Page 23 of My One Week Husband
When I open my eyes, I peer into the bag and find the note that rests on the bottom. A small card, likely from the shop, perhaps written by the shopkeeper.
I take it out, open it, and read it.
For my wife, on our weeklong getaway . . .
The next day, I spritz on some Come What May, zip up my bag, lock my flat, and head to the Gare Saint-Lazare to catch the six o’clock train to Giverny.
Daniel’s on the platform, leaning against a pole while reading a book, looking like a GQ model with the way he stands, so casual and so fucking hot.
Charcoal slacks hug his strong legs and a polo shirt shows off his toned arms.
Gone is the tailored suit.
In its place is the man everyone wants, the man you can’t look away from.
In his vacation garb, still looking like a million bucks. I stare, drinking him in, eating him up.
My skin heats.
My pulse spikes.
My breath stutters in my throat as I regard the gorgeous man waiting for me.
The question is, will he recognize me?
I am in costume after all—ring included.
I feel like a different person. A daring woman. A woman who didn’t have her heart shattered into a million jagged pieces a few years ago. Jagged pieces she’s tried to superglue back together.
Nor am I the financier turned hotelier.
I’ve ditched my business attire, and I’m ready to play.
I glance at the glass case of a billboard on the wall, taking in my long, sleek auburn hair, courtesy of one of the finest wigs in the city, my big rose-gold Jackie O shades, and something else I rarely wear.
A dress.
Short, bright, and bold, it boasts a crazy, swirly pattern.
Normally, I’m all solids and dark colors, expensive slacks, and silk shirts.
Today, I look like I could be on my honeymoon.
I head over to Daniel, and his eyes roam over me, shamelessly indulging in the view, checking me out, I’m sure.
And I wonder . . . does he know it’s me? Is he staring at me like I’m simply some woman he can’t resist giving a once-over?
Is he indulging in the scenery with me as a part of it?
My stomach flips from the heat in his eyes, the flames licking higher.
When I’m a foot or two away, he raises an eyebrow, his lips curve up, and he reaches out a hand, circling his palm around my wrist. His touch ignites sparks as he tugs me close. We’re face-to-face, a foot away, and his eyes lock with mine. “You thought I wouldn’t recognize you, didn’t you?” he asks.
I shiver, my breath ghosting across my lips as I answer, “I didn’t think you did.”
“I did. I definitely did,” he says, his voice warm and rumbly.
Possessive too.
So is his touch. He’s not letting go of my wrist, and I don’t mind the strong hold, the tight grip. “How? How did you know it was me from a distance?” I ask, breathier than I expected.
“The way you walk. I’ve been memorizing it for years.”
The trembles spread across my body, heating me everywhere and anywhere, and most inconveniently between my legs.
Maybe Nadia was right.
Maybe we should play our roles.
8
Daniel
She’s Scarlett, but she’s also not Scarlett.
She’s this entirely new creation, stitched together from bright, bold cloth and silken flaming red hair.
She’s as alluring as ever, maybe even more so, but she’s also reinvented herself.
She smells different too—a heady, enticing perfume.
That is intentional.
And it’s a deliberate invitation.
I step closer, inhale the lush scent of this woman, then run my thumb along her wrist. “You wore that to wind me up, didn’t you, Mrs. Dickens? That’s the one I sent you? The perfume?”
She shivers as I touch her. “Yes. It was such a lovely wedding present from my husband,” she says, sliding right into the pretend.
Becoming this character.
Entering from stage right.
Playing in our theater of make-believe.
“As soon as I inhaled it in the store, I knew it was perfect for you,” I say, and offer another drag of my thumb over her soft skin, eliciting another shiver from her under my touch.
But she doesn’t simply receive touch.
She initiates it. She lifts her right arm, sets it on my biceps, and curls her palm around my muscle. It’s possessive, the way she touches me, and a thrill that sends lightning bolts of lust through my body.
“You shopping for me. That’s so sexy,” she purrs.
“Buying you gifts is easy. Especially when you smell like this,” I say, inching my face even closer, catching another scent of her.
A soft murmur falls from her lips.
Here we are, on the platform, surrounded by travelers. And yet it’s like we’re in a cocoon, all alone with our wishes and wants that are now transparent.
“You know me so well, darling,” she says, soft and sensual. Deliberate too, like she is aware of exactly what her words do to me. “And I think I know you well also, since I suspect you got me this perfume because you wanted to bury your nose in the crook of my neck and inhale me on the train. I think you wanted to be driven mad with lust on the ride to Giverny.”
