Page 29 of My One Week Husband
And it’s like she’s sealing the deal, making it crystal clear how she feels.
“And it seems your suite is ready,” Song declares with a smile, like she loves customer service as much as she loves the rattle and hum of the railroad.
Scarlett blinks. Taken aback. Her brow knits. “A suite?”
“A honeymoon suite. Your husband booked the honeymoon suite,” Song says, tipping her forehead to me.
I part my lips, weighing in for the first time. “Of course we want the honeymoon suite, darling. I can’t wait to show it to you.”
“Great,” Scarlett says. “Terrific. Fantastic.”
Alarm bells go off.
The trifecta of words is my warning.
I need to wait to show the room to her.
Because we need to talk.
I ask the cheery train lover to please have a bellman take our bags to our suite and we’ll be up there shortly.
“Very well,” she says, then hands me a key. “And I hope your stay is as fabulous, if not more so, than the ride here.”
“Yes, so do I,” Scarlett replies.
I take the key, drop it into the pocket of my trousers, then I set a hand on Mrs. Dickens’s elbow and I guide her away from the front desk. “We’re pretending we’re on a honeymoon. Did you actually think I was going to book separate rooms?”
She shakes her head, but her eyes are nervous again. “Of course you were going to book one room. I just . . .”
“You didn’t think we would actually have one room? Do you want me to book another one under my real name or another fake name, and I can go sleep in that?”
She meets my gaze, steadying herself. “No, I don’t want that at all.”
As we head farther into a corner of the lobby, I don’t let this go. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be presumptuous. I might’ve been presumptuous by booking this suite. But the plan was for us to appear as newlyweds. I could find a way to justify getting another room. I’ll devise something,” I say. I’m not sure what, but I’m not a formidable businessman for nothing.
I solve problems.
If Scarlett doesn’t want to share a suite, I can fix that.
I can find a solution.
She straightens her shoulders, squares them, and looks me head-on, her eyes blazing. “No. I’m going to share a suite with my husband,” she says, then lifts her arms, grips the collar of my polo, and says, “But first, get me a drink.”
“A drink it is. And we can talk about whether you’re sure you can handle it,” I say, since she likes a challenge.
She narrows her eyes, like she’s daring me. “I can handle anything. Any topic.”
That’s my Scarlett. “Shall we talk about philosophy, music, literature, art?”
“Try again.”
I lower my voice, going to a whisper. “Or we could talk about the fact that I made you come so fucking hard on the train that you’re both reliving it over and over and trying to deny how good it felt.”
She nibbles on the corner of her lips. “You’re forward, aren’t you?”
“When it comes to you, I am.” I meet her gaze, my eyes locked with hers. “Let me make this clear, Scarlett. Whatever happened on the train, and whether it is going to happen again or not, I care deeply for you. And because of that, we’re going to go talk.”
She gestures to the bar. “Let’s figure this out.”
11
Scarlett
I like my life neat and orderly.
I like it understandable. I like it to make sense.
Most of all, I like it so that I can’t get hurt.
That feels less likely now than it did an hour ago.
Nothing about what happened with Daniel over the last few hours is neat and orderly.
Nor is it clear where to go from here. And I like to know where I’m going. I like to have an agenda, a to-do list, a plan.
I like maps. I like schedules.
But right now, I am whiplash. My emotions are a tilt-a-whirl, whipping me back and forth.
In one moment, I want to flirt with him, to tease him, to play with him.
The next minute, I want to boomerang back to who we were.
But I don’t think we can. Maybe we can only move forward and figure out what our new world order will be.
One thing I know for sure is that new world orders are best negotiated over martinis.
We head into the bar.
With low flickering lights, lavish archways, curved wood trim, and faded green woodwork on the walls, the quiet bar hearkens back more than a hundred years to turn-of-the-century Paris.
Even the bartender looks like she’s stepped out of the Belle Époque, hair piled high above her head and wearing a low, ruffled top.
She says hello to us in French as soft, sensual music floats in the air, surrounding us.
The kind of music that plays when you sigh wistfully, fling open your balcony window, curl your hands over the iron latticework railing, and stare out at the city, asking the river what you should do next.
