Page 32 of My One Week Husband
Those words ring in my head as we survey the room, my eyes drifting past the sunken living room, the French doors that lead to the bedroom, and a balcony that overlooks the shadow of the hill.
Beautiful.
“Is it too soon to say I’ve fallen in love with this property?” I ask, buoyed by the prospect of this purchase, if all the other properties hold up too.
“Love at first sight is perfectly acceptable with music and fine hotels,” he says with a wry grin.
I raise a finger. “And books. Don’t forget books.”
“I’d never forget books. Falling for a story needs no explanation.”
I smile, glad we can do this, grateful we can be friends, that we can banter this way.
Talk like partners.
That’s who we are.
But there are practical matters to attend to. I gesture to the French doors. “You can take the main bed, Daniel.”
He scoffs, furrowing his brow. “Woman, who do you take me for?”
“Is that such a terrible idea?”
He strides to the balcony, opens the sliding doors, then tosses me a don’t be crazy look. “I’m a gentleman. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You don’t have to,” I say as he turns and gazes out at the view of the inky night sky. Stars wink on and off as a midnight-blue blanket covers the earth.
He shakes his head, brooking no argument.
I swallow, trying to figure out if I’m daring enough to say the next words. “We can still share a bed,” I offer.
Spinning around, he laughs this time. “Darling, we aren’t sharing a bed if I’m not fucking you. I’m not strong enough to withstand that.” He returns to the room, shutting the sliding doors.
“Truth be told, I’m not sure I am either,” I admit with a shrug.
His eyes seem to flicker with happiness. Like he’s grateful that the situation is hard for me too.
Believe you me, handsome, it so is.
He points to the couch. “But I am strong enough to withstand you from a sofa bed. And that’s where I’ll sleep.”
“At least let me get you a good pillow.”
He sets a hand on his heart. “A pillow. Hold me back. Perhaps some tea too? Maybe a biscuit?”
I roll my eyes, stride past the French doors, and grab a soft white pillow from the massive pile on the king-size bed. Briefly, my eyes linger on the mattress, images of us tangled up in the sheets taunting me.
Daniel’s strong back and shoulders, those sinewy muscles . . . I imagine his toned arms pinning me down, holding me in place. His hands traveling everywhere over me, gripping me, clasping me, pushing me to my limit.
And me, wanting all he gives. All he does.
Every rough, dirty deed.
Then, as I have before, I dismiss those tantalizing pictures, swiping them from my mind as I return to the living room.
“No tea tonight. But you know what the travel sites say—a good pillow is the measure of a great hotel,” I say as I hand it to him.
He takes it. “I’ll report back on its measurement at dawn.”
I return to the bedroom, making my way to the en suite bathroom. In there, I freshen up, brush my teeth, wash my face, and remove my wig. I set it down carefully in the suitcase next to a platinum-blonde one, and a black one too.
Maybe the blonde for tomorrow? Maybe in this wig I’ll be Mrs. Rousseau.
Or Mrs. Nicks.
I smile privately at the possibilities as I make sure the wigs are tucked safely away.
For now, I’m not Mrs. Dickens.
I’m Scarlett Slade, no artifice and not a touch of makeup. The remnants of my perfume have faded away.
I’m only me.
That raises the question. What would Scarlett Slade do?
I still don’t know the answer.
I know what Mrs. Dickens would do. She’d put on a jet-black negligee, head to the door, and strike a pose.
Invite him in.
A pang of longing tugs at my chest. His offer is so deliciously enticing. But I don’t know if I can take it.
I don’t know how I’d survive it.
Riffling through my things, my fingers stop on a soft, silky teddy. A cranberry-red one. The shade of desire.
I murmur as I stroke it, savoring the lush feel of the material. I bet he’d love to touch me in this piece of lingerie. Bet he’d love to run his fingers over it, under it, onto me.
I shiver, sensations rushing through me.
I want to put it on, but wearing it is far too risqué. Wearing it would be playing with fire.
Not so much for him, but for me.
I won’t be able to resist him if I wear this, and I need to know I can handle the pain and the pleasure.
The possibility of this tryst going terribly wrong.
But maybe it’ll only go right.
I reach for my faded Brown University T-shirt from my alma mater, where I earned my bachelor’s degree in economics. I tug it on, then pull on a pair of sleep shorts and head to the living room to say good night to Daniel.
