Page 13 of My One Week Husband
This city embraces beauty, and perhaps that’s why it calls to me—the beauty is the yin to my yang. It balances out all the numbers that march through my head.
Beauty has always been my other passion, whether it’s found in literature, in fashion, in architecture, or in the everyday as I walk through my adopted hometown.
Paris is mine. It gives me strength. It’s the place I returned to three years ago when my marriage died, burying itself in a coffin of lies. When I discovered what happened with my one-time husband, I could no longer stay in London, where I’d been at the time.
Paris called to me with comfort. Like a soft hand across your hair when you’re a child and you wake from a bad dream.
The city was my lullaby, whispering me home after love and life as I knew it had been demolished.
Perhaps I need that connection to Paris now to erase all these risqué thoughts of my business partner.
I need my soul mate to ground me.
With the windows left open, the evening light streaming in, I leave my flat, take the lift down to the first floor, and exit on Avenue de Suffren.
I head past the Eiffel Tower, then over the bridge that arches across the Seine, slowing to admire the view of the river that cuts through the city.
The river has secrets. Listen to it.
That’s what my father used to say when he brought me here after his meetings.
The river always knows.
Like the river was a wise old woman at the end of a winding path in the woods, perched outside her home on a bench, dispensing sage advice.
Yes, that’s the Seine.
Always telling you what to do if you’re willing to listen.
Tonight, I stop on the middle of the bridge and gaze over the sunset-soaked water, glittering with the fading rays of the day. Enjoying the view, the pause, the way stopping to listen feeds my soul.
“Tell me, river. What should I do about this blooming attraction to my business partner?” I whisper.
I strain my ears, listening as the river murmurs, “You know what to do.”
If only it were that simple.
But other things are simple—like taking out my phone, snapping a shot of the ribbon of water, then sending it to my parents, along with a short note in the family chat.
* * *
Scarlett: The river is chatty tonight.
* * *
My father replies instantly.
* * *
Dad: Ask the river if your mother and I should order Thai or Indian for dinner. We can’t seem to decide.
* * *
Mom: The river clearly is saying Tom Kha Gai, darling.
* * *
Dad: Funny, I hear it whispering about naan and tandoori chicken.
* * *
Mom: Wishful whispering, my love. Listen more closely. The river always favors your wife’s choices.
* * *
I flash back to the hotel manager with his adage about stories making for a good marriage. With my parents, listening to the wife is the rule my dad adheres to. With a smile, I tap back a reminder.
* * *
Scarlett: Dad, don’t forget what you used to say when I was growing up – my wife is always right.
* * *
Dad: Except when it comes to dinner choices.
* * *
Scarlett: Good luck winning that battle. Personally, I vote for avocado sushi.
* * *
Dad: Shocking. Terribly shocking.
* * *
Mom: That’s my second choice now, darling.
* * *
Dad: I never win the dinner debate. Sigh. Ah well, it’s only dinner. Thai it is.
* * *
Mom: Yes!
* * *
Loving their interactions, I reply with mom wins again, then turn away from the river, put the phone in my purse, and cut through the Louvre—because I can, because why live in this city if not to have the freedom to walk past the Louvre Pyramid whenever I wish?—then head to a brasserie to meet Cole and Daniel for dinner.
Business dinner with my two business partners.
Daniel is only a business partner.
No matter how delicious those fleeting moments in the hotel were, they are behind us, where they belong. The way his lips grazed my skin, scorched it with a fire hotter than any injury to my wrist . . . I shiver. We’ve always been flirtatious, but that was crossing a line, even for us.
Lucky we could segue so easily back into being friends, flirtatious business partners, at the drop of a hat.
Cole waits outside, having snagged a table on the sidewalk.
I click-clack toward him from one side of the street, Daniel coming from the other, looking sharp in jeans and a button-down that hugs his pecs, his biceps, his forearms.
Damn him for being such good eye candy.
His full, sensual lips curve into a grin, and his blue eyes twinkle as he whips off his shades.
My belly dares to swoop.
Stupid stomach.
We reach Cole at the same time.
“Do my eyes deceive me? Or is it the great Cole Donovan in repose?” The cheeky remark comes from Daniel.
