Page 66 of 7 Days and 7 Nights

“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 the cameras 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. Social media 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—he’d be climbing that corporate ladder in no time.

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 cameras back to their original angles.

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.

Chapter Twenty-Two

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 phone beside the bed which she tapped to life so she could see the time.

She squinted at the phone and brought it closer to her face in an attempt to make some sense of what it said, certain there was no way it could be right. “Shit.” She blinked and tried again, but the damn thing still said 4:03 PM.

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 clicked the phone icon and Diane’s number in her favorites list. 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?”

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