My One Week Husband

by Lauren Blakely

  But now he does.

  Only it’s a line neither one of us will have to deal with at this moment, because the driver is pulling up in front of the inn.

  Work, once again, rescues me.

  We get out of the car. The driver heads to the trunk, grabs our bags, then thanks us. “Hope you have a wonderful stay, Mr. and Mrs. Monet.”

  Daniel raises a brow, adopts a delicious French accent, and replies, “We will indeed. Thank you so much.”

  Once we go inside, I repeat my mantra over and over again.

  Work, work, work.

  I have all the accoutrements of my job, like weapons at the ready. I’ve holstered my tablet, my phones, my spreadsheets. My to-do list. My agenda. They are my barricade. They are the moats that have surrounded my too-vulnerable, too-bruised heart for the last few years. They will surely do their duty once more.

  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.

  20

  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.

  “And?” Cole asks, making it clear he wants more information.

  I bristle. This feels personal. “And what?” It comes out clipped.

  He laughs. “Someone is testy. That means you care for her,” he says, clear and direct, like when he’s negotiating a deal.

  “You know I do.”

  “You care for her more than you think,” he says. “And you can’t fool me, so don’t even try.”

  Damn him. That’s the trouble when someone knows all your secrets, your whole entire story. When they’ve known you for years in ways no one else ever has. As I wander through the tourists, I concede his point. “I do. I care for her deeply.”

  “At some point, you’ll need to tell her, then,” he says. “About your family.”

  My muscles tighten, coiling uncomfortably. “Why?”

  “Because what happened is your history. It’s who you are. It’s the very reason you don’t let people in. It’s why you haven’t ever let yourself care this deeply for someone before.”

  I wince, tension mounting like someone is cranking my insides. “We’re not at that point,” I say, stepping out of the way of a pack of tourists as a green-and-white awning outside a café comes into view.

  The sign is like glimpsing an oasis.

  Coffee. I know someone who loves coffee at all hours of the day.

  “But you might be at some point. Think about it, Daniel. Just tell me you’ll think about it,” Cole presses, urgency in his tone.

  I heave a sigh, dragging my hand through my hair. “I’ll think about it.” I’ll probably do nothing but think about it, so at least that’s true.

  We say goodbye, and I head into the café, ordering coffees. At least I can do that for her.

  I make the return walk to the hotel, and when I’m inside the inn, I find her at the pool, lounging by the placid water and wearing a red one-piece, her chestnut hair slick and wet, droplets of water still glistening on her skin.

  The sight of her like that, having just gone for a dip, looking au naturel, makes my heart hammer.

  No artifice, no wig, no pretending.

  She’s simply the inimitable Scarlett Slade.

  She waves to me, patting the lounge chair next to her. I join her, handing her the drink.

  “Coffee is always a good idea,” she says.

  “You went for a dip.” I state the o
bvious, savoring the view of her après swim.

  “I did. I felt a little like playing hooky.”

  “How was the water?”

  “Fantastic. The pool is another for the pro column. Guests rave about this pool, and with good reason,” she says.

  “You doing due diligence while going for a dip is too sexy for words.” I lift my cup, taking a drink, then set it down on the small table between us. As I do, I stare at the jagged scar on my right hand.

  Part of me thinks I should wait for a sign. But I don’t believe in signs. I believe in moments.

  I want to share some of who I am with her. She deserves that much given all she’s shared with me.

  I set my scarred hand on her leg, and I begin, carefully doling out the pieces of my puzzle I’m ready to offer.

  “When I was younger, I was a concert violinist. I had a different last name. I’d played in St. Petersburg, Vienna, Tokyo, all by the age of seventeen. Stages all over the world. Child prodigy. And I was going to attend university on a music scholarship.” Her eyes widen as I speak, like she’s gobbling up all of the things that I’ve never told her. I’ve hardly told anyone but Cole about my life before, and where I’d been headed.

  “But when I was eighteen, right before I left for university, I received some new information about my parents’ deaths.” That horrible day flashes before me, the cruelty of the memory slicing my flesh, cutting my heart once again, and I bite out, “And I punched a wall.”

  She gasps, perhaps in horror. Perhaps knowing where this story is going.

  I hold up my hand. “I suffered permanent nerve damage.”

  She sighs sadly. “My God, Daniel.”

  “My hand works fine. It works fine for everything. For typing. For making sandwiches. For sex,” I say, pushing out a laugh. “It even works fine for playing the violin in an above-average fashion.” I take a beat, and then say the hardest thing. “It works fine for everything except playing Beethoven and Brahms on the world’s greatest stages.”

  “That was your dream,” she says.

  “It was my only one.”

  Her lips quiver. Twin tears slide down her cheeks. She sits up straighter, reaches for my right hand, takes it between hers, and brings it to her lips. Then she kisses my scar like a benediction, like it can erase everything that went wrong.

  I close my eyes, melting into her touch, which almost feels like forgiveness. Like I’m forgiving myself for what I did stupidly, foolishly, violently in a fit of anger over something I haven’t fully revealed to her.

  How I came to end the greatest thing I’ve ever known.

  But then, so many things had already ended. So many things that were also my fault.

  “Thank you for sharing that. It must hurt. It must have hurt so much,” she says, her tone kind and gentle. She doesn’t push for more details. She doesn’t ask questions.

  For that, I fall a little harder.

  That’s why I can’t bear to tell her more. I can’t bear to reveal all the details of my family.

  I’ve spent nearly two decades building walls to protect myself from everything that hurts.

  This admission will have to be enough.

  21

  Daniel

  After a short trip in Nice, we greet the blue skies, calm seas, and warm, salty air of Marseille the next morning.

  It’s a new day. But it feels like so much more. Days used to be units of time that I was hell-bent on carpe diem-ing, seizing every second, biting into them like peaches, savoring their juices as they delivered pleasure, money, and material goods.

  Eat, drink, be merry, for tomorrow you shall die.

  That’s been my mantra. It’s served me well. But today feels a bit like a new start. Like a day can be more than a feast of the senses. Like it could open up possibilities, enable promises.

  That’s a terrifying thought, but a strangely welcome one too.

  Perhaps because I survived telling Scarlett my secret shame.

  I opened up to her, and my world didn’t shatter. The opposite happened. We came together last night, softer than the night before, more tenderly. I was careful to leave no bruises, since she’d already been marked. I kissed all those bluish spots on her body, honored them with my lips.

  Now here we are in a new town, bags dropped off, room surveyed, grounds toured, stairwells checked out, and views appraised.

  Le Pavillon de Marseille is not only up to our corporate standards, but it’s exceeding them in all sorts of ways.

  That includes its proximity to town, so we wander through it.

  As the sun rises higher in the sky, we travel along the busy streets. Tourists dart in and out of shops, peer into windows, stop at cafés.

  Scarlett stops in front of a stationery store that peddles old-fashioned parchment right alongside quirky cards with funny notes like a cat with a speech bubble saying, “You’re okay, I suppose.”

  I regard the woman I’ve been spending the last few days with. Scarlett seems to be changing too, ruled less by clocks and to-do lists.

  Vacation Scarlett is as enticing as Type-A Scarlett. The let-down-her-guard look suits her. I hope to see more of it.

  I set a hand on her arm as she stares in the window. “There’s the lollygagger in you again,” I tease.

  “Exactly. I told you I could linger, and you simply didn’t believe me.”

  “Color me surprised, then.”

  “Good. I’m glad I’m surprising you. Or maybe it’s just the endorphins talking,” she says, teasing me, tossing my words back at me.

  “I like these endorphins. I’d like to keep taking them,” I say, before the meaning of my words truly registers.

  Did I just tell her I wanted to keep seeing her like this, keep having her?

  Her eyes pop for a brief second as if she noted the potential in my words, but she says nothing. That’s so very like her. She doesn’t press or push but takes her time. She gives time to figure out her wants.

  That’s what I’ve been doing too. I’m figuring out things that I want, and what I’ll do to get them. To keep them.

  But as soon as those thoughts flit through my head, I wholly dismiss them.

  I have to.

  It’s one thing to share an intensely personal story; it’s another to think I’m ready to live my life differently.

  This tryst is ending. We agreed to that in Giverny. She wanted the expiration date too. It’s for the best for both of us.

  And that means I’ll continue carpe diem-ing.

  She nudges my arm. “Perhaps you’ve rubbed off on me. Made me a lollygagger.”

  “I like to rub off on you.”

  She rolls her eyes, shaking her head. “Fine, I walked right into that.”

  “You did, love. You definitely did.”

  “Guilty as charged,” she says, sighing contentedly as we stroll, window-shopping, checking out wine stores, bookshops, and an ice-cream vendor.

  I reach for her hand, clasp it, and bring her close. With her body flush against mine, I draw her in for a kiss.

  That’s what she needs. That’s what I want to give her.

  Even if this fling is ending, we can enjoy each moment. I can give her the best of me and still save her from the worst of me—my other side.

  I kiss her, making it a promise that I’ll cherish her, treat her well, give her all the respect and adoration she deserves, and that I won’t break her heart by exposing too much of it to mine.

  The kiss ends, and we walk across the street hand in hand.

  Sure, we’re lingering in town, but we’re technically still working, making sure that these inn locations are ideal in every way, near to all the shops, close to the cafés, accessible to tourist activities.

  Ah, hell.

  Who fucking cares?

  I’m not working. I’m living, soaking in the Mediterranean as it stretches to the horizon like the sea is reaching into the next day.

  Maybe tomorrow will be as good a day as today.

&nb
sp; At the end of the street, an antique shop comes into view. The window display boasts a bureau, a rolltop desk, and an old-fashioned accordion.

  When we reach the store, Scarlett slows her steps, drawn to a violin in the corner of the window.

  My heart lunges at it, wanting to grab it, clutch it, pick it up.

  Scarlett turns to me, her eyes locking with mine. For a flash of a second, I see pity in them.

  But is that truly pity? Or is pity only what I reflect back to myself?

  Tension mounts in me, since I’m not sure I want to talk about my music if she’s going to ask. She didn’t poke or prod yesterday, and that helped. I’d said my piece; I didn’t have more to say.

  But perhaps she does.

  She tips her forehead to the window. “What was your favorite piece to play?”

  That is a question I can answer.

  More so, I want to.

  22

  Daniel

  All the tension in my bones releases, since I get to talk about something wonderful. Something I don’t normally discuss with anyone.

  “Barber’s Adagio for Strings,” I say, knowing the answer instantly.

  She knits her brow, like she’s reaching into her mind to see if she knows the tune.

  I hum a few notes to cue her. Her face lights up. She snaps her fingers, grinning. “Yes, I can hear it now.”

  I hum a few more notes of one of the saddest, most plaintive pieces of music ever. “It’s so solemn. It seems to speak only of somber moments, of the passing of life, but in the intensity, there’s such beauty,” I say, and I can hear the music in my head. I can remember the last time I played it, when I was only seventeen. The memory fills me, flooding my veins, flowing into my cells. “I played it in Vienna. With the philharmonic. It was magic.”

  “That sounds magical. What else? What were other pieces that were magic to you?” she asks, bouncing on her toes, eagerness etched in her features.

  “I could go on,” I say, since talking about music is almost like remembering old friends who passed away too soon, making sure their deaths weren’t in vain. “Bach’s Chaconne from Partita No. 2. It’s spiritually powerful, and sublime. But it’s also dramatic, intense, and incredibly difficult to master,” I say, my pitch rising, excitement building in me as I hear the complicated notes in my mind. “It took me years.”