Page 40 of My One Week Husband
“They absolutely are.” I tap the side of my head. “I’m recording every single detail up here.”
“And what is your conclusion so far?”
“I love it,” I say, holding her gaze, and I’m not just talking about the hotel. I’m talking about the whole experience of being here with Scarlett. The things she’s shared with me. Getting to know her better. Understanding her. I love knowing her, and that’s a terrifying notion except that we also have built-in safety precautions. We have an escape plan—that’s what will make this work. We’ll stick to it.
Of course we will.
Once our afternoon of intel-gathering is complete, Scarlett says she needs to change her shoes.
“You’re switching to bedtime slippers already?”
“Au contraire,” she says with a flirty grin as she sails into our suite, rustles around in her suitcase, and finds a pair of sapphire-blue heels.
She slides into them, and my mouth waters.
“You’re stunning,” I say as I roam my gaze over her body, savoring the shape of her long, lean legs, imagining how they’d look draped over my shoulders.
“You’re not so shabby yourself.”
She ditches her wig next, brushing out her hair, looking fantastic as herself again.
We head to the veranda for cocktail hour—another opportunity to get a sense of the property.
Because one thing that cocktails do is loosen lips.
Soon enough, as Scarlett sips a glass of Chenin blanc, she’s making small talk with another couple. A blonde named Elodie, who looks like she could be Kristen Bell’s stunt double, and her glasses-wearing hipster wife named Hazel, who reminds me of Kerry Washington. They’re from Las Vegas, they say.
Scarlett introduces herself as Violet, saying she worked in retail, and asks the others why they’re here.
Elodie sets a hand on her wife’s shoulder. “We’re newlyweds. Just like you two,” she says.
Scarlett smiles. “Is it that obvious?”
The blonde leans closer to us, adopts a wry grin, then points to Scarlett’s hand. “Patently. The way you look at each other—like there is no one else in the world. Also, I love your ring. It’s so daring. So bright,” Elodie says, and flashes her own ring, bright and blue. A sapphire.
“Some women like it loud. Some women like it bright.” With every word Scarlett shares with this couple, it’s like my business partner is revealing more of herself.
To me.
And I gobble it up, taking notes the same way as before when we were analyzing the hotel balconies.
Hazel clears her throat, weighing in. “So when did you two get married?”
“Three days ago,” I chime in. “In Paris, where we live now. The ceremony was held in a small little passage—Galerie Vivienne. Mosaic floors. Stained-glass ceilings. Iron latticework,” I say, painting the scene and seeing it vividly, a small, private affair.
Scarlett jumps right in with the ruse. “It was gorgeous. Just friends and family,” she says, and my heart thumps harder. She imagines our pretend wedding the same way. This . . . delights me.
Elodie brings her hand to her chest. “You look so happy together. That’s so wonderful. How did you meet?”
Elodie is hitting on all the details Scarlett and I haven’t practiced. I suppose I didn’t think we’d be queried over them. But that’s the joy of role-play. It involves improvisational skills.
Scarlett seems to savor this thrill, her lips curving into a grin, her eyes twinkling. “You’ll probably never believe this,” she says in a whisper.
“Oh, try me,” the blonde says eagerly.
Scarlett shifts her gaze back and forth then drops her voice to a whisper. “We met at a club. One of those risqué, after-dark type of clubs.”
The blonde’s eyes widen. “A sex club?”
Scarlett laughs, nodding.
Holy shit. My pretend wife has quite an active imagination.
“The funny thing is we work in the same building. But we met after-hours at a sex club. It turned out we had a lot of the same predilections,” Scarlett says with a lift of her eyebrow, a naughty little gesture.
Hazel’s face goes a little red, but she sits up straighter, higher. “That’s great that you have so much in common.”
“And when I found out he was in the same building, I kept finding reasons to go to his office. One thing led to another . . .” Scarlett says, tossing me a dirty glance, crafting such a gorgeous, seductive tale.
I pick up the thread from my improvisation partner, playing along easily. “Darling, are you truly going to tell them about all the things we did in my corner office?”
Elodie’s eyes go wider. “I know I’d love to hear. Wouldn’t you, babe?”
Hazel laughs, a little embarrassed. She adjusts her glasses, then lifts her chin. “Fine. I’d love the dirty details too.”
“Mmm. I had a feeling you would,” Elodie says.
Scarlett runs her finger along the rim of her wineglass, dipping her head then raising it. “Let me just say we had the hottest sex of my life on his desk,” she says.
