Page 4 of RAKEish

On a whim, he turned down the volume, pulled his phone out of his suit pocket, and dialed the number she’d just rattled off. It was time the two of them had a conversation.

“This is Monday Musings with Dr. Stone. Please hold.”

He patiently waited, considering what he should say. He heard a click on his end of the line, and then her voice speaking into his ear.

“This is Dr. Lux Stone, and you’re on the air. Who am I speaking to?”

“Good morning, Doc.” Giving someone a nickname right out of the starting block was a flirting tool he’d often used on women. The implied intimacy tended to soften the response of even the wariest of them. “This is Scott Landshire, the man you love to hate. I’ve been listening this morning, and it dawned on me, what better man to help you out than me? If you’ve got a few minutes, I could help you with your dating profile.”

There was a soft thud, as if the phone had been dropped. He waited. Nothing. “Hello. Are you still there?” Surely, she’d not hung up on him.

“Hello, Mr. Landshire.” She blew out a breath straight into his ear. “What an unpleasant surprise. Is this your first time listening to Monday Musings?”

He ignored the insult. “On the contrary. I never miss an episode.”

“I find that startling.” The four words squeaked across the phone lines sounding like they had travelled through the chew toy of a pet Pitbull. Not at all like her normal self-assured tone.

“How else am I to know what I’ve done wrong if I don’t listen?” His goal, he reminded himself, was to charm her into dropping her continual harassment of his column.

“You say that like you want to change,” Doc said. “Do you want to transform from a rake into a romantic? Or do you just want the thorn in the side of your column to go away?”

He chuckled. “Just between us—and your dozen or so listeners—I’m gutted every time you attack RAKEish.”

“Dozen?” she said, her voice more frozen steel then unaffected blasé.

“Too many?” he teased, glad to know she could be needled out of her calm demeanor.

“Mr. Landshire, my show reaches an audience of 1.6 million people. And in case you’re math-challenged, that’s more than a dozen. In fact, if you want to get down to the nitty gritty—”

“I’m always up for getting down to the nitty gritty—”

“It’s 133,333 plus dozens,” she said, ignoring his attempt at humor.

“I stand corrected. Your numbers are impressive,” he responded.

“Thank you.” Her words said one thing, her tone said bite me.

“Almost as impressive as the column I wrote on the art of pickup lines. May I suggest you start there with your second glance resolution? You’ll find it in Naked Runway’s February issue.”

“I recall that issue. Your suggestions were archaic.”

“And yet they work.” Or at least they had until she’d voiced her opinion on them. An airing that, much to his annoyance, had resulted in Monday Musings bouncing out of its niche lane right into the traffic of mainstream popularity.

“That speaks more toward the type of woman you use them on than it does about my comment.”

“And what type would that be?”

“The type with subpar standards when it comes to how evolved a man must be before she’s willing to entertain the idea of having a drink with him.”

“I must say, your ever-present need to hate on me is gutting.” He liked to think of himself as a cheerleader for women’s rights. Especially the one allowing them the freedom not to be thrust into an arranged marriage. A practice still going strong in Shiretopia where its future kings—like him—were concerned.

“If that gutted you,” Doc said, “I could only imagine your reaction should you learn the content of the nightmare I had last night. A nightmare in which you starred.”

“Why Doc, are you having dirty dreams about me?” Interesting. He’d not seen that coming.

“That is not what I said,” she replied tersely. “And forgive me for even bringing it up. I’m afraid my brain is short-circuiting as a result of so little sleep last night.”

“I’d much prefer to hear the content of your dream than accept your apology.”

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