Start Me Up (Man of the Month 4)

Shelby bent to put her head between her knees as Celia paused the program. "Oh, God. What if Alan hears? What if my parents hear? What if Frank hears?"

"Hears what?" The familiar deep voice of her boss came from behind her, and she almost jumped to her feet, but was forced to keep her head down by Hannah's firm hand on her back.

"That she has some sort of horrible intestinal bug," Hannah said. "Her doctor says it's not contagious, so she came in. But the cramps and the, you know, bathroom runs..." She trailed off, her voice reflecting disgust and sympathy. "I told her she should call in, but she's so damn responsible."

"Well, for heaven's sake, Shelby. Do you really feel that bad?"

"Yes, sir," she said, which wasn't exactly a lie.

"You're not working retail, you know. You're a professional. You can make your own schedule. Have your assistant move your appointments and go home."

"Right. I should. I will. Thank you."

She kept her head down until she heard the door latch behind her, then rose up. "You are an incredible liar. And I'm still completely screwed."

"No, you're not," Hannah said firmly.

"Unless she's talking about last night," Kayla said, and they all burst into laughter. Even Shelby, who figured that this must be some form of gallows humor. Because, really, this situation was so not good.

So. Absolutely. Freaking. Totally. Not. Good.

The radio. He talked about her--he talked about her and sex--on his radio program.

That simple truth ran through her head over and over as she headed home, as she made herself a pot of coffee and some slice-and-bake cookies, and as she settled on her couch to watch mindless television.

After a few hours, though, she clicked off the TV, realizing that mindless television was too mindless to block out the murderous--and unfortunately still lustful--thoughts of Nolan. After all, this very couch had been the background of what was now a ridiculously pleasant memory. At least it had been until his stupid radio stunt had tainted it.

"Well, hell," she muttered, then picked up The Man Who Knew Infinity, a biography of a self-taught mathematical genius that she'd started a few nights before. If anything could take her mind off Nolan, it was math, and after half an hour, that theory proved to be true. She'd become completely absorbed in the beauty of the story--so much so that she jumped when she heard the sharp knock at her door.

"Shelby? It's Nolan."

She froze. Just completely froze right there on her couch. Then she realized that the blinds were drawn, and there was no way he could see her. So she carefully put her book down and moved to stand next to the door.

She wasn't sure why she did that--she had no intention of talking to him or opening the door, mostly because she didn't know what she wanted to say. He'd left her no room for planning or rehearsal. But, strangely, she'd been drawn closer. And so now she stood just inches away, her palm pressed lightly to the wood.

"Hello? Well, shit. Your car's here, Shelby. I don't have your number, so I couldn't call, but I know you're there. Except maybe she's not," he added, his voice changing slightly, as if he was a voice actor playing two roles. "Maybe she's taking a walk or going on a bike ride. Or maybe she's with a friend. Hell, maybe she's in some other man's bed, in which case, I just might have to kill him. Shelby."

Her name, accompanied by the sharp ring of her doorbell made her jump and clap her hand over her mouth.

"I have your travelers mug. If you don't open the door, I'm holding it for ransom!" A pause, then the second voice, "She's not there, you idiot. Leave the mug, and go."

She put her hand on the knob, and almost--almost--turned it. But then she chickened out and simply stood there a

nd listened to the lid of her mailbox squeaking. The clatter of the mug hitting bottom. The patter of his footsteps on the stairs.

And when, finally, she heard the purr of his Audi's engine pulling away, she sank to the ground, leaned her back against the door, and sobbed as the tears she'd been holding back all day flooded out in earnest.

Chapter Eight

Nolan should never have told Connor any of it. But, dammit, he'd never been this flummoxed by a woman. "We went out," he'd said to his friend that morning, before the show got underway. "We had a great time. And now, crickets. I even left my card inside the coffee mug I returned. But no email, no text, no call, no anything."

"Baffling," Connor had said dryly.

"What?"

"Oh, come on, Nolan. Have so many women been chasing you that you forgot that some women aren't celebrity chasers? Maybe she didn't want her life blasted across the airwaves."

"My entire life is a goddamn morning show," Nolan had said. "It's just a routine. And she was anonymous."