tuned CNN in and, he suspected, the disturbing Matt Ransom out.

  Being dismissed didn’t bother Matt in the least. He’d noticed the way Olivia had responded to him.

  If he wanted to come out of this week the victor, undermining his opponent’s formidable powers of self-control would certainly give him an advantage.

  It was time to bring out the big guns, time to lay siege to Dr. Moore’s castle of calm. Thanks to his friend the Webcam
, he now knew exactly how to breach her defenses.

  All he had to do was make history repeat itself.

  8

  In the WTLK control room, Charles Crankower studied the Webcam monitor with interest. At the audio board, with his back to Charles, Matt’s producer, Ben Markum, set up for the night’s show. Olivia’s producer stood next to him discussing some problem with the on-hold system that she wanted fixed before morning. Charles tuned them both out to concentrate on the drama unfolding on the screen.

  Matt and Olivia sat at the counter with a bottle of wine between them. They looked much cozier than he would have expected, and as he watched, Matt not only reached out and cupped the back of the doctor’s neck, but caressed her cheek with his hand. Charles waited for Matt to either kiss her or get smacked, but neither happened.

  A glance out of the corner of his eye confirmed that the couple on the screen now had Ben’s and Diane’s attention, too. In silence, the three of them watched Olivia storm off to the couch while Matt cleaned up the kitchen, and he knew he wasn’t the only one wondering what in the hell was going on.

  When Matt moved to sit down at the audio board, Olivia passed by him without a glance, and all three of them watched her bedroom door close behind her.

  Charles was still puzzling over what he’d seen as Matt put on his headphones, propped his feet up on the audio table, and leaned back in his chair.

  “What do you think, Ben?” Charles started at the sound of Matt’s voice booming over the control room speakers. “How long do you think it’ll take me to have her eating out of my hand?”

  Ben looked over his shoulder at Diane and Charles. “Hey, Matt, there’s, uh . . .”

  Matt laughed. “Forget about eating out of my hand. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks I’ll have her flat on her back before the end of the week.”

  Diane Lowe froze, while Ben hurried to cut his boss off. “Matt, this isn’t a good time to . . .”

  Ben put on his headphones and shut off the control room speaker, turning the conversation private. After aiming a withering glare at Ben, Diane stormed out of the room, but Charles just sat there thinking about the possibilities. This promotion was his brainchild, and he intended to use it to prove he could handle things at WTLK without interference from the corporate office. What better way to preserve his autonomy than with a local promotion that garnered national attention?