His eyes twinkle with mischief as he wraps an arm around my waist and yanks me close, my body flush to his. “I would have, if I could have gotten you out of bed,” he says, painting the details of our pretend romance.
“I could say the same of you,” I tease, gliding further into the parts we’re playing. “You were relentless, always wanting me.”
“I still always want you, Mrs. Rousseau,” he says, using my name for today. “But your amorous nature is precisely why I couldn’t bring you here when we were courting. Don’t you remember all you ever wanted to do was fuck and fuck and fuck?” he asks, whispering in my ear, heating me up until my skin is blazing.
I drag my nails down the front of his casual mint-green button-down. “Can you blame me? My husband is a filthy man in bed.”
His eyes narrow, flickering with heat. “My wife is an absolutely filthy woman who craves hot, dirty sex all night.” He tucks a finger under my chin, stroking his thumb along my jaw, leaving sparks in his wake. “So, as you can see, when I have to satisfy your insatiable appetite in bed, it makes it hard to whisk you away to places like this.”
I take the bait as I inch away, roaming my eyes up and down his muscular frame. “Is it? Hard?”
His smile is wicked as he runs a hand over my hair. “Around you, yes.” He leans in, brushes a soft kiss to my forehead, and whispers, “But I’m so glad you like Monet’s house, Scarlett. I’ve been here a few times and always love it. But more so with you.”
I relax, returning to myself, following his cue.
I flash him a smile—not a flirty one, not a naughty one, but a genuinely happy one. I’m glad he loves being here with me, because I enjoy touring this spot with this man, whether as newlyweds or as us. Both suit me fine.
He takes my hand as we wander into the dining room, which is painted brightly in bold shades of yellow.
I lower my eyes, shifting my gaze. “I’m almost ashamed that this is the first time I’m seeing the gardens and the house. I can’t believe I haven’t made the trek out here yet.”
Daniel squeezes my fingers. “Ah, but that’s only because you are a Parisphile. It’s hard to peel you away from the city.”
I grin. “True. Paris is my soul mate. Have I ever told you that before? That I feel that way?” My voice pitches up, colored perhaps with some nerves. Aside from my parents, I’ve never told anyone how deeply I care for the city, but confessing this part of myself feels right. Necessary too.
He smiles, stroking my cheek. “I sense that about you.”
“How so?”
“You belong in Paris. Whenever I meet you at a café or a brasserie, and you’re sitting outside at one of those small round tables with the high-backed wicker chairs, drinking a glass of wine, reading a book, I always think, ‘She is this city. She doesn’t simply blend in. She is Paris,’” he says.
Warmth bubbles in me. I might actually be glowing. “It makes me happy that you see that.”
He gives a shrug, like he can’t help it. “It’s how you look to me. You’re like this goddess who owns the town.”
“I think Paris owns me,” I say, then point behind us to the blue kitchen. “But if I lived here, Giverny might own me. Making a meal in that kitchen must be like cooking in the sky. Can you see me in there? Wearing only an apron?”
He hums, a low rumble in his throat. “Perhaps, Mrs. Rousseau, we can play that game sometime. When I come home and find you in next to nothing.”
I purr, running my fingers down his arm, loving the freedom to touch him like this. To experience all of him in this cocoon of make-believe. “I’d do that for you. Put on only lacy lingerie, answer the door like that, ready for you.”
“Is that so?” His voice dips low as he backs me up into the yellow wall in the empty dining room. “You’d turn off the oven, then I’d bend you over the counter and take you hard after a hard day.”
The image lights me up, sending waves of desire through me. “You could take anything out on me with the way you fuck me,” I offer, gripping his shirt, tugging him close as the prospect of pleasure coils in me. “I’d want that. Hard and rough, your hands everywhere, squeezing, gripping, kneading.”
He groans savagely, then flicks his gaze from side to side, like he’s making sure no tourists from other rooms are about to wander in. But the house is quiet. “Is this what you were promising me last night, darling?” He runs his fingers down my arm. “Spending the day getting worked up?”
My hand dances down the front of his shirt on a determined path for his pants, sliding over the hard ridge of his erection. I shudder as I brush my hand over him, savoring his arousal. “Yes. Are you worked up?”
“You tell me,” he rasps out, rough and hungry, pressing my hand against his cock.
An appreciative murmur falls from my lips. “I’d say so,” I purr.
He lets go of me then ropes that arm around my waist, his fingers landing on my ass. He tugs me closer, pressing his hard-on into me. “Is this what you truly want, Mrs. Rousseau? Because I’ll take you into the kitchen right now, set you on the table, and have my wicked way with you.”
I half believe he would fuck me in Monet’s home. I half want it too. But I also want to be teased, to be pushed. “Keep pushing me. Like you’re edging me. It makes everything better. Makes me even hotter for you. More worked up.”
He growls, his eyes darkening, nearly feral with lust. “I’m so worked up, Mrs. Rousseau. So damn turned on that I’m going to need to change the subject just so I can survive being here in public with you.” With a so there expression, he does just that—shifts gears. “Speaking of, do you cook?”
I laugh, loving the sharp turn in the road as we pull apart, strolling around the dining room, cooling off. I tap my chest. “Vegan here. I definitely cook. It’s very hard to get exactly what I want otherwise.”
“And why are you vegan?”
“I love animals. I’d rather not eat them.”
“Makes sense. I like that you have your reasons. Have you always cooked?”
“My parents love to cook. I learned from them. I think it’s the scientists in them. They are mad scientists testing out all sorts of recipes, reveling in the physics and the chemistry of the kitchen. I’ve always loved to cook or experiment on my own as well. And when I was with my husband.”
The latter is a topic I rarely bring up with Daniel, or anyone else besides Nadia. But once I say it, I know why.
I want him to know me.
“Did you like doing that?” he asks.
“Very much so. I loved it. It was one of my favorite parts of being married. Perhaps the only part that doesn’t feel marred,” I say, heading toward the window.
He follows me, stops when I do, then runs a knuckle over my cheek, tilting his head as he studies my face. “Is it hard for you? Playing pretend like this?”
“Because of Jonathan?” I ask tentatively, wanting to make sure he’s ready to wade into these waters.
With his trademark directness, he answers, “Yes. Do our games bring you back to times you’d rather forget? I don’t know the details of what happened in your marriage, but I know sometimes you’re sad. And I know sometimes you’re distant and you pull away. Does it bother you at all, what we’re doing?”
That’s an excellent question.
15
Scarlett
In the center of the yellow dining room, I ponder Daniel’s query.
Do these games we play remind me of my charade of a marriage? Do they remind me of it in any way, shape, or form?
I sweep my gaze over the sunshiny walls as my mind hunts for the answer, for the truth of it.
Maybe Monet painted each room in his home in such vibrant colors because each one helped, in its own way, to guide him through such moments.
Maybe the blue kitchen was the place that helped him navigate through dark moods, to see inside his soul, to improve it.
Maybe this room, with its bright shades of yellow, became a bastion of clarity.
N
early a century after the artist inhabited this space, after he walked across these same floors, maybe even after he stared out this same window, my own sense of clarity burrows into my bones.
“No. Because this arrangement with you is nothing like my marriage.” I meet his blue-eyed gaze head-on. “We put our cards on the table, you and me. You’re not lying to me. You’ve been open from the start.” My voice is strong, matching my certainty.
It’s strange, in a way, feeling this sure this soon. But maybe it’s not as soon as all that—maybe it’s a certainty born from knowing someone. I only knew Jonathan a few months before we were married. I’ve known Daniel three years, and perhaps now know him better than I did my husband.
“You laid out your feelings,” I go on. “What you can give, what you can’t give,” I add. “You never promised forever. And you certainly didn’t promise anything more than you could deliver.” As I speak, it’s as if I can breathe more deeply, as if the latent pain I carry in my shoulders weighs less. Perhaps some of it is even taking flight with my words.
Yes. It feels good to speak the truth.
Funny, too, that Daniel and I have spent evenings together at the theater, at the opera, in restaurants, and in hotels. We’ve toasted to each other, celebrated milestones, and inked deals that required blood, sweat, and tears, but we haven’t ever delved into the nitty-gritty of my sham of a marriage.
Maybe I never wanted to until now.
Want is a powerful emotion.
I want so much with this man.
I want to share more of myself with him.
But I also want to know what he’s thinking. So I practice patience, waiting for him to go next.
He runs a hand along my shoulder, down my arm. He’s so tactile, so tuned in to physical touch. “I don’t like to make promises I can’t keep. I’ve learned how powerful they are—promises. How important they become, especially between friends and partners. At the very least, we should embrace this thing between us with the truth. Because lies can bring down a house.”
He sounds like he knows firsthand how damaging a farce can be. I want to dig deeper, to understand why he’s saying that. “What do you mean exactly?”
He waves a hand behind him, as if he’s referring to something in the past. “Just that. Lies are insidious. They can eat away at you.”
My curiosity drives me on. “Does this have anything to do with your family?” I push the conversation to a place I’ve rarely ventured, but I feel courageous today. I want to open that door, to know him a little better.
“You mean my parents being dead?” he asks bluntly.
No beating around the bush.
A lump forms in my throat, but I push past it, speak around it. “Yes. You were so passionate in what you just said about lies bringing down a house, and it made me wonder. You don’t have to answer. You might not ever want to answer. But I wanted to ask.” Still I hope he’ll tell me. The hope is so strong in my chest, it’s like a knot, and I want him to untangle it.
He takes a moment, his expression hard, his eyes intense but also sad, like he’s lost in time, working through a memory. He blinks, maybe blinking it away. “When I talk about lies, I do mean about my parents,” he says carefully, taking his time with each word. “There were people in my life when I was younger. People I knew who lied. People I trusted.” He clenches his jaw, then continues, biting out the words. “People I didn’t think would lie. But they did lie. They lied to me.” He inhales sharply. That one deep breath seems like the only thing standing between Daniel and red-hot anger. Then he lets that breath out, his voice going quieter. “And my parents aren’t here because of that.”
My blood goes cold, my body chilling. Daniel’s a man who keeps matters of his heart and his family close to the vest. This is so much more than he’s shared before. The hair on my arms stands on end, prickling with worry, telling me we’ve touched on a topic that will be a big hill to climb, one that may take days or months to ascend.
“I’m sorry, Daniel, that you went through that,” I say tenderly, wrapping a hand around his forearm, clasping him, my eyes drifting briefly to the scar on his hand. Is it connected to those people? Those lies? I doubt I’ll find the answers today. “I’m sorry you had that experience. I wish I could take the pain and hurt away.”
“Thank you.” He breathes roughly through his nostrils once more, his jaw working overtime. A heavy sigh falls from his lips, like he’s releasing pain with it.
“That’s why I hate lies,” he adds in a hiss, then all that hurt and anger seem to slink away, slip out the door. He moves closer to me, his expression softer, his eyes kind, his shoulders relaxed. “I’m not lying to you, about you, or how I feel about you.” His gaze locks with mine more tightly. “I want to be here with you. And the truth is, I love getting to know you more. I know sometimes I can be a closed book, but I want to open more of your book.”
My chest flips like it’s executing a handspring. He makes me want to open up further, even if he asks something hard. I want the hard questions now.
“What do you want to know?”
He takes a moment, then point-blank says, “I’m desperate to know what broke your marriage. Will you tell me?”
The question comes out like a prayer request, like he needs this.
I close my eyes as nerves flutter through me. But when I open them, the anxiety has vanished and I’m ready to tell him the story.
That awful day roars back in Technicolor, the vivid, perfect sunny day my husband died in London. I tell Daniel about that day, and about the shock that draped over me. Then, one month later, after his funeral, I learned the cold, hard truth.
I turn to the window, gazing out at the verdant greenery beyond, grateful for the clouds overhead, for the difference between the weather today and on that day. “I was devastated. Heartbroken. I missed him like a part of me was gone. Like a section of my heart had been scooped out with a serrated knife. I ached everywhere, Daniel.”
“Of course you did.” He rubs a hand over my back. Gentle. Soothing.
What I needed then.
What I need now.
Comfort.
“We loved so many of the same things, Jonathan and me. Travel and books and deals. He was a cybersecurity executive. Ironic, in a way,” I say, pushing out a laugh.
“Why was that ironic?”
“He always cautioned against putting everything online,” I say with a sigh, the memory sharp. “And then one day, when I was going through his things after he died, I opened a drawer in his desk, and there in the back of it were letters,” I say, my throat catching, swelling with shame and hurt. “I found some love letters.”
Daniel grits his teeth. “That’s awful.”
“I’d been living a complete lie for most of our marriage. He’d had another lover, also in London. When he went away on trips for work, he’d often take her. I don’t know how long they’d been together. The letters only went as far back as a few months after we got married, so perhaps it started then. Her name was Genevieve. Most of the letters were from her, but he had some of his in there too. He thanked her for giving him copies, saying he wanted to remember all the things he’d said to . . . ‘Genevieve, my one true love,’” I quote, the memory ripping through me like a hot poker.
But this time, the burn doesn’t last the way it has on so many other occasions. This time, it feels more like the pain of the arrow coming out rather than going in.
“He robbed you of all your good memories. His betrayal colored everything, and you had no chance to tell him so,” Daniel seethes.
“Exactly. The later letters talked about when he’d finally leave me. When he could be free to be with her,” I say, a fresh wave of embarrassment surging through me, but I try to fight it off. Those were his choices, not mine. “And I couldn’t say anything to him. You can’t confront a dead man. You can’t shout and scream, or ask who she is, or how long it had been going on. He ruined everything. I couldn’t even mourn properly, an
d the mourning I did do was like another cruel trick once I learned he’d been planning on leaving. A huge slap in the face.”
Daniel’s jaw tightens. “That’s one of the worst crimes of all. He left you with unanswered questions, and he robbed you of the chance to confront him.”
The memory pierces me, the shame, the self-loathing. “I had to piece their affair together from letters. That’s what I was left with—playing infidelity detective after the man I loved died, the man who I’d thought loved me. The man I’d cried and grieved over.”
“He made your love a lie.”
My throat tightens as I nod. “Everything I’d believed was true was false.”
“I’ll tell you what’s true—you’re more than enough. He was a prick who didn’t deserve any love from anyone.”
As I tell Daniel the story, that Jonathan had been meeting her in hotel rooms, taking her out to restaurants, indulging in another life with her, I hurt, but the hurt also starts to fade.
It lessens. Maybe, just maybe, it lightens as I finish. “So, as you can see, I’m not so fond of marriage,” I say, offering up a what can you do smile.
He steps closer and strokes the hair of my wig. It’s not my hair. But even so, his touch feels calming, loving. “People don’t deserve to be treated that way. You didn’t deserve to be treated that way. Relationships, at the very least, should be honest.”
I nod, resolute. “They should. That’s what matters.” I feel so much honesty with Daniel that it scares me in a whole new way. But maybe that thrills me too.
“I’m glad you shared that with me,” he says gently. “I know it wasn’t easy. But I like knowing you, Scarlett. More than I ever thought I would.”
Tingles spread over my arms. “Oh. So I’m surprising you?”
He smiles and brushes his lips against mine. “More than you could ever know,” he whispers against my lips.
A whisper that feels like the start of a promise.
16
Daniel
My One Week Husband Page 11
