Page 63 of My One Week Husband
I have someone. I have lots of someones, from my parents to my friends. I dial Nadia.
“Bonsoir,” she says, her pretty voice floating across the phone.
“Please tell me you’re not out on a hot date with a wonderful Frenchman that I interrupted?”
“Shame on you for wishing I’m not dating,” she says, laughing. “I’m in my hotel room, packing for my return trip tomorrow.” A pause. “But it sounds like you need me?”
I swallow past a lump. “I do.”
29
Daniel
My defenses go up.
“Why do you presume I did something wrong?” I toss the question out at Cole as we remain at the table after Scarlett leaves.
He stares sharply at me. It’s a look that says, You can’t be seriously asking me that question. “I wonder.” His response drips with sarcasm.
Perhaps I deserve it. “What do you want me to say, Cole?”
He tips his forehead in the direction of her retreating silhouette. “What did you do to hurt her? To cause her to walk away like that?”
I did everything I shouldn’t have done. I let her in. “I told her the truth about my family,” I say as coolly as I possibly can.
“And?”
“And that’s all. Because the truth is, I’m not right for her. I’m all wrong,” I say. But those words feel less believable than they did a week ago, a year ago.
How is that possible?
Cole shakes his head, frustration in his dark eyes. “You’re such an asshole.”
I bark out a laugh, though the moment isn’t particularly amusing. “Why don’t you tell me what you really think?”
He stabs the table with his finger. “You told her about your family, right?”
“Yes. I said that I did.”
“And then what?”
I lift my glass of bourbon and knock some back, feeling the burn. Perhaps needing the burn as I force my mind to return to how she reacted, how gentle and tender she was. How open and vulnerable. How much she seemed to care.
She didn’t run. She didn’t hide. She simply understood.
Perhaps that’s why those words about being all wrong feel less believable than they did a week ago. Perhaps I’m not as damaged as I thought. Maybe being with her started to heal me.
But the trouble is, I know what happens to full hearts. To healed hearts. They’re as vulnerable, perhaps even more so, to slaughter.
“I told her what happened. And I told her I was falling in love with her,” I explain clinically to my friend.
He arches a very knowing brow. “Hmm. Called that one.”
I shake my head. “Try not to look too much like the cat who lapped up all the cream.”
He laughs. “But I am. Except I’m not. Because you want to be with her.”
“Yes, it all sounds well and good in this fantasy world. And do you know what?” I ask, straightening my shoulders, keeping my tone firm. “I’m in love with her. That part is simple. But other parts are not. It would be a massive mistake to continue.”
“Why?” he asks, relentless in his questioning, like a barrister in the courtroom.
“You know why,” I say, as lawyerly as he has been.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “No. I actually don’t. I don’t know why at all. Because we’ve all been through shit. We’ve all been through hard things. Granted, I can never pretend to know what your pain has been like. I will never pretend that I understand your grief intrinsically.” He inhales deeply, uncrossing his arms. “But I do understand grief. I’ve dealt with it myself. I know it’s horrible and awful, and it makes you want to close off from the world. But you’re not closed off. You’re a human being. And you went and fell in love. So why do you want to throw it all away?”
His questions are valid, but so are my answers. “I don’t want to put her in the position of being with someone who’s this damaged,” I say, sounding as stubborn as I feel.
“I know you believe that.”
“I believe it because it’s true,” I say, trying to convince myself, but inside, a nagging voice keeps asking, Is it?
I’ve always believed that, and that belief has steered me, has served as a rudder for years. But maybe it no longer does.
Cole leans forward, steepling his fingers. “Do you mean it when you say you love her?”
“Yes,” I bite out.
“Then, man, just let her in,” he says, imploring this time. “It’s worth it. You’re not the same person you were when you went to college. You’re not the same man you were when you needed the walls, the games, and when you sought out pleasure just for the sake of pleasure. You’ve changed over time. I’ve seen you with her. You’ve been enchanted with her for a long time.”
I shrug an acknowledgment. This last week has been the culmination of years of longing, of wanting, and of falling. It’s never been merely physical with Scarlett. My emotions are not born from a desire to take her to bed, though that desire is potent. I have been entranced by her mind, her mouth, her words, her heart, her brain, and her brilliance.
