Page 8 of My One Week Husband
“That was excellent thinking on your part.”
“Oh, that wasn’t me. That was all Mr. Stewart. He came downstairs in the middle of the night and made sure we took care of it,” he says, as a bell rings above the front door.
He flashes a bright greeting to a man strolling through the front door, wheeling a suitcase behind him.
I hum, impressed with my colleague, annoyed with myself as I head to the adjoining café, ask the host for a table for two, and grab a spot by the window.
An auburn-haired waitress with a freckled nose brings a coffee pot over. I nod a yes, and she pours, asking how my morning is.
We make small talk, and when she leaves, I drink the coffee and cut myself some slack. It’s good that Daniel moved some guests last night. It’s good that he was here too. I don’t have to think of everything. It’s not my job to handle every single detail. This is why I have partners, managers, employees.
Others need to be sharp too.
And last night, others were.
A minute later, Daniel sweeps in, looking well-rested and ready to tackle the day in his slacks and crisp linen shirt, a glint in his eye.
Is that a glint that says we have a secret? But we don’t, of course. Knowing what he looks like in lounge pants is hardly worth exchanging flirty glances over.
“Don’t you look like you’re on a honeymoon,” I say, scanning his attire. After I was practically ogling him last night, it’s best if I act like it’s normal to comment on his appearance.
He sits across from me, proffering a sly smile. “It’s my honeymoon, love,” he says as the waitress arrives at our table.
“Congratulations to the newlyweds,” the friendly woman says.
I laugh, rolling my eyes as I spread a napkin across my lap. Daniel lifts his chin, greeting the freckled server. “Thank you so much. We’re having a wonderful honeymoon already.”
“That is fantastic to hear. This hotel is certainly known for that,” she says, like she has a little secret tucked in her back pocket.
“As it should be. I barely made it out of the room,” Daniel adds, playing it up. Such a ham.
The waitress smiles. “I remember what that was like a few years ago with my husband.”
She takes our order, brings Daniel a tea, then I launch right into business. “I want you to know I’ve already done an analysis and activated a plan to replace the chandeliers.”
“Of course you ‘activated a plan,’” he says in that teasing voice. “You probably didn’t even go back to sleep last night, did you?”
“I slept for a bit.”
He wags a finger at me. “I don’t believe you. I bet you were up for hours, running numbers. Admit it. That’s what you did, Scarlett. You are one of those people who can survive on two to three hours a night of shut-eye.”
“That’s not true,” I say as he lifts his cup.
“I bet you can survive on numbers alone. You eat them for breakfast, right? I suspect the waitress is going to bring you a side of equations with your berries. They’ll power you through literally the entire day. All of your strength, all of your intensity comes from your financial reports.”
“I like numbers,” I say, but inside, I’m trying to suppress a grin.
“No. You love numbers.”
I arch a brow. “I believe my insane love of numbers is why you and Cole were so happy to have me invest. Same thing that has allowed us to expand, which is what the two of you wanted when you offered me a share. So there.”
“You have made many things possible, and for that, I’m incredibly grateful,” he says, taking a drink of his tea.
I take another pull of my coffee and set it down. “And also, thank you for what you did last night.”
He waves his right hand in front of his chest. “You mean giving you a wonderful view of all my assets?”
I shake my head. “Making sure the guests in rooms adjacent to chandeliers had other places to stay. I can’t believe that thought slipped my mind. I’m ashamed. But I’m glad that you caught it.”
He puts his cup down, his expression gentle but earnest. “Scarlett, we’re a team. You don’t have to do everything. That’s why we work together.”
“I know, I know. I just, I wish I had thought of it. But you did, so I’m glad.”
“I’m all about making my lovely wife happy,” he says as the waitress returns with our food.
As she sets down Daniel’s egg whites and my cup of berries, she asks if we’ve visited the Helen Williams winery.
“Hmm. I don’t think so,” Daniel says, leaning back in his chair, clearly enjoying the marriage ruse. “Are there lots of dark corners to tug my bride into and smother her with kisses?”
