Page 47 of My One Week Husband
At the desk, the concierge is professional and friendly, asking how our flight was. I tell him it was fantastic, then I show him my passport, but we give him the names we’re checking in under—names Daniel gave the hotel in advance, citing privacy reasons.
The man checks us in, hands us a key card, and says he hopes we’ll enjoy our honeymoon here at Le Pavillon de Nice.
“I’m certain we’ll savor every second of it. I’ve been looking forward to it for three long years,” Daniel says to the man, but the words are for me.
They burn through me like a match to kindling, igniting a fresh, hot flame of desire.
Desire and something else.
Something more powerful than lust.
Daniel touches my hand again, and as he does, I catch a glimpse of our rings close together.
The ruby that Nadia gave me. The band that he purchased himself.
They remind me that this is only a ruse.
This whole thing is a fake, designed to be pain-free, to help us make a business decision.
But the problem is, I’m dying to know everything about Daniel Stewart.
Not Mr. Monet or Mr. Rousseau or Mr. Dickens.
But rather this man by my side.
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Daniel
This hotel is everything.
I want to find that waitress in Avignon and thank her for the tip-off about the Le Pavillon hotels. Give her a secret bonus, a million-dollar tip.
As Scarlett tackles some computer work that afternoon, I take a walk around the grounds, ringing Cole as I go.
“Are we ready to buy it right now?” my good friend asks, no-nonsense to the bone.
I laugh as I make my way to the end of the hotel drive, turning left to head into the nearby town. “Eager much?”
“I know a good thing when I see it. And the pictures you sent were great. Tell me everything,” Cole says.
As I walk into town, I update him on the intel we’ve gathered so far from the two inns. “But this is only our second one, besides the one in Aix-de-Provence. We have about three more to see,” I say, then add, “Though the early data suggests we are on the right track.”
I share more details, and we ask each other questions, challenging each other as we have always done, putting a potential deal through its paces. This one will be new for us. Our company has excelled at luxury hotels, at huge skyscrapers, at expansive resorts with thousands of rooms, but this would be an expansion into a segment we haven’t played in before. Vetting everything is key.
“I’ve been looking into exactly what it will take from an operations point of view to run these inns,” Cole says, the sound of Parisian traffic filtering behind him. I can tell by the sirens—the sound they make in Paris is quite distinctive.
“Shouldn’t you be enjoying your holiday rather than running numbers?” I ask as I wander past a wine shop and turn onto the main street.
“My mind rarely stops thinking business. Same as yours.”
“Touché. You know me too well.” Here I am chatting with my business partner while I soak in the view of the sea, enjoying the ambience as I amble through Nice.
Funny, how my life was so ordinary growing up, how my family was so middle-class, and I loved that.
I loved so much about my parents. The way I was raised. Their open affection for each other. Our simple life outside of London. I never thought it would turn into this world, jetting around the globe, traveling to gorgeous destinations, deciding whether or not to spend millions of dollars. I’d thought my life would march fearlessly in only one direction.
Then, I upended it.
I derailed my own dreams with a reckless, hotheaded choice. A reaction, really. A horribly thoughtless moment when I vented grief and anger and loss by punching a wall. That night changed nothing for my parents, but everything for me.
But maybe this was fate’s plan all along. I’m not playing in concert halls. I’m playing along the coast of the South of France instead.
“I do know you well,” Cole says, answering me. “And speaking of, how is our better third?”
Ah, it’s the question I knew was coming. It was inevitable he’d circle back after our man-to-man talk on the street a few nights ago. He’s always concerned about Scarlett. With good reason, I realize, now that I know how damaged her heart was, how cruelly she’s been treated. Cole must have sensed the fragility she hides behind that tough, capable, worldly exterior.
“She’s . . . lovely,” I say, my heart warming unexpectedly at the way that word conjures images of her. Scarlett smiling happily on the plane this morning. Scarlett chatting with Elodie yesterday evening. Scarlett on the floor last night, so much more than lovely in a filthy, fantastic way. But the word fits her. All her sides.
