My One Week Husband

by Lauren Blakely

  And shoes.

  I ponder shoes.

  I do like flats. They’re excellent for a long day. But I covet Nadia’s shoes. Their sexiness. The way they make her legs appear more svelte, more sensual as she stands, rises, walks to the mirror, and considers them.

  A jealous groan rumbles up my chest as I gaze at her feet.

  She returns to me. “I saw you staring at these shoes. Just try them on,” she says, then offers them to me, like she’s clandestinely handing me a baggie of pills. We’re about the same size, so I take off the silver flats, slip on the pumps, and stand.

  Her eyes pop. “Ooh la la. You have to get them.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes, but you need the right look for them.”

  “And I don’t have that?”

  “The right clothes, friend. I’ll forage through your closet for items. But I say go all in with the whole clandestine secret lovers look.”

  I laugh. “Is that what you think we should go for? We should be secret lovers?”

  “Wait. Nope. That’s wrong. You’re pretending to be honeymooners. So you’re open lovers. In fact, I think you should costume it up.”

  Costume.

  That word reverberates.

  It’s full of ideas, potent with possibilities.

  A costume lets you pretend.

  To be somebody else.

  I wouldn’t mind being another person for this trip.

  “Buy those shoes. You know you want to,” she says, egging me on.

  “You’re the worst sort of influence,” I say.

  “Or the best.”

  “But don’t you want a pair too?”

  Nadia shakes her head. “No. I tried them on because I knew it would activate your jealousy glands. And it worked.”

  “You’re so Machiavellian,” I say.

  She winks. “What can I say? It’s my job to move chess pieces around.”

  “I’ll be your pawn.” I take the purchases to the register, buy them, and head out onto the Rue des Rosiers with her.

  Once we hit the pavement, she hooks her elbow through mine. “I do believe I saw a wig store as we were walking through here. Why don’t we get you some wigs too, and you can go all in on costuming for your role-play?”

  As she says that, I’m suddenly imagining the kinds of roles I wouldn’t mind playing with Daniel. I wouldn’t mind it at all. In fact, maybe I should indulge. Not in a tryst, like she’s suggesting. But maybe I should play up the whole look, the whole feel, the entire vibe of a couple checking into a hotel.

  What’s the worst that could happen?

  It could just be fun.

  I’ve been all work and no play for three years. I’ve been so focused on building my business, on building walls around my heart, on protecting myself, that maybe the indulgence I need is simply to have a little bit of a good time.

  With shoes in hand, both the silver ones for practicality and the sapphire ones for sensuality, we head to the wig shop, and I purchase a few delicious numbers. Then, looking thoroughly Parisian with shopping bags on my shoulders and satchels in my hands, I walk with Nadia through the cobblestone streets as she calls her driver. Soon, we slide into her limo and head across town to my flat as we catch up on all the goings on in her world.

  “When will your team’s move to San Francisco go through?” I ask.

  “I’ve gotten approval from the league, so the ball is rolling.”

  “And you feel good about it?”

  “I do. It’s been increasingly hard to convince people in Vegas to come watch football when gambling is drawing their attention. San Francisco seems like the kind of place that can support two teams. Plus, my mom is there, my sister and her husband, my niece, and my brother and his fiancée. It’ll be good to be near family.”

  We chat more about her plans, as she tells me how she wants to be close to her mom again, who moved back to her hometown of San Francisco shortly after Nadia’s father died.

  “She misses me,” Nadia says, a little wistful. “Especially with Eric getting married soon.”

  “It’ll be good for you to be back there. It’s nice to be close to family, isn’t it?” I ask, picturing my parents and how well we get along.

  “We’re lucky. To be able to make these choices,” she says, more serious now as she twists the ruby she wears on her right hand—a gift from her dad. “Let’s not forget our good fortune. We have to remember to give back, to do good, to make sure we’re taking care of all the people we can take care of.”

  She has such a good heart, and I’m grateful to call her my friend. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Nadia tugs off the ring. “I bet you’re the same ring size as me too.”

  I arch a brow. “Are you giving me a ring, Nadia?”

  “You’re playing the newlywed game with Daniel. A ring might help the cause,” she says, handing it to me.

  My heart thunders at her thoughtfulness. “Really? I can go buy one.”

  “Nonsense. Keep it safe. Send it back. It’s perfect for you.”

  I slide it on my left hand. “Like a glass slipper.”

  She smiles. “Enjoy your fairy tale with the handsome prince.”

  I send Daniel a photo of the ring and a note.

  * * *

  Scarlett: Part of my costume.

  * * *

  His reply is instant.

  * * *

  Daniel: Stunning. As fate would have it, I’m on my way to a jewelry store now for a band.

  * * *

  Scarlett: I bet it will look stunning too.

  * * *

  Tucking my phone away, I tell myself that this trip will help me take care of people. Buying these boutiques might be a chance to grow our hotels, to build our empire, and to make sure that the people I work with and those who work for me are always provided for.

  But maybe, just maybe, I can take care of myself at the same time.

  I can indulge in some make-believe.

  It needn’t go further than a fantasy. I won’t step into bedrooms or fall into kisses with Daniel.

  I’ve got stores of restraint. I’ve been bottling up desire for Daniel since the moment we met. I can handle it, no problem.

  But I wouldn’t mind a little fun.

  Something festive.

  Deliciously playful.

  If we’re going to pretend to honeymoon, why not pretend to be other people?

  Why not enjoy donning a costume? Especially if the costume is a clingy dress, a stunning wig, and some smoking heels.

  That night, when I return to my flat, the concierge tells me he has a package for me.

  My shoulders straighten. A frisson of excitement trips through me. I’m not expecting anything. Didn’t order anything.

  The man hands me a small gift bag, pink with black stripes.

  Oh, my.

  This isn’t from Amazon.

  This isn’t from the market around the corner.

  I hide a smile, thank him, then head upstairs. Inside my home, I unwrap the pink tissue paper, anticipation weaving through my body.

  What do I want to find?

  Who do I want this to be from?

  But I don’t need to ask those questions.

  I know.

  After I push the paper aside, I dip my hand in and wrap it around a delicate glass globe of perfume.

  Come What May.

  I open the gold cap, catching a whiff of the sensual scents of honeysuckle and rain. My eyes float closed. It smells like a first kiss and the promise of so much more.

  When I open my eyes, I peer into the bag and find the note that rests on the bottom. A small card, likely from the shop, perhaps written by the shopkeeper.

  I take it out, open it, and read it.

  For my wife, on our weeklong getaway . . .

  The next day, I spritz on some Come What May, zip up my bag, lock my flat, and head to the Gare Saint-Lazare to catch the six o’clock train to Giverny.

  Daniel’s on the p
latform, leaning against a pole while reading a book, looking like a GQ model with the way he stands, so casual and so fucking hot.

  Charcoal slacks hug his strong legs and a polo shirt shows off his toned arms.

  Gone is the tailored suit.

  In its place is the man everyone wants, the man you can’t look away from.

  In his vacation garb, still looking like a million bucks. I stare, drinking him in, eating him up.

  My skin heats.

  My pulse spikes.

  My breath stutters in my throat as I regard the gorgeous man waiting for me.

  The question is, will he recognize me?

  I am in costume after all—ring included.

  I feel like a different person. A daring woman. A woman who didn’t have her heart shattered into a million jagged pieces a few years ago. Jagged pieces she’s tried to superglue back together.

  Nor am I the financier turned hotelier.

  I’ve ditched my business attire, and I’m ready to play.

  I glance at the glass case of a billboard on the wall, taking in my long, sleek auburn hair, courtesy of one of the finest wigs in the city, my big rose-gold Jackie O shades, and something else I rarely wear.

  A dress.

  Short, bright, and bold, it boasts a crazy, swirly pattern.

  Normally, I’m all solids and dark colors, expensive slacks, and silk shirts.

  Today, I look like I could be on my honeymoon.

  I head over to Daniel, and his eyes roam over me, shamelessly indulging in the view, checking me out, I’m sure.

  And I wonder . . . does he know it’s me? Is he staring at me like I’m simply some woman he can’t resist giving a once-over?

  Is he indulging in the scenery with me as a part of it?

  My stomach flips from the heat in his eyes, the flames licking higher.

  When I’m a foot or two away, he raises an eyebrow, his lips curve up, and he reaches out a hand, circling his palm around my wrist. His touch ignites sparks as he tugs me close. We’re face-to-face, a foot away, and his eyes lock with mine. “You thought I wouldn’t recognize you, didn’t you?” he asks.

  I shiver, my breath ghosting across my lips as I answer, “I didn’t think you did.”

  “I did. I definitely did,” he says, his voice warm and rumbly.

  Possessive too.

  So is his touch. He’s not letting go of my wrist, and I don’t mind the strong hold, the tight grip. “How? How did you know it was me from a distance?” I ask, breathier than I expected.

  “The way you walk. I’ve been memorizing it for years.”

  The trembles spread across my body, heating me everywhere and anywhere, and most inconveniently between my legs.

  Maybe Nadia was right.

  Maybe we should play our roles.

  8

  Daniel

  She’s Scarlett, but she’s also not Scarlett.

  She’s this entirely new creation, stitched together from bright, bold cloth and silken flaming red hair.

  She’s as alluring as ever, maybe even more so, but she’s also reinvented herself.

  She smells different too—a heady, enticing perfume.

  That is intentional.

  And it’s a deliberate invitation.

  I step closer, inhale the lush scent of this woman, then run my thumb along her wrist. “You wore that to wind me up, didn’t you, Mrs. Dickens? That’s the one I sent you? The perfume?”

  She shivers as I touch her. “Yes. It was such a lovely wedding present from my husband,” she says, sliding right into the pretend.

  Becoming this character.

  Entering from stage right.

  Playing in our theater of make-believe.

  “As soon as I inhaled it in the store, I knew it was perfect for you,” I say, and offer another drag of my thumb over her soft skin, eliciting another shiver from her under my touch.

  But she doesn’t simply receive touch.

  She initiates it. She lifts her right arm, sets it on my biceps, and curls her palm around my muscle. It’s possessive, the way she touches me, and a thrill that sends lightning bolts of lust through my body.

  “You shopping for me. That’s so sexy,” she purrs.

  “Buying you gifts is easy. Especially when you smell like this,” I say, inching my face even closer, catching another scent of her.

  A soft murmur falls from her lips.

  Here we are, on the platform, surrounded by travelers. And yet it’s like we’re in a cocoon, all alone with our wishes and wants that are now transparent.

  “You know me so well, darling,” she says, soft and sensual. Deliberate too, like she is aware of exactly what her words do to me. “And I think I know you well also, since I suspect you got me this perfume because you wanted to bury your nose in the crook of my neck and inhale me on the train. I think you wanted to be driven mad with lust on the ride to Giverny.”

  Yes, what she does to me . . .

  I groan.

  A nearly savage sound.

  This woman.

  Who knew she would slip right into this role-play, this alternate version of us, as naturally as if we truly were together?

  But then, maybe that’s been our intention all along, ever since Cole set us this challenge—to play at being a couple. Now we’re simply, and finally, giving in.

  That’s exactly what I do as I clasp my fingers tighter around her wrist, stepping closer.

  A current charges between us. The air vibrates with atoms and ions, molecules shimmying with desire. I drop my face into the crook of her neck and breathe in the scent of dirty heaven.

  My eyes fall closed to honeysuckle, falling rain, and a hint of vibrant Scarlett underneath it all.

  This brilliant, witty, incredibly sexy woman smells exactly like desire, and as I linger there against her throat, my head goes hazy and my body heats. I record every moment of her reaction as I move even closer.

  Her breath catches.

  Staggers.

  Most of all, the feathery sound she makes reveals the thing I’ve perhaps known about us all along.

  Since I met her that day in London at lunch, I’ve felt it, and now I’m certain she has too.

  Attraction.

  Undeniable, powerful attraction.

  I want this woman badly. The sight of her, the feel of her, the smell of her—they do wicked things to my senses.

  They crank them up, driving wild sensations through me. Perhaps through her too, judging from the telltale signs—the hitch in her breath, the goose bumps on her skin, and the slightest whimper that seems to tumble from her red lips as my nose brushes her earlobe.

  Should I resist?

  Screw resistance.

  Right now, she’s my wife. I draw the soft skin of her earlobe between my teeth, and I nip.

  She shudders.

  I take my time, running my nose along her neck, then I whisper, “I’ve thought about you all day, pictured you in your office, wondered what you’d wear to the train station. And now, here you are.” I pull back.

  Her eyes are glassy. She’s in a daze. “Now here I am.”

  So’s the train though.

  As it rumbles into the station, we separate, but I don’t want to. Do we have to draw a line between fantasy and reality? Or for one glorious week, can we exist in this blurred world?

  My eyes stray to her left hand and a shiny red stone in a platinum band. She’s such a planner—always thinking.

  “Your wedding ring is even more gorgeous in person,” I say, running my thumb over it.

  I show her the band I picked up at a jewelry store.

  She runs her finger across the metal. “I love it. It says you’re mine,” she whispers.

  I reach for our bags and take her hand in my other, threading my fingers through hers like I would if she were my wife.

  The sleek silver bullet rattles to a stop, doors sliding open, and we step on.

  I feel like I’m stepping into another world.


  We settle into our seats in the first-class cabin. The train ride is only an hour. She’s distracted, checking her luggage, checking her phone, checking her tablet. She takes out a book from her purse. Sets the purse down at her feet. Opens the book.

  I watch her, more emotions than I’m accustomed to rising in my chest. Desire? Passion?

  But there’s more.

  There’s longing.

  Affection too.

  But lust seems to win out, like the solo instrument in a Beethoven concerto.

  Or perhaps I’m simply feeling the way that only music has made me feel before. Music and women.

  Everything seems possible, beautiful, sensual.

  I don’t want to stop the charade with Scarlett.

  So I don’t, but I slow the pace, steer the moment around the corner, sensing that’s what she needs. As the train pulls out of the station, I don’t return to Daniel and Scarlett.

  I stay as Mr. and Mrs. “Did you have a busy day, love?”

  That seems to ease her mind. She sets down the book. “I did,” she says, and then we pretend as newlyweds.

  We play these parts. She tells me about the book she’s been reading, an adventure tale, and where it’s taking her. She talks about how much she loves the story and the escape it gives her.

  I begin to understand her a little more. The way she reads so ravenously, the way stories both seem to help her leave her own head and drive her to think more deeply.

  “It’s the same for me,” I tell her, showing her the fantasy novel on my phone I’ve been enmeshed in. The story of another world, another realm, where anything is possible, and where heroes with tragic flaws overcome their Achilles’ heels.

  Soon, we’re farther away from Paris, closer to Giverny, but not quite there.

  We’re in between.

  It only seems fitting to turn the corner once again. Move closer to where I want to be, where she wants to be.

  I set my hand on her thigh. “We’re almost there. Did you think about our trip all day?”

  Her gaze drifts down to my hand, like she’s assessing the placement. Confirming that she likes it with the hint of a smile, a bob of her head. A yes. “I did. I kept myself wildly entertained all throughout Paris wondering when we would finally be able to get away for our weeklong . . . tryst,” she says, lingering on that very last word.