Once outside, my father walked me down the aisle—a flagstone path in a garden. This was a small, intimate wedding amongst the lavender bushes and vineyards. My groom’s brother, his only family, stood by his side.
And I wore what you, my readers, my scentsual women, chose for me in the vote last week.
Marchesa Parfum d’Extase.
You picked it for me for my wedding day, and you chose well. It’s delicate and fresh with soft iris notes and hints of violet leaves, then a trail of night jasmine in its wake.
Now, a month later, as my husband is off traveling and I glance at the calendar, counting the days until I’ll see him again, I open the elegant crystal bottle and I’m transported instantly to that day, surrounded by lavender and promises of always.
Thank you for the gift.
* * *
Yours in noses,
A Scentsual Woman
22
Elise
Present day
* * *
France won’t do. There’s a four-week wait. England adheres to some of the same rules. But Denmark? Blessed Denmark. You don’t have to wait long at all to tie the knot in Denmark.
Christian left Paris last weekend, shortly after the bombshell news, and took his brother back to Copenhagen, since Erik couldn’t bear to be in the same city as Jandy. That means I haven’t seen Christian since the night at his place, but we’ve filed the paperwork, and he made a few phone calls to people he knows to push it along.
Here I am, stepping off the plane at the Copenhagen airport ten days later. I head through the terminal and pass security to find him waiting for me with a huge smile.
I’m hit with the strangest sensation when I see him—I’ve missed him. I drop my bag, rise up on my tiptoes, and kiss him.
He hums against my lips as he kisses me back. An airport kiss. A reunion kiss. And it’s so good it feels like it was worth the days apart, even though we didn’t deliberately plan for this to feel like we’re coming back together.
When we separate, he glances at my luggage. “Can I carry your bag?”
I packed light for the short trip, and I hand it to him. But I’d let him carry it even if it were heavy.
When we stride out of the airport, a sleek black town car waits for us. The chauffeur hops out, and says something to Christian in Danish, and hearing Christian respond in his native tongue as they toss my bag into the trunk is like pulling open the blinds on a darkened window. I’ve never heard him speak Danish before.
Inside the car, the driver turns around and raises his cap, nodding at me. His jowly face breaks into a smile. “Good afternoon, Ms. Durand.”
“Good afternoon,” I reply in English.
He returns his focus to the wheel, and I stare at Christian with wide eyes.
“What?”
“It’s funny to hear you speak Danish.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s so different from French or English.”
He laughs. “It’s all consonants and Swedish Chef up-and-down rhythms, right? Funny sounding, isn’t it?”
I smirk but say nothing. Because he’s right. It’s a funny language. It’s not sensual like French or Italian. It’s clunkier, strangely childish in its intonations, and a bit odd to a woman used to the Romance languages.
“Admit it,” he says then digs a few knuckles into my side playfully.
I laugh as he tickles me lightly. “I admit nothing.”
“You’ll admit everything.” He dives in with both hands as the car swerves out of the terminal. He’s a ferocious tickler, his fingers digging into my waist, and I gasp for breath as laughter sweeps over me. “You think I sound like a Muppet.”
“I don’t,” I blurt out.
“You do.”
“I swear,” I say between harsh breaths as I wiggle.
“Tell the truth, Durand.” His voice is firm, like an attorney in a film, demanding an answer from a hostile witness.
“Never.”
More tickles rain down on me, and he brings his mouth to my ear and whispers something I don’t understand a word of. It’s ridiculous and sounds like “smorgen borgen.”
I can’t stop laughing, and I grab his forearms to get him to stop, but he’s strong and determined.
And merciful too, I learn, when he lets up and laughs. He shouts something to the driver, and the man up front joins in, chuckling too.
“What did you say to him?”
Christian sets a hand on his belly and seems to do his best to rein in his own laughter. “I told him about a shortcut to my house.”
I tilt my head to the side. “And that made him laugh?”
“I told him you were eager to make me an honest man, and that’s why we needed to get there quickly.”
“You’re terrible,” I chide, and then grab his shirt collar and stare at him sharply. “And what did you say to me a few seconds ago?”
He dips his face near my neck and maps my throat with feather-light kisses. “I said, Wait till you try the lingonberry pancakes. They’re delicious.”
I swat his chest. “You are the worst.”
“I know, but you deserved it for mocking me. You can make it up to me . . .” He slips from English to French. “By sucking my cock after the wedding.”
His bluntness turns me on, and so does the fact that he made sure his dirty words were only for my ears and not the driver’s. I thread a hand in his hair and yank him close, and we kiss the kind of kiss that’s required after a filthy comment.
We break apart when the car slows, and we’re in a residential area now. He takes my hand and clasps our fingers together tightly.
“Are you sure you don’t want to stay at a hotel?”
“Is your brother at your house?”
He shakes his head. “He had to go to London on business.”
“I’m completely fine with your house. The hotel seems silly.” Once more, I wonder why he’s concerned about my comfort at his home, then it hits me. I tense, my shoulders tightening. “Would you rather we stay at a hotel?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Since you’ve asked me a few times.”
“I want you to be comfortable.”
“Are you worried that letting me into your home implies a certain level of intimacy?”
He cocks a brow. “What?”
I don’t mince words. “Is your home one of those places that’s just for you? Not for a woman? Something that feels completely yours, and you don’t want to invite someone in?”
He scoffs. “You honestly think after you’ve been to my flat in Paris that I wouldn’t want you in my home here?”
“You’ve asked me a few times if I wanted to stay in a hotel. Yes, I thought that might be the case.”
“My little mermaid,” he says softly, “I didn’t think you’d want that kind of intimacy. That’s why I offered the hotel.”
It’s my turn to scoff. “I can handle the intimacy of seeing your toothbrush and forks.”
He runs the backs of his fingers over my cheek. “I just want to make sure I’m not crossing your lines.”
I roll my eyes. “We’ve already established the rules of the new road.”
“And I aim to follow them,” he says then recaps the parameters we discussed on the phone the other night. “We won’t live together. We’ll see each other more frequently than once a week. But not so much that seeing each other feels like an obligation.”
“Seeing each other should feel like a pleasure,” I add.
“Oh, it will.”
“And photos. We’ll take a few photos, so everything looks real on social media.”
“Preferably photos of you in lingerie?” He arches an eyebrow.
“Oh, shut up. When I take those shots, they’ll be for you only.”
I silence the silliness of this conversation with another kiss. Because that we do without any concerns.
* * *
He’s as handsome as he was the night I met him. More so be
cause he’s wearing a suit, and this man was made for suits. He stands in his living room, drinking a glass of water, flipping through a magazine as I emerge from the bedroom.
“Ready or not,” I say, my heart skittering around like a wild bird. I set a hand on my chest to try to quell the nerves.
“Wow,” he breathes out, his eyes exploring my body even though he’s seen me so many times. Today I’m wearing a seashell-pink dress that hits at the knees. I decided white was silly. Perfume too. I didn’t bring any.
My stomach flips as he admires me while putting down the glass and magazine. “It’s not that fancy.”
“I don’t give a fuck if it’s fancy. Your legs are spectacular, and you look so sexy in that dress and those glasses.”
I raise my hands to my eyeglasses, adjusting them, though I don’t need to. I’m fidgeting. He walks over to me, setting his hands on my nervous ones. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say, but the word comes out airy, empty.
He tucks a finger under my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Are you sure? Do you want to back out? Just say the word.”
I shake my head. “I’m not backing out.”
“You can though,” he says, but his tone is reluctant.
“Hey. I’m here. I’m not backing out. We’re doing this.”
He smiles widely. “Yeah? We’re a couple of crazies, aren’t we?”
“Are we?”
Laughing, he pulls me close. “It’s crazy.”
“But brilliant.”
“It’s bloody brilliant. You know what else will be brilliant?”
“What?”
“Finally getting you naked and under me tonight.”
“You’re assuming I’ll put out since it’s our wedding night, are you?”
“Hope springs eternal. So does my cock when I look at you.”
And once more, he disarms me with his charm. “I guess we’ll see if the husband can get his wife into the marriage bed.”
I press a kiss to his cheek. He turns and catches it on his lips, and it rockets into a searing kiss. But I stop it before it becomes hot and heavy. Not because I don’t want hot and heavy, but because I haven’t slept with him yet.
But the funny thing is, I’m sort of glad it worked out that way. I’m not trying to make this arrangement with him feel different than my marriage, but there’s a part of me that likes how different it is. Eduardo and I slept together the first night we met. I’ve known Christian for more than a month and he hasn’t been inside my body yet.
Somehow, that seems like the way it should be for us.
We leave, and I stop in the doorway, smacking my forehead. “We don’t have rings. How could we have forgotten rings?”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “I’ve got it covered.”
* * *
Inside Copenhagen City Hall, the wedding office smells like newspaper and efficiency as Christian Ellison promises in front of the officiant to love me. But the little quirk in Christian’s lips says my husband’s in on the joke. Only this time the joke isn’t on me. We’re both the comedians and the conductors of this love charade, and it isn’t to hurt anyone or trick an innocent party, but rather to right a wrong.
It’s a joke we’re sharing.
But when his eyes lock with mine, he says without a trace of humor or teasing, “I do.”
His words are weighty, and they hang in the air with import. For a fraction of a second, they feel honest, and my heart speeds up.
The officiant asks if I take Christian to be my husband.
“I do.” I’ve voiced those words in the past, but in this moment, I feel the shackles of the first time I said them lifting off me. “I do.”
Christian chuckles. “I do again too.”
He reaches into his pocket, takes out the rings, I presume, and holds open his palm. “A wedding gift from Erik.”
The bands are platinum and unassuming, but gorgeous in their simplicity. He holds mine up so I can see what’s engraved. The simplest words.
Thank you.
His says the same.
We exchange the rings, and the officiant declares us husband and wife.
That’s it. Our ceremony took all of five minutes, maybe less, and yet it feels more real than my lavender one in the vineyard.
We sign the final paperwork and leave city hall legally wed, with the man in the charcoal suit poised to take control of his grandfather’s company so that his brother’s soon-to-be-ex-wife can’t get her slimy paws on it.
A gift to his brother indeed.
As Christian holds open the door, I’m keenly aware that I don’t want this union to feel less than the marriage of mine that was truly false.
Because in some ways—no, in nearly every way—it already feels like more of a marriage than the one I had before. It’s an honest, open one.
On the steps, under a clear blue sky, with a view of Tivoli Gardens across the street, I grab my husband by the tie. “Do you want to kiss the bride?”
His blue eyes hook into mine, heat flashing across his irises. “So incredibly much.”
I’m nervous, my fingers shaking, as I loop my hands around his neck. My heart stutters.
Even if marriage is a sham, even if this marriage is a sham, my emotions right now are anything but. They rise in me, climbing my throat, fighting to escape. They’re unexpectedly real and true, filling me with want and perhaps that hope I felt so long ago when I played in the park as a girl and imagined this day.
This isn’t what I pictured at all.
But somehow, it feels like exactly what I need.
Christian seals his mouth to mine, and it’s a soft and tender kiss. It’s an exploration and a promise, and something about it is different from all his kisses that have come before. The gentle brush of his lips on mine makes me woozy. My knees go weak. He loops his arm tighter around my waist, tugging me close.
I’m the bride who’s not in white, who wears no perfume, who is married for a deal the second time around.
But this kiss doesn’t feel like it’s part of a pact. It feels like it could become a new way of kissing.
When at last he stops, Christian looks dazed. “You smell fantastic.”
“I’m not wearing anything.”
“I guess it’s the scent of you.”
I suppose it is.
23
Elise
His mother engulfs me in a hug. “It is so good to finally meet you.”
“And it is a delight to meet you,” I say, enjoying that we don’t have to pretend for his family—his mother knows the score. Even so, my brain lingers on one word. Finally. Everything has happened so lickety-split, I don’t know why his mother would feel like we’re finally meeting.
The three of us take seats at the outdoor café that overlooks the harbor, and we order a round of champagne. She clasps her hands under her chin and fixes a steely blue-eyed gaze on her son. Her cheekbones are carved, and I can see where Christian’s blond good looks come from. “Tell me everything about the ceremony that you didn’t let me attend this afternoon.”
Christian rolls his eyes. “Because I’m sure you’ve been dreaming of watching me get married at city hall.”
She swats his elbow. “I don’t know why you didn’t let me go.”
He gives her a look.
I smile, loving the ribbing that they give each other, but especially loving that I get to witness it. I like that he’s so open with his family, that his mom knows what we’re up to. Mostly I love that he wanted me to meet her.
“It wasn’t that kind of a ceremony.” He looks across the table to me, his eyes holding mine for a beat that extends longer than I expect it to. “Besides, it was just between us.”
My heart does something that feels like it’s rolled over, flopped on its back, and put its legs in the air. Dog that it is, I tell that organ to sit up and focus.
“Be that as it may,” she says, looking to me, “I am delighted to meet you, Elise. Now, tell me everythi
ng about the wedding.”
I laugh, then give her the sparse details about our brief and perfunctory ceremony and show her the rings.
She sighs happily, shielding her eyes from the bright afternoon sun reflecting off the harbor. “Thank you for allowing me to experience it vicariously. He didn’t let me go to his first wedding either.”
I tilt my head, surprise hitting me hard. “You didn’t?”
Christian shakes his head. “We were married in the United States. Vegas, baby, Vegas.”
“You eloped,” I say, as if the plot is thickening.
“Sort of,” he says, laughing as he points at his mom. “Anyway, she gave me hell then. No need to do it again.”
“That’s my job. To give you hell.” She snaps her gaze to me. “Although, I do hope you’ll pick up the slack when I’m unable to give him hell. You have free rein to give him a hard time as much as you want.”
“I appreciate the maternal blessing, and I will do my best to follow the directive,” I say as the waitress arrives with three flutes of champagne.
His mother raises her glass, and we follow suit, clinking. “To the brilliant plan my sons hatched, and to the brilliant woman who’s making it all possible.” Her voice lowers. “My father—their grandfather—had the softest heart, but perhaps not always the most realistic expectations. I appreciate you making everything right for my Erik. I feel terrible for what happened to him.”
“It’s the least I can do,” I say, and I’m glad this deal has been beneficial for both of us, or else I’d feel like some sort of martyr to the cause. But Christian has already prepped loads of business analysis and insight for my upcoming meeting with the travel client. His market analysis was spot-on and seems like something of a secret weapon.
“It’s not nothing. It’s everything.” She glances at her son. “And maybe when you knock her up and have a baby, you’ll at least let me come to the birth.”
I nearly choke on my champagne. Bubbles shoot up my nose, tickling it, and a cough bursts from my throat.
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