My One Week Husband

by Lauren Blakely

  It’s the first time I’ve ever used my birth name with her, and she connects the dots, saying gently, “You changed your name after.”

  “I did. I didn’t want to be associated with my past self. With who I was before. Because that person led to my parents’ murder, and to their killer’s mistrial.”

  “How so?” It comes out haunted.

  “Turned out the jury was chosen improperly. They watched the news. They read the papers. When the judge found out, he declared a mistrial,” I say, tension radiating in my bones. “The man killed my family with their own kitchen knife and got a second chance when he bungled stabbing himself, then a third with the luck of a mistrial.”

  Her eyes well with tears. Righteous ones. Tears of fury. Tears of How the hell could they? “That’s when you punched the wall,” she says, putting all the pieces together. “You said you punched it when you got some news about your parents’ deaths. That was the news, right?”

  “Yes,” I bite out. “I was heading to university on a music scholarship, determined to honor their memory, their support. And when I heard, I lost it; I just fucking lost it. I slammed my fist into a wall, and I lost the other thing I loved the most.”

  I close my eyes, having done it, having said the hardest things I’ve ever had to say.

  I sway lightly on the bridge, right into her arms.

  And it’s as if she catches me.

  Or maybe we catch each other.

  I wrap my arms around her, drag her close, and clasp her against me like I don’t ever want to let her go.

  That’s the trouble.

  “Was there another trial?”

  I nod against her. “Yes. Guilty. He’s in prison for life.”

  “Thank God,” she whispers against my hair.

  But the damage had already been done.

  26

  Daniel

  On the one hand, I’m spent. My muscles ache, my bones weigh heavily, and my mind is exhausted.

  But on the other hand, my body craves.

  I crave something deep, something I’ve never truly longed for before.

  Connection.

  Connection with this woman who listened, who didn’t judge.

  I’ve always imagined that telling someone the truth of my shattered family would send them running. After all, who would want to be with a person who could destroy a heart, a passion, a home?

  But that’s not how Scarlett looks at me. She regards me as she always has, with open eyes and a willing heart.

  Like that, we make our way back to the hotel quietly.

  Her wigs are gone, our pretend names tossed aside. Once in the lift, I whisper a kiss behind her ear, saying her name. “Scarlett.”

  Not Mrs. Dickens or Mrs. Rousseau. Not Mrs. Monet or Mrs. Brahms.

  She’s Scarlett, and that’s all I want her to be. A woman who understands and accepts.

  Is that what I’ve been looking for all along?

  I shake the notion away.

  I haven’t been looking. I’ve never been looking. But somehow I’ve been found.

  And I want to hold her tight, never let her go.

  As I kiss her gently, a sense of déjà vu washes over me. I have felt this way before.

  This intensity. This rush.

  I felt it when I was younger, felt it for the violin. Now I feel it for a person. It’s terrifying and wonderful at the same damn time to feel something deep in your soul.

  In the room, the door shuts behind us. I cup her cheeks, look into her eyes, and whisper, “Thank you.”

  It’s hardly enough, but it’s a start.

  She slides her hand up my chest, spreading her fingers open. “No, thank you for trusting me. I know that wasn’t easy for you.”

  “You made it possible,” I say, letting her see inside me, letting her in. But this is unfamiliar terrain, and I don’t want to linger on these rocky shores for too long. I bring my lips back to her ear, tugging her earlobe between my teeth. “I want to make you feel good,” I say, leaning on the familiar. Pleasure should do the trick.

  Pleasure’s been my MO for the last fifteen years. I’ve been seeking bliss. Endless bliss. Mountains of it to blot out the pain from the past, to numb all that was lost.

  That drive has dissipated. It’s been replaced with something else entirely.

  A desire to be real.

  Genuine.

  Honest.

  I long to tell her how different she is. I do my best, pulling back to meet her green-eyed gaze. “I want to make you feel good. Because of what you do to me. Because of who you are,” I say, trying that on for size, feeling like I’m starting all over again, stumbling and falling.

  She runs her thumb along my jaw. “You do, Daniel. You make me feel so good.” She slides her hands up the back of my neck, threading her fingers through my hair, drawing me close as she presses her soft, lush lips to mine. “I want you to make love to me now. That’s what I want it to be.”

  Those words.

  My head spins from them. My skin, my God, it tingles. I barely know what to do with the way my heart slams in my chest, beating for her.

  But I don’t have to say “I’m falling in love with you” for either one of us to know what this is.

  We both know. We know without words.

  I take her to bed, undress her, and put a condom on. When I slide inside her, her knees rise up, and she ropes her hands around my neck.

  When I look into her eyes, more truths fall free. “I’m going to make love to you, because that’s exactly what this is.”

  There.

  That’s as close as I can get right now to saying how I feel.

  I move in her, slow and luxurious, passionate and deep. She cries out, murmuring and moaning, arching and writhing as I bury my face in her neck, my cock in her body. Giving her my heart as I make love to her and hoping she won’t smash it to pieces.

  We spend the next day together in Lyon, exploring the city, savoring each other, then tangling up together once more.

  For the first time in years, love starts to feel possible, especially when she murmurs my name in the happiest sigh before she falls asleep curled up in my arms.

  The next morning, I wake to find her on the phone.

  In and of itself, that’s not odd. I’ve heard her on the phone plenty of times. She’s chatting with Cole, by the sound of it, as I swing my legs over the side of the bed then pull on boxer briefs.

  “This place is fabulous. They all are,” she says, her voice drifting in from the living room of the suite. I peer through the open doorway, watching her for a moment, savoring the scene in front of me. With her back to me, she’s perched on a chair, already dressed, wearing a cranberry blouse, a black skirt, and her silver flats.

  She’s Scarlett, through and through.

  Scarlett Slade. The businesswoman. The financier.

  The woman I’ve fallen for.

  I sigh contentedly.

  Perhaps we could make a go of this. Last beyond this week. Carry on in Paris, enjoying nights in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, visits to the Musée d’Orsay, strolls through the Tuileries. I could take her to Le Marais, wander through Montmartre on weekends, dance with her at clubs in Oberkampf, and fuck her and make love to her all night long.

  We could have that life. Work together all day, play together all night. Like we’ve done for the last several nights.

  “This is what I’ve been longing for. A deal like this. A chance like this,” she says into the phone. “And I would love to take the lead on it. It could be my first big acquisition for our company since I’ve been with you and Daniel.”

  She pauses, and I listen more.

  “I’ll have to ask him. I doubt he’ll mind.”

  I step into the living room. “Ask me what?”

  She beams at me, tossing a smile in my direction. “Cole wants to know if you’re okay with me taking the lead on the acquisition of these properties. It’s only been my greatest dream.”

  I smile. �
�Of course. You should.”

  She squeals, a victory sound. It’s a delightful noise. She punctuates it with more words to Cole. “I’m so happy. This is everything I wanted to see come to fruition when I partnered with the two of you.”

  She takes a beat as Cole speaks, then she laughs, meeting my gaze. “Well, you know I need business to go swimmingly. It’s my superpower. It’s where all my strength comes from.”

  Another pause, and her words tug at the back of my mind, worrying me. Reminding me of what she said when she told me about her husband. How business was her saving grace, what pulled her out of her grief.

  That’s . . . concerning.

  More than I expected.

  Her words worm their way through me.

  I’m so happy.

  It’s only been my greatest dream.

  I’m so damn close to her dreams. Maybe too close?

  “Yes. Take it away, and you’ve got Scarlett Kryptonite.” She laughs, waving a hand airily, then she calls out to me. “Cole says I’m addicted. That I need deals and profit-and-loss statements to be happy.”

  I fasten on a smile that I don’t truly feel as I say, “And Paris too. Don’t forget Paris.”

  Her eyes glitter like diamonds. “Of course. Paris is my heart. It’s a prerequisite.”

  I know that. That’s the problem. That’s why my gut is telling me something, why my mind is flashing warning signs.

  You’ll hurt her. That’s all you ever do. You’re too close, and you’ll destroy her dreams because that’s what you do.

  I try to fight off those words, but they’re digging into me, clawing into my heart. I damage everything.

  And I’d hate to do that to her.

  Scarlett does need Paris. She does need business. She craves deals. She eats them up.

  She doesn’t need them simply for nine-to-five sustenance. She needs them for air, for life, for happiness.

  Paris and work, work and Paris.

  They helped her heal from her pain. They were the twin supports she needed.

  What if I hurt them?

  My mind spins at a rapid pace.

  I could ruin something she loves.

  Worse. I could destroy it.

  If we don’t work out—and we won’t, because how could we?—I’ll taint business for her. And then I’ll taint the thing she needs most.

  Her city.

  As I imagine a life with her beyond this tryst on the road, a life spilling over into Paris, the dire consequences smack me in the face.

  Paris is her happy place.

  Her comfort.

  Her soul mate.

  When we fall apart, what will happen to the things she loves, the things she needs?

  I don’t want to kill Paris for her.

  I don’t want to cause her more pain.

  To scar the city she cares so deeply for, or the work she cherishes.

  Surely that’s all I’d do.

  She’s already recovered from her pain. She made her way to the other side. She found her violin, and she found it in business, she found it in Paris.

  Am I truly selfish enough to risk that just for a few more moments with her?

  Even if I want more than this week, even if I am dying to tell her that I’m madly in love with her, chances are I’d eventually ruin us.

  I head to the shower.

  Once I’m in the bathroom, I turn on the tap, step under the water, and blast it on high. I wash off the night, washing away my confessions. As I scrub soap over my body, I stare at my scar—the reminder that everything beautiful can be broken.

  All the images I’ve kept locked up, haven’t revisited in ages, pound through my mind again.

  The kitchen, the knife, the ambulance, the mistrial, the wall.

  What if everything precious shatters once again?

  Screw what if.

  There is no what if.

  Everything wonderful does die.

  The only question is how it will happen.

  And when.

  27

  Daniel

  When we make a final stop in Champagne, only spending a few hours visiting an inn there, I can’t escape the sense that time is unwinding.

  Time is running out for us to enjoy this make-believe romance.

  We have business to do, and we are all business at the final inn, checking the details, peering into the corners, conducting our due diligence before we board the train to Paris.

  As we cross the countryside, we roll up our sleeves, rub our palms together, and prepare a budget for the potential acquisition.

  Cole texts that he wants to meet us before we put in the offer. We make plans to catch up with him at the Paris office near the train station. As we rumble along, one hundred miles away from the city that Scarlett considers her soul mate, we power through work.

  Once or twice, I get the sense that she wants to dip into a what-if conversation.

  I’m secretly praying that she’ll toe the line. That she’ll say, This ends when we return to Paris, just like we planned.

  That would make life easier.

  Then I won’t have to say the hard thing.

  When we’re only fifty miles away, she clears her throat. “Daniel, do you want to talk?”

  A bolt of tension slams down my spine. “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?” I say breezily, leaning on the usual lightness that she knows so well from me.

  Hoping it’ll work.

  But she’s no fool. She presses on. “Yes, but do you want to talk about what happens when we return to Paris?”

  I react quickly, dodging. “You go to your flat and I go to the hotel?” I ask, trying cheekiness on once more.

  She gives a faint laugh, then studies my expression as if she can figure out what’s rolling through my head. “I think you know that’s not what I mean.”

  Ah, she’s seen through me in seconds, and she’s yanked back the curtain.

  There’s only one option now. Rely on the practical. “I thought we talked about this already. Did you change your mind?”

  She draws a sharp inhale like I’ve hit below the belt.

  “Right,” she says, that one word from her lasting a minute.

  Maybe I have hit below the belt.

  She turns her face away from me, clicks on her tablet, and says, “Let’s go back to the spreadsheet.”

  Maybe I’ve dodged a bullet. Or perhaps I’ve fired one. My God, I don’t know how anyone navigates relationships. They’re brutal battlefields.

  As the train rattles into Paris, she tries again, setting her hand on my leg. “I had an amazing time with you this week, Daniel.”

  “It was incredible,” I say, because that’s the truth. Because I can say that without hurting her.

  She’s undeterred, so strong, so determined. “I was hoping that perhaps we might give this thing between us a chance beyond the trip. A chance in Paris,” she says, without guile, laying her cards on the table.

  Bloody hell. She’s so fucking amazing. She’s so wonderful, so daring, so fearless. I want her nerves. I want her guts. I want her courage to step into the great unknown.

  But I don’t possess them. “I had a feeling you were going there,” I say evenly, trying to avoid hurt—me hurting her, her hurting me.

  “And do you not want to? Have I been reading you wrong?”

  I want to lie. I want to dance around it. I want to say, Of course you’re reading me wrong. I’m just me, happy-go-lucky, nihilist me.

  But she deserves better. She deserves the truth.

  I shift in my seat and clasp her face. “I would love to be in a relationship with you, but I fear I would destroy us,” I say heavily, the hard weight of the truth tugging me down.

  She blinks, then breathes out hard. “Wow.”

  She didn’t expect that. I didn’t expect it either. But she deserves the full truth of my heart, since it’s all I can give her. I have nothing more. “That’s all I know how to do, Scarlett. That is all I’ve ever done.”
/>
  She seems to swallow around a knot in her throat. “I understand why you feel that way. You don’t even want to try?”

  “I do,” I say, pleading with her to understand, clasping her tightly. “I desperately want to try. But I would hate myself if I hurt you. And I’ve spent so many years already hating myself. It took me years to stop hating myself after what happened to my parents. If I damage you, if I hurt you, I don’t think I could survive it.”

  Pain and resignation cross her eyes. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

  “I love the idea of you and me. I want it more than anything. I am mad about you,” I say, then sigh heavily. “But I won’t be the architect of more pain.”

  There is no room here for anything else. I won’t hurt her.

  She takes another sharp breath, her eyes shining with wetness. “So this is it?”

  “I suppose it is,” I say heavily, running a finger along her collarbone. “Scarlett, I’m in love with you. I knew it a few days ago. I’m madly, wildly in love with you. And because of that, I don’t want to ruin you.”

  She inhales roughly, then seems to steady herself, lifting her chin. “I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit. And I don’t think you’re giving me enough credit.”

  I bring my hand to my chest, trying to implore her. “I don’t know how to give myself credit. I haven’t in years. And I care too much about you to take a chance at hurting you.”

  As the train stops, she deals me a cool look. “The funny thing is, I’m in love with you too, but I’m willing to take a chance.” She sighs, resigned. “I suppose that’s where we’re different.”

  I wince but take it on the chin. “I suppose that is indeed where we diverge.”

  She stands, turns her back to me, and reaches for her bag. When it’s on the floor of the train, I take it from her, and we exit, saying nothing as we go to meet Cole to make the offer.

  Once that’s in motion, Scarlett shoulders her purse, reaches for the handle of her bag, and says the fastest goodbye in the history of this city. “I have someplace to be.”

  She walks away.