Six Hot Single Dads. Lynne Marshall

she felt about last night, trying to dish it back to him would only make things worse. She’d have to ask him to dinner some other time. A decade of waiting seemed about right. It simply hurt too much right now. “You’re welcome.”

      He pursed his lips and nodded. “Okay, then. Good night.”

      “Night.” Bastard. She rushed to her door and collapsed against it when she was inside. A strong smell of varnish hit her nose, but apartment renovations were the last thing on her mind. She never should’ve invited Marcus to the premiere. Things weren’t merely strained between them now. They were stupid.

      She padded back to her bedroom, which felt like returning to the scene of the crime. If things hadn’t been in such disarray in the living room, she would’ve slept on the sofa last night just so she wouldn’t have to smell Marcus on the pillows. She kicked off her heels, rubbing her tired feet and ankles, then slipped out of her skirt and blouse and dressed in yoga pants and a tank top. Finally. A tiny measure of comfort.

      Her stomach growled. No big surprise considering she’d scarfed a protein bar at two that afternoon and eaten nothing else. She’d had a ridiculously busy day, just like she did every day. She longed to slam on the brakes, just for a few days, but there was no stopping the Manhattan Matchmaker train. Not now. Not when the network was seriously considering First Date in Flight, a crazy idea Ashley had for a show where couples would have their first date on a cross-country flight. Not when she had a massive online dating site asking her to do commercials for them. She had to strike while the iron was hot. Her kind of good fortune was never long-lived, and she wasn’t about to let her family down, ever. Nor was she about to let down Grace, which meant she still had to find a way to get Marcus to dinner.

      She ate cold leftover lo mein straight from the carton. The kitchen was progressing nicely with gorgeous white custom cabinets and a gray quartz countertop. The white glass tile backsplash was installed, but there was still wiring hanging out of the outlet junction boxes. For today at least, her apartment was moving forward. No complaints from Marcus. Tiny victories. She’d have to take them.

      She tossed the takeout container into the trash, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and retreated to her bedroom. Climbing into bed, she made a point of putting the television remote out of reach. According to the clock on the cable box, it was only two minutes until the start of her premiere.

      That left her with a book that wasn’t holding much interest and her phone. Should she call Marcus and get it over with? Text him? The thing was, she didn’t really mind asking the question. It was the dialogue that would surely follow. She could hear it now. I told you last night that it’s a horrible idea.

      Her phone lit up with a text from Marcus. She nearly went into cardiac arrest. Are you awake?

      She frowned at her phone. What in the world could he want?

      It’s 8. I don’t go to bed this early.

      Can we talk?

      Again she had nothing in the way of pleasant facial expressions for her phone. If he was about to hurt her, again, she was done. Absolutely done.

      About?

      An invitation.

      An invitation to what? Step into a boxing ring? Less than twenty-four hours ago, he’d used her pride as a punching bag.

      Well? he added.

      Yes. Just call. Her phone rang a few seconds later. “Hey,” she said, with a voice so sultry and warm she wanted to slap herself. She was just making things worse.

      “I know you must be getting ready to watch your show. I won’t keep you long.”

      “I believe the more pressing question is, are you going to watch my show?”

      “I don’t watch television at night.”

      “Ah. Likely story.” She shifted in bed. “And no, I’m not watching my show. I never watch it. I can’t stand to see myself. And my voice. Ugh. I don’t like that, either.”

      “Why don’t you like your own voice? I like mine.”

      “Well, of course you do. That’s hardly fair. Pitting a Southern accent and a British accent against each other isn’t fair at all. I’ll never win.”

      She heard strains of the Manhattan Matchmaker theme song through the phone line. The vision of Marcus watching her show materialized before her.

      “You’re watching my show. I can hear it.” She’d never been in his apartment, so she had to make up that part. Was he sitting in the living room, maybe watching with the ultimate fans in his household, the nanny and housekeeper? Or had everyone gone home for the day? Was he doing what she was doing, curled up in bed, dressed in pajamas? Boxer shorts?

      “I’ve got it on right now. I can see why you don’t like your voice.”

      She sat up in bed and did the unthinkable—she grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. “What’s that supposed to mean?” She cringed a bit every time she had to watch herself on screen. She couldn’t fathom what it would be like to be a film actress, to have to watch herself on the giant screen.

      “It’s not so much your actual voice. I like your real voice. It’s the one on TV that doesn’t sound quite right. It doesn’t sound real.”

      She smirked and sank farther into the pillows. His voice was a definite weakness of hers. She’d better not tell him how much she’d be willing to give up if he asked her in the right tone. “Well, the whole thing isn’t really real. The matchmaker part of it is real, and the couples are real, but the rest of it is just a show. That’s not even my real office.” She pointed at the screen as if he were in the room.

      “It’s not?”

      “Nope. It’s a real therapist’s office, but not mine. Mine has horrible light, and it’s too small to get all of the camera equipment in there.”

      “Interesting. Although I’m not surprised. These shows all seem to be so contrived. I guess that’s why I haven’t watched your show more than in passing. My nanny and housekeeper have it on all the time, though.”

      She didn’t really care to continue on this path, the one where Marcus went on about the ways in which he thought her show was idiotic. “What do you want, Marcus?”

      “Oh. Right. I called you.”

      “You did,” Ashley answered.

      * * *

      Just come out with it, he thought. Either she was going to say no and he’d have to tell his dad and Joanna to move on to greener pastures, or she’d say yes and he’d spend an entire evening ignoring his attraction to Ashley for the sake of pleasing his dad. He cleared his throat. “I want to thank you for taking me to the party. It gave us an incredible boost in business, and it couldn’t have come at a better time.”

      “So my silly show actually helped you?”

      He fought the grumble that wanted to leave his throat. “Look, I’m sorry if it seems like I don’t take what you do seriously. Clearly a lot of people do, and I’m thankful for that.”

      “Careful, Marcus. You almost didn’t insult me right there.”

      He deserved that. He deserved whatever she cared to dish up to him.

      “And remind me someday to show you how seriously I take my job.”

      He watched as her show returned from a commercial, a long shot of her walking down a crowded sidewalk, eventually arriving at what he now knew wasn’t really her office. The TV version of her was nice to look at but had nothing on the real Ashley. Just across the hall, all alone. Actually, thinking about the layout of the two apartments, he was fairly certain their bedrooms butted up against each other. Like I need more torment. He fought the urge to ask what she was wearing, although he wanted to settle on the fabricated image of her in an oversize T-shirt and sweatpants. That made it easier to have this conversation, but his idiotic mind