MY ONE WEEK HUSBAND

LAUREN BLAKELY

LITTLE DOG PRESS

CONTENTS

Also by Lauren Blakely

About

My One Week Husband

1.  Scarlett

2.  Daniel

3.  Scarlett

4.  Daniel

5.  Scarlett

6.  Daniel

7.  Scarlett

8.  Daniel

9.  Scarlett

10.  Daniel

11.  Scarlett

12.  Scarlett

13.  Daniel

14.  Scarlett

15.  Scarlett

16.  Daniel

17.  Daniel

18.  Scarlett

19.  Scarlett

20.  Daniel

21.  Daniel

22.  Daniel

23.  Scarlett

24.  Scarlett

25.  Daniel

26.  Daniel

27.  Daniel

28.  Scarlett

29.  Daniel

30.  Scarlett

31.  Daniel

32.  Daniel

Epilogue

Final Epilogue

Also by Lauren Blakely

About

Copyright © 2021 by Lauren Blakely

Cover Design by Helen Williams.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

ALSO BY LAUREN BLAKELY

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My One Week Husband

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ABOUT

A week-long trip. A fake marriage. And seven delicious nights with only one bed in the hotel room.

He’s my business partner, my good friend, and the man I’ve craved for years.

But I’ve resisted the sexy Brit, and I plan to keep up my walls because I’ve been there, done that, and I know how much it hurts when you let someone into your heart.

Then an opportunity comes along for us to snag the business deal of a lifetime.

The catch?

We need to pretend we’re married to pull off this high-stakes deal.

So the clever, charming man with secrets a mile deep becomes my temporary husband, as we travel around Europe. Soon, we fall into bed, tangled together like newlyweds who can’t keep their hands off each other.

One week to explore our fantasies, then we return to who we were.

But when I learn the dark secrets he’s been keeping, I doubt we can go back.

Because they change everything.

MY ONE WEEK HUSBAND

By Lauren Blakely

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1

SCARLETT

Some things feel true, even if you know they won’t ever come true.

But in the moment, your imagination takes hold.

Like right now.

As I stroll down the street in Avignon with my business partner, the sun shimmering low in a clear blue sky and the scent of lavender wafting in the soft breeze, I feel as if I could linger all day. Funny, because I am not known for lingering.

Yet lingering feels inherently right. “I could spend hours roaming this town,” I declare with a deep inhale of the South of France air, far away from the glitter and lights, the hustle and bustle of Paris.

Daniel shoots me a skeptical look as we wander past a chichi boutique peddling silk scarves and sky-high heels. “You could definitely not spend hours wandering, Scarlett.”

I scoff, raising my chin. “You doubt my ability to roam?”

“I doubt your tolerance for roaming through here.” He gestures grandly to the plethora of boutiques and cafés on the street. “You don’t even like to shop.”

“I do like to shop,” I say defensively.

He shakes his head, laughing. It’s a rich, deep sound that I’ve loved to hear ever since I became his financial advisor a few years back. I’ve grown to know him even better in the past twelve months, after I bought a third of a stake in his company. “No,” he counters. “You like to buy. You like to have a list of things you need. You like to pop into stores, grab what you’re after, then scurry on out.”

I argue that point, something I do love to do. “That’s shopping. Going in, buying what you need—that’s the literal definition of shopping.”

His blue eyes glint with mischief. It’s a look I see often in those crystal irises. “Exactly. We’re only wandering down this street because our train arrived early. I doubt you’d actually spend hours strolling through this town otherwise. In fact, I don’t think you’d spend hours doing anything except work,” he says, throwing that down like a gauntlet.

I square my shoulders, bristling at his accusation, though it’s largely true. “What do you think I should spend my hours doing? Sunning myself? Being fanned with palm fronds?”

He gives me a lopsided grin that is both endearing and infuriating. “The latter sounds perfect. But I’m simply saying that you don’t lollygag. You have a plan for everything. A strategy for ‘tackling every day because days should be tackled.’”

He sketches air quotes around those last words—words I use, well, daily.

I toss my head back, laughing as we near a café with its red windows flung open, green tables spilling across the sidewalk. “So this is what we’ve come to? You mock me for having strategies?”

“Well, you do make it easy,” Daniel teases.

A waiter rushes out of the main door of the café with a tray of wineglasses balanced on his forearm expertly, different shades of crimson in the glasses.

“Strategies are a woman’s best friend. And a man’s,” I add, making a move to swat Daniel’s elbow.

Playfully, of course.

He sidesteps me.

The waiter bumps into him.

“Excusez moi,” the waiter says, an apologetic frown creasing his brow.

“De rien,” Daniel quickly reassures the man. The waiter smiles, nods, and weaves through the tables.

The Englishman by my side returns to ribbing me. “As I was saying, you don’t actually like to linger, wander, or roam, Scarlett. You like to do. You like to accomplish. I suspect you’re secretly pissed that our train was early, since now we have to kill a whole half hour before our meeting.”

“Oh yes, that’s me. Secretly mad,” I say deadpan. Then I deal him a sharp stare. “I don’t get mad in secret.”

He taps his chin. “True. You have been known to march right up to me and give me hell though.”

“When you deserve it. Which is often.” I glance his way, then flinch when my gaze catches on a spot of burgundy on the sleeve of his silk shirt.

“Daniel,” I say, touching his forearm.

“Yes?”

“It seems your shirt might have been the collateral damage back there,” I say, gesturing to a small but stands-out-like-a-sore-thumb spot on the expensive fabric.

His eyes drift down to the red stain on his sleeve. “Huh,” he says, amused. His lips curve into a grin. “C’est la vie. Or perhaps that’s one of the hazards of lingering?”

“Do you want to go back to the hotel so you can change?”

He checks his wristwatch. “Not enough time before our meeting.” He squints, peering along the street. “Looks like there’s a men’s clothing shop up ahead.”

“Ah, is that your strategy for tackling the spot?” I ask, imitating him in his crisp London accent.

He grins. “I never said strategies were bad.”

“I beg to differ.”

“You just assumed I was giving you a hard time,” he tosses back at me.

“As you do,” I say.

Of course, it’s not a bad thing to get along swimmingly with a business partner. We’re like gin and tonic, and it’s a good thing. We don’t always see eye to eye, but we complement each other. That’s how we’ve been able to make magic happen with our hotels—with our different approaches and the way we’ve been able to mesh them to grow our business.

He reaches the door to the shop and holds it open with a flourish. “After you.”

“Show me how quick you can be,” I say.

His eyes narrow, flickering with naughty intent. “I don’t think you really want me to be quick.”

Heat flares across my skin at his sexy subtext, but I do my best to ignore it. “Is everything innuendo with you?”

“Life is innuendo. Of course everything is too. Now, let’s make sure I look the part of the impeccable hotelier wooing the town historical society with our plans to renovate the inn on the corner.”

In the store, the man is the model of efficiency. He’s incredibly fast, but that doesn’t surprise me. He’s a determined guy who makes quick decisions, and usually the right ones.

He finds a white shirt with thin blue checks, then tips his forehead to the back of the shop. “I’ll go try on this one.”

“Great. I’ll wait outside and answer some messages.”

He jerks his head back. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. You’ll wait outside the dressing room and tell me how the shirt looks.”

I arch a brow, laughing. “Like we’re a married couple?”

“Yes. Pretend, Scarlett,” he says in that husky tone again as we weave our way to the dressing rooms. “Pretend you care deeply what your husband is wearing to the dinner meeting.”

“Fine. If you insist,” I say with a huff.

“I do insist.”

“Don’t you just love giving orders?”

He wiggles his brow as he opens the dressing room door, tossing me a wry look. “Yes. Yes, I do,” he says in a voice that drips with sex.

Daniel Stewart is the living, breathing manifestation of sex appeal. I’ve learned to live with his hotness. What else can I do? I work with him. I’d be a fool to entertain thoughts of him sexually.

We run a billion-dollar hotel empire together.

I heave a sigh, an absolutely aggrieved one, as if a make-believe marriage is the worst thing in the world, then I flop onto a leather chair outside the dressing rooms. “If I must check out your clothes, I will.”

He ducks into the room, his voice drifting out. “Thanks so much, my darling bride.”

I laugh, shaking my head at his antics, then reach for my phone. But as I tap out replies to emails, my brain wanders into the dressing room, opens the door, and tries to get a look at Daniel trying on the shirt.

I squeeze my eyes shut, doing my very best to banish those thoughts. To put them in an airtight container, close it up tight, and tuck it away.

Never to open it again.

The door creaks open.

I glance up as he steps out of the dressing room, showing off the new shirt, and I hum low in my throat, admiring the hell out of the view.

He’s a little over six feet tall. His brown hair is tinged with gold, sun-kissed, and his jawline could grace magazine covers. A rigorous commitment to cycling through the Alps and the streets of London and Paris has made him toned. The gym has made him muscular.

The job has made him filthy rich.

He’s the kind of man designers make clothes for. Clothes that should be so lucky to snuggle up against his skin.

Everything he wears looks devilishly handsome because he is devilishly handsome.

That’s a thought best kept in the container with the rest. I wrestle the errant idea, intent on securing it away with the others. But as I do, Daniel lifts his hands to the shirt’s buttons, and the thought wriggles free and shoves itself front and center in my head.

Because he stands mere feet away, doing up the buttons.

Which means his shirt is halfway open.

My eyes take a stroll.

So that’s what his pecs look like. So they do sport a smattering of hair. So they are, in fact, as carved as I’d imagined.

As I’d hoped.

And what of his abs?

My mouth waters as my eyes travel lower, eager to catch a glimpse of the ridges and grooves.

Snap out of it, Scarlett! He’s your business partner.

I blink, squashing the thoughts. Then I jump up and down on them to make sure they’re dead, reduced to dead-bug levels of thought mortality.

I swallow roughly and give Daniel a thumbs-up.

He rolls his eyes. “Your husband merely gets a thumbs-up?”

“I would think my husband should be happy I’m still shopping with him after all these years of marriage.”

“But maybe we’re newlyweds,” he says.

“As if.”

He grins, then echoes, “As if,” letting that hang importantly in the air, knowing that neither one of us would go there.

For very different reasons, but reasons nonetheless.

A little later, with Daniel in his new shirt, we head to the dinner meeting, where we explain to the Historical Society of Avignon how our renovations of the century-old inn we purchased here will benefit the town, and they agree.

When it’s over, we return to our new hotel, and I’m ready for bed. I tell Daniel I’ll see him in the morning.

He brushes a kiss on my cheek. He always brushes kisses on my cheeks. So very European.

Though sometimes my body reacts in ways it shouldn’t.

With tingles.

“Good night, Mrs. Stewart,” he teases.

I laugh, because it’s all I can do. Then I say good night to him, and to the tingles he leaves behind on my skin.

Lavender eye mask? On the nightstand.

High-stakes thriller? Got that.

Phone. Right here with me.

Plus, I’m wearing my newest La Perla nightie, with delicate straps and the most succulent silk, the color of amethyst, that falls lovingly against my skin. In the ornate bathroom at this boutique hotel that’s now part of our portfolio, I reach for my favorite lotion, slather it on my legs, then put it back in my travel bag.

I brush one hand against the other and stand in the doorway of the bathroom regarding the space in front of me, looking for anything that calls to me, that might need to be changed to make this hotel a pinnacle of luxury here in Avignon, a fitting addition to our brand.

What about that mirror over the desk? It’s a little too ornate. It makes me feel like I’m in a Victorian-era home, all stuffy and buttoned-up.

The opposite of our brand.

The opposite of this hotel too.

When guests check into this establishment, they’re on honeymoons. They’re on getaways. They’re here to fuck.

I snap a picture of the mirror as a reminder that it ought to be replaced, then I dictate a note on my phone. “Look into new mirrors. Are these truly the best? Do they suggest sex enough? The people who come here probably want to watch themselves in the mirror.”

I set the phone on the desk, then smooth a hand down the front of my silk negligee.

What would I do if someone brought me here on a getaway?

Told me to watch in the mirror as he fucked me?

A shiver runs through me at that naughty scenario, but it’s fuzzy, hazy around the edges.

I don’t even know who I’m imagining saying that.

Telling me to do that.

But does it really matter? There is no time in my life, nor space in it either for that to happen.

I grab my tablet and slide into bed. I answer a message from my friend Nadia about our upcoming meeting in Paris. A few of her football team’s players are coming to Europe for an exhibition game as part of the league’s efforts to expand American football’s popularity here on the continent.

I reply and confirm which meetings I can attend with her, then sign off with a Go, team, go! GIF. As an American who now lives overseas, I haven’t lost my love of the sport I grew up watching, and I’m eager to see it develop in Europe.

I set down the tablet, take a deep breath, then slide under the covers with my book. I try to read, but there’s so much to do tomorrow, all of it flitting through my head. So much on my to-do list that’s never-ending.

But that’s what a good to-do list is. A good to-do list ought to be never-ending.

Lists are great for the soul. No list has ever let me down. Neither has work. Neither have friends.

Only relationships have left me disillusioned and disappointed.

That, and love.

On that note, I grab my eye mask, put it on and fall asleep.

Crash!

An earsplitting din rends the air.

A bolt of alarm jars me wide awake. I push up my mask and jump out of bed, flinging off the covers. I scan left then right, hunting the source of the sound and what I can do about it.

Where is the fire extinguisher? Something big and heavy in case I have to fight off an intruder?

I spot it in the corner next to the plush red velvet lounge, then I grab it, dash to the door, and peer through the peephole into the hall. I suck in a breath as I take in the carnage, then I let it escape as a sigh of relief.

I don’t need a fire extinguisher, thank God. The sight in the hallway is horrifying, but nonthreatening. Shards of glass are everywhere. But it’s time to woman up. Setting down the fire extinguisher, I glance at the time. Two in the morning. Grabbing my phones and my tablet in case I need to make a quick call or record details, I put on my slippers, unhook the chain, unlatch the door, and step into the hall.

Another door slinks open at the same time as mine, and Daniel steps out from his room across from mine.

He rubs his right hand over his sleep-rumpled hair. The hand with the jagged scar that runs down the length of it—a mark I find incomparably sexy.

He unleashes a yawn, stretching his arms and . . .

Holy low-slung sleep pants.

His sleep attire answers all my questions from the dressing room earlier today.

Every last one.

We’re talking ridges, grooves, divots.

Abs for days.

And that V?

The vaunted V cut, which I shouldn’t have imagined he had, but I don’t have to imagine anymore, because he does.

Oh yes, he does.

I ought to keep my gaze above his neck.

But my mouth is watering at the sight of his chest, his stomach, his hips.

I will my eyes not to stray downward.

I’m not a pervert.

I’m truly not.

But . . .

My eyes are traitors.

They stray to his pelvis.

To the outline visible through the fabric.

An outline that leaves little to the imagination.

My gorgeous, clever, charming business partner is rock-hard.

Nearly naked.

And sporting one hell of a bedtime erection.

Now I have a damn good sense of what he looks like underneath those devilishly handsome clothes all day long.

He looks like a man I’d like to fuck.

But then I remind myself that some things are true, even if they won’t ever come true.

And this won’t come true at all.

2

DANIEL

This certainly makes two a.m. better.

Then again, I don’t generally have any issues with two o’clock in the morning. But I especially don’t now, given the sight in front of me this very second.

Scarlett Slade, dressed only in a negligee that hugs her lush frame in all the right places.

The right places being her hips and her breasts.

Those are definitely all right by me.

So much so that I force out a laugh, mostly to cover up the groan that’s working its way up my throat, because this woman is stunning in next to nothing.

Stunning with a capital S.

Make that stunning with all caps, a few exclamation points, and an eyes-popping-out-of-a-head emoji.

I do my best to make light of the situation, mostly so I don’t let on that I’m insanely turned on by her attire.

Yet I’m also incredibly amused by her choice of sleepwear.

“Of course you sleep with an eye mask and three cell phones,” I say, pointing to her hand where she’s clutching all her modern technology. The mask is pushed up on her forehead, her gorgeous chestnut locks messy behind it.

She shoots me a searing look. “One is a tablet.”

“Ah, all the better to whack an errant chandelier shard with.”

She sighs deeply. “I grabbed them in case I needed to make phone calls or send emails.”

“You are armed for any contingency. Are you going to send a strongly worded email to the chandelier for not having the strength to hold on to the ceiling? Or maybe make a serious phone call to the wiring about its lack of stamina?”

She’s thoroughly deadpan as she answers, “I’ll have you know I’m ready to initiate the inquiry now. I’ll start with the email, and then be ready to follow up with a detailed call.”

“Excellent. You’re always prepared. And when the chandelier refuses to talk, just give him the cold shoulder and drop your sleep mask on.”

“And what may I ask is wrong with a sleep mask?”

“Nothing. It’s just so very you.”

“Why is it so very me, Daniel?”

“Because you love all your creature comforts. I bet you had them all lined up so neatly on the bedside table.”

She huffs. “Why do you think giving me a hard time about how I like to sleep is a good idea?”

I deal her a wry grin. “I’m not truly sure it’s a good idea. It’s probably actually a bad idea, but it’s entertaining.”

Also, it distracts me from how incredibly short that negligee is. Short as in thigh-grazing. Short as in just a few more inches and I’d know whether she sleeps in her knickers or bare.

My money is on knickers.

My dirty brain, and all its filthy wishes, is on bare.

But neither image is helping the “insanely turned-on” dilemma.

I am undeterred on my mission though. I must know more about her sleep habits. “Did you have both phones on, and were you using them in the middle of the night?”

Her lovely green eyes narrow. “And what were you doing before the chandelier fell? Did you have all your devices turned off?”

“Yes. I actually sleep with my phone off. Because, wait for it, I enjoy sleeping. In fact, if memory serves, I was having a rather good dream.”

Her lips go pouty, and her voice is all kinds of saucy as she says, “Were you now?”

My eyes drift down my frame. Hmm. The evidence is damning. “Oh, it seems obvious I was, doesn’t it?”

She presses her thumb and forefinger together to show a sliver of space. “Just a little.”

I scoff, gesturing at my crotch. “Oh, there’s nothing little about that, love.”

She tosses her head back, exasperated, clearly. “Oh my God, Daniel. Can we just deal with the chandelier?” She finishes her question with a laugh. A laugh she’s trying her best to swallow down.

I don’t let up though. She’s too much fun. We have too much fun. Always have, ever since she first advised me to invest in a hedge fund that turned into a money tree—she has the Midas touch. “Don’t you want to ask me what the dream was about?”

“No. I don’t think I do.”

I act all haughty. “Fine. I wasn’t going to tell you anyway.” I drop my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I was dreaming about unicorns,” I say under my breath. “If you must know.”

She fights off another laugh, shaking her head. “Yes. I’m sure the magical creatures were prancing amidst rainbows. Now, the chandelier. Can we please deal with it?”

I slide into all-business mode. “We’ll deal with it by disposing of it and purchasing a new one.” After all, a broken chandelier is merely a . . . broken chandelier.

It’s not a shattered heart, not a broken body, and not a crushed dream.

“Don’t you think it’s a sign that maybe we shouldn’t have bought this place?” she asks as the sound of footsteps on the staircase drifts up to us. The maintenance crew must be heading our way.

I straighten my shoulders, giving her a curious look. She’s always been superstitious, as long as I’ve known her. But not like this. More like doesn’t-open-umbrellas-indoors and wears-her-favorite-scarf-for-good-luck superstitious. “Do you truly think it’s a sign, Scarlett?”

She holds her hands out wide, what gives style. “It’s just that . . . I don’t know, it fell in the middle of the night.”

The footsteps grow closer. “And we’re going to clean it up. I hear maintenance coming now. I’ll sort it all out. I promise. We’ll move on.” Moving on is what I do. It’s my specialty.

She worries her bottom lip with her teeth. “What does it say about the quality of things in this hotel?” she whispers. “Did we make a bad purchase? We need to look more closely at all of these details. We need to analyze everything. I’m going to make a note to study this tomorrow. If a chandelier can fall in the middle of the night, we may need to do more research on all our electricals or our fixtures to be sure we’re making the best choices for all of our hotels.”

I step closer, setting a hand on her arm. Her skin is soft and warm. “It needs a little bit of renovation, but so it goes. Like I said, I’ll handle all this. Go back to sleep.”

“I’ll try.”

“Also, have you always believed in signs? That doesn’t seem like you, my analytical, number-crunching, strategy-loving friend.”

“I probably should have,” she says a little darkly.

I tilt my head, waiting for her to say more. I have a hunch what she’s referring to, but only a hunch. Neither of us like to trip back in time to the past—we both seem to vastly prefer the present—but every now and then, she lets slip a word or a phrase that makes me think history wasn’t any good to her.

“What about you? Do you believe in signs?” she asks.

There’s not much I believe in anymore except taking each day as it comes, because who the fuck knows what’s going to happen tomorrow? “No. Now, let me have maintenance deal with this and we’ll discuss it over breakfast.”

The footsteps grow louder.

She heaves a sigh. “I don’t know that I can fall back asleep.”

I gesture to my door. “Would you like to come in? Have a cup of tea? Some warm milk? A biscuit?”

“Go on your merry way,” she says, shooing me toward my room. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I’ll see you at breakfast, my lovely wife. Now go back to bed straightaway. I can’t have anyone else seeing my darling wife in a negligee.” I wink at her.

That draws a smile from her. “And you think I want everyone to check out my husband in his lounge pants?”

I give her a cheeky grin. “You love showing me off. Of course you do.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“You mean incredible. My abs are incredible?” I ask innocently.

Twin spots of color flash across her cheeks as she grabs the doorknob. “Good night, Daniel.”

She steps inside and leaves me to deal with the maintenance crew.

But they’re excellent at their job, so they tell me they’ll take care of the mess in mere minutes. I toss on a shirt and jeans, then head downstairs to ensure there are no guests in other rooms near wayward chandeliers. Neither injuries nor the lawsuits that accompany them would be any fun.

Colin, the night manager, assures me he’ll move a couple on the third floor, and another on the fourth. Confident he has it handled, I return to my room and tug the door closed.

I draw a deep breath, ready to return to dreamland, which is not inhabited by unicorns, but rather by women.

Always by women.

Tonight, though, Scarlett has commandeered my thoughts. As I shed my jeans and toss my shirt onto the floor, visions of my sugar plum business partner dance in my head.

Dirty visions.

When I slide under the sheets, a picture flashes before me of Scarlett in her room, settling under her covers, that silky purple fabric rubbing against her body, the lace sliding over her breasts.

Maybe she plays with one of her breasts. Perhaps she pinches a nipple. Grazes her thumb along the soft flesh of those gorgeous globes.

Squeezes both of them.

And fuck, that’s an insanely sexy image.

Every rational, intelligent part of my brain tells me not to get off to thoughts of my business partner, my friend. Not to ponder what she must look like right now beneath the covers.

But all I can imagine is she’s trying to get comfortable enough to fall back asleep.

I doubt she can manage right away.

I bet she’s the type of woman who needs to unwind. Who needs a hand between her legs to slide into the land of nod. Who must let her fingers fly across her soft, slippery flesh. Then who lets out a shudder, a heated sigh as she comes. I groan at the thought of gorgeous, put-together Scarlett in her bed, spreading her legs, taking herself over the edge.

But I can’t think of her right now. I can’t, and I won’t.

So I squeeze my eyes shut, picturing unnamed women.

Seeing gorgeous female flesh.

Not her. Not her at all.

I swear I’m not thinking of Scarlett as I take my hard cock in my hand and slide my fist up and down my length.

Envisioning soft flesh. Inhaling perfume. Enjoying sexy, sensual, feminine scents.

Lavender and vanilla. Bodies and hips and tits and lushness.

I reach for the lotion on the nightstand to make this easier, to help this along. No need to fight it. Might as well make it go faster.

With a little assistance, I jerk quicker, harder.

Picturing women, women, women.

Beauty. Bodies.

Not her. Not her at all.

Pleasure barrels down my spine, an assault on my senses.

Hard and sharp and fast.

As lust intensifies, coiling in me, I near the edge, when an image of her face taunts me.

Beautiful. Beckoning. Forbidden.

I deny it.

I will not finish off to my business partner. Teasing her is one thing, flirting is another, but imagining her when I’m shuttling my fist along my length, dangerously close to release, is something else entirely.

Even though the prospect of her moaning and groaning and writhing as she brings herself to orgasm is too much.

Too much to ignore.

As the torment of impending release takes over my body and mind, I stroke more roughly, doing my damnedest to focus solely on the pleasure and to ignore thoughts of what she’s doing in the room across from mine.

I hope she’s coming hard too.

Like I am right now, as pleasure blots out everything else.

After, my head is clear.

My body is relaxed.

I push all thoughts of her from my mind.

Until I see her the next morning at breakfast.

And is it just me, or does she look a little guilty too?

3

SCARLETT

Soft rays of morning sun filter through the lobby windows. The clock above the desk ticks close to eight.

I’ve already gone for a run along the winding streets of Avignon and devised a budget for the new chandeliers.

The front desk manager is on top of the situation too, which makes Colin officially my new favorite person. That’s not a surprise — his knowledge of the area was one of the reasons we were so impressed with this property before we bought it. Though he speaks French, his accent tells me he’s from England.

He’s already lined up a chandelier restoration expert who goes by the name “Mr. Crystal” to come by at one o’clock.

“He wears wire-rimmed glasses that sit on the end of his nose and a brown cardigan even in the summer. A monocle always dangles around his neck. He can’t be anything but a chandelier restoration expert,” Colin details with a cheery demeanor from his post behind the front desk. He’s chatty too, and though I have lots to do, it’s important to spend time with those who are the public face of our new property.

Plus, the image Colin paints amuses me, so it’s no chore to gab with him. “Chandelier repair…It’s one of those jobs you don’t think anyone might have until you need precisely that person.”

“And then you’re so glad someone has that post.”

“Exactly.”

He taps his chin, his brow knitting like he’s having fun with this discussion. “I’ve often wondered though…do you think he knew from a young age that he wanted to be a chandelier restoration expert? Or was he torn for a while –chandeliers or grandfather clocks?”

“And chandeliers won out since there are many reasons to repair them. After all, how many chandeliers must need repair due to swinging from them?”

Colin laughs, lowers his voice. “Mr. Crystal surely knows, but as the saying goes — a good restoration expert never tells.”

“Discretion is the better part of chandelier repair. That’s a saying too, I’m sure.”

“I’d imagine it’d have to be. And perhaps, let’s be honest, with many of the repair people we often have to hire at hotels, it’s a vital skill – discretion.” He glances behind him, then speaks clandestinely. “We once had to track down someone to handle a canopy bed repair. You don’t want to know what that room looked like.”

I laugh. “Actually, I might.”

His voice dips again. “My wife loves to hear the tales from the front desk, as I call them. So I’ll say this much – knots. So many knots.”

“And you knew how to find a canopy repair person stat, I trust?”

“But of course. I called Mrs. Canopy straightaway.”

I smile. “Ah, I bet she and Mr. Crystal have so many stories to tell each other.”

“Stories are the secret to a happy marriage.”

Perhaps they are, but I wouldn’t know what makes for a happy marriage.

I do know what makes for happy employees and happy bosses though.

Kindness, respect and a good paycheck.

I focus on those details instead as I type a few notes in my tablet. “In any case, Colin, you said you expect new ones to be installed by the end of next week, and repairs to the existing ones by then too?”

“That’s the plan. We used Mr. Crystal in a hotel I worked at in Aix-en-Provence a while ago, and he was ahead of schedule by a week.”

“Fantastic. Thank you again for your quick work. And for making my job easier. Mr. Stewart and I are both incredibly grateful for that.” I close my tablet and drop it into my purse.

Normally, as one of the owners, this isn’t the level of attention I need to give to a property, but since this inn is the first in our plans to expand into smaller boutique hotels, I want to make sure Hotel de Garnier has my full attention.

“And I’m grateful you kept everyone on board when you bought this inn. Now, if you’ve got the time this morning, you and Mr. Stewart should visit our sister restaurant for breakfast. I’ll send word to the staff, and make sure they know it’s on the house.” With a smile, he tips his forehead toward the restaurant. “My wife works there and the restaurant has the most decadent berries in all of the South of France.”

With a smile, I hoist my purse strap higher. “If you were trying to impress the new owners, it worked.”

“Brilliant. That’s always the goal.”

I take a step toward the restaurant, since I’m meeting Daniel there shortly anyway.

Daniel, who I barely thought of last night when I returned to bed.

Daniel, whose bare chest and chiseled abs hardly featured in my late-night imaginings.

Daniel, who fried my brain so much that—

Shit. I can’t believe I forgot something so obvious.

I wheel around, nerves whipping through me. “Are there other chandeliers on other floors? Near guest rooms?” My God, if one fell on a guest . . . I shudder at the thought.

“Only a few. All of the guests who were staying in rooms that were adjacent to chandeliers were moved to other rooms in the middle of the night. So you don’t have to worry about that. And they’re all secure. Maintenance did a check.”

“That was excellent thinking on your part.”

“Oh, that wasn’t me. That was all Mr. Stewart. He came downstairs in the middle of the night and made sure we took care of it,” he says, as a bell rings above the front door.

He flashes a bright greeting to a man strolling through the front door, wheeling a suitcase behind him.

I hum, impressed with my colleague, annoyed with myself as I head to the adjoining café, ask the host for a table for two, and grab a spot by the window.

An auburn-haired waitress with a freckled nose brings a coffee pot over. I nod a yes, and she pours, asking how my morning is.

We make small talk, and when she leaves, I drink the coffee and cut myself some slack. It’s good that Daniel moved some guests last night. It’s good that he was here too. I don’t have to think of everything. It’s not my job to handle every single detail. This is why I have partners, managers, employees.

Others need to be sharp too.

And last night, others were.

A minute later, Daniel sweeps in, looking well-rested and ready to tackle the day in his slacks and crisp linen shirt, a glint in his eye.

Is that a glint that says we have a secret? But we don’t, of course. Knowing what he looks like in lounge pants is hardly worth exchanging flirty glances over.

“Don’t you look like you’re on a honeymoon,” I say, scanning his attire. After I was practically ogling him last night, it’s best if I act like it’s normal to comment on his appearance.

He sits across from me, proffering a sly smile. “It’s my honeymoon, love,” he says as the waitress arrives at our table.

“Congratulations to the newlyweds,” the friendly woman says.

I laugh, rolling my eyes as I spread a napkin across my lap. Daniel lifts his chin, greeting the freckled server. “Thank you so much. We’re having a wonderful honeymoon already.”

“That is fantastic to hear. This hotel is certainly known for that,” she says, like she has a little secret tucked in her back pocket.

“As it should be. I barely made it out of the room,” Daniel adds, playing it up. Such a ham.

The waitress smiles. “I remember what that was like a few years ago with my husband.”

She takes our order, brings Daniel a tea, then I launch right into business. “I want you to know I’ve already done an analysis and activated a plan to replace the chandeliers.”

“Of course you ‘activated a plan,’” he says in that teasing voice. “You probably didn’t even go back to sleep last night, did you?”

“I slept for a bit.”

He wags a finger at me. “I don’t believe you. I bet you were up for hours, running numbers. Admit it. That’s what you did, Scarlett. You are one of those people who can survive on two to three hours a night of shut-eye.”

“That’s not true,” I say as he lifts his cup.

“I bet you can survive on numbers alone. You eat them for breakfast, right? I suspect the waitress is going to bring you a side of equations with your berries. They’ll power you through literally the entire day. All of your strength, all of your intensity comes from your financial reports.”

“I like numbers,” I say, but inside, I’m trying to suppress a grin.

“No. You love numbers.”

I arch a brow. “I believe my insane love of numbers is why you and Cole were so happy to have me invest. Same thing that has allowed us to expand, which is what the two of you wanted when you offered me a share. So there.”

“You have made many things possible, and for that, I’m incredibly grateful,” he says, taking a drink of his tea.

I take another pull of my coffee and set it down. “And also, thank you for what you did last night.”

He waves his right hand in front of his chest. “You mean giving you a wonderful view of all my assets?”

I shake my head. “Making sure the guests in rooms adjacent to chandeliers had other places to stay. I can’t believe that thought slipped my mind. I’m ashamed. But I’m glad that you caught it.”

He puts his cup down, his expression gentle but earnest. “Scarlett, we’re a team. You don’t have to do everything. That’s why we work together.”

“I know, I know. I just, I wish I had thought of it. But you did, so I’m glad.”

“I’m all about making my lovely wife happy,” he says as the waitress returns with our food.

As she sets down Daniel’s egg whites and my cup of berries, she asks if we’ve visited the Helen Williams winery.

“Hmm. I don’t think so,” Daniel says, leaning back in his chair, clearly enjoying the marriage ruse. “Are there lots of dark corners to tug my bride into and smother her with kisses?”

The woman laughs knowingly. “It’s perfect for when you can’t keep your hands off each other. My husband and I were married a few years ago, and we stayed in Aix-en-Provence. We toured the city, went to terrific restaurants, visited fabulous wineries. And we stayed at this fantastic boutique hotel that made you never want to leave. All sorts of dark corners for kissing, and an elevator that played sensual music,” she says, then blinks as if the memory of her honeymoon just flashed before her eyes. “But of course, this place is like that too.”

Sure, but it could be better. Better mirrors, better lighting, better mood music.

And I’m intrigued by her mention of this other place.

Especially since this waitress doesn’t seem to recognize us. Not that we’re rock stars or celebrities. But she isn’t talking to us as if we’re the new owners. She’s talking to us like we are, indeed, the honeymooning guests.

And she’s dropping a tip, as waitresses do.

“Thanks. What was the name of the boutique hotel?” I ask.

She screws up the corner of her lips, deep in thought, then her green eyes twinkle. “Le Pavillon de Aix-en-Provence. But last I heard, it was for sale, so probably not worth checking out. Besides, why would you want to when you could stay here at our sister hotel?”

“Grand. Thanks so much,” Daniel says as the redhead takes off to tend to other customers.

He lifts his fork, holds it midair, and levels me with a knowing gaze.

Three years doing business together, and I do know this man.

His blue eyes are twinkling with dollar signs.

I bet mine are too. I cross my arms, a satisfied grin on my face. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“That’s either scary or incredibly sexy.”

“Daniel,” I chide, though sexy is right because I happen to think untapped potential is wildly arousing.

He leans closer, so close I can smell the pine of his aftershave and the clean ocean breeze of his shampoo. They make a delicious cocktail of manly scents that drift through my nose, that go to my head, that remind me how utterly intoxicated I was at seeing him in the hall last night.

But it’s not only that. It’s the potential we both sense here. Business deals are the antidote to heartbreak. They’ve carried me through some of the toughest years of my life. And nothing, nothing in the whole entire universe, has healed me more than making deals.

His voice is low, hushed. “Are you thinking we should check out that hotel?”

“And that we have time to pop over to Aix-en-Provence before we return to Paris for our meeting with Cole tonight?”

“Precisely.”

“Then, yes. Yes, I am.”

We eat breakfast, grab our bags, and head to the train station, settling into a first-class car. His arm brushes against mine as he takes a seat, and my breath hitches from that random touch.

I do my best to hide my reaction, but when his eyes meet mine, I’m not sure my best is enough.

His are darker, hungrier.

And maybe he hasn’t forgotten that moment last night either.

4

DANIEL

I met Scarlett for the first time three years ago. She was a legend in business, a whiz-bang financial advisor with the Midas touch when it came to investing, and a particular expertise in real estate and hospitality.

Her name was whispered in business circles, spoken with a hushed kind of adoration. With a wish and a fervent hope, you’d be lucky enough to simply score a meeting with her.

Scarlett Slade.

Why, you simply must know the London School of Economics wunderkind.

I picked up the phone, rang her office, and requested a meeting. She made me wait two whole weeks. She was that busy.

I waited patiently. I have stores of patience.

At the time, she worked in London, where I often was, running the business out of my Knightsbridge office.

We met for lunch at a vegan café she’d raved about. It was her favorite, she’d said.

When I arrived, I wasn’t shocked by how stunning she was. If I were shocked, that would have meant I hadn’t done my research, and I research everyone I work with.

I’d seen her photos, knew she had lush chestnut hair, dazzling green eyes, and a grin that seemed to contain multitudes of secrets. Secrets men would get down on their knees to beg to know.

But looks, while obviously nothing to turn my nose up at, have never been my downfall. My true penchant, my favorite thing, the trait that makes me want a woman, is wit.

Rhetoric.

Confidence.

Scarlett Slade has all that. She could bottle that triumvirate and make a mint.

At our lunch meeting, she confessed she’d only made me wait to see her because she’d been in Costa Rica learning how to surf.

“What inspired you to do that? Anything in particular?” I asked.

“A book. The heroine traveled to Central America, hoping to find herself, to discover her missing verve, if you will.”

“Had you misplaced your verve?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Not at all. But the character made it seem so simple, learning to ride the waves. And I thought, Clearly, I can do that too.”

“Was it easy?”

“Not in the least. I raise a glass to all the amateur surfers of the world. They are magicians as far as I’m concerned.”

“Just as I suspected,” I said, then lifted my water glass to the wave riders. “But are you glad you learned?”

“I am. I’ve been trying to do the things I want lately,” she said, and those words signaled that perhaps something or someone had held her back from doing that in the past. I didn’t pry. The first lunch wasn’t the time. But I did share that desire—to try new things. Life is short. Fate can fuck you over.

“Good for you. Best to seize the day, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Indeed. We don’t know what tomorrow brings,” she said, and perhaps that was the start of our bond. That knowingness. That baseline understanding of the transience of, well, everything.

“In the end, how did you and surfing leave things? Will you go again?”

“Let’s just say this. I’m better at surfboard yoga than at actual surfing. But do you know what I’m quite fantastic at?”

“Tell me.”

She leaned forward. Set her chin in her hand. Spoke in a sensual whisper. “Making money. And then turning that money into more money. Now, how can I help you do that, Daniel?”

I don’t think I’ve ever been more turned on in my life than I was when she said those words.

Here I am, three years later, traveling by train with my financial advisor turned business partner. All to check out a tip from a waitress.

But you never know where your best tips will come from.

And here Scarlett is, as wildly attractive as she was back then. Her long legs, clad in designer jeans, are crossed. She’s wearing black flats with red soles, and kicking one back and forth. Her burgundy silk blouse is unbuttoned just enough to show a hint of her breasts, the barest tease of soft flesh. Her diamond earrings blaze from the sun shining through the window, and her carved cheekbones accentuate her gorgeous face.

As we recap our plan, my gaze drifts briefly to her throat, to the column of her neck.

What does her neck taste like? Would she moan if I bit her earlobe? Would she cry out if I smacked her arse?

“Does that sound like a good plan?”

No idea what the plan is.

“Sounds fantastic,” I say, figuring I can wing it.

Sort of like how I deal with these flare-ups of attraction that happen when I’m around her.

I manage.

I’ve been wildly attracted to her since we met, and I’ve never acted on it.

I need her too much. Anything more than a late-night fantasy would be the height of foolishness.

Risk is one thing, but I abhor stupid decision-making.

As we step off the train an hour later, I slide my aviator sunglasses on and crook my lips into a grin. “Let’s go see if this hotel is as naughty as we expect it to be.”

She casts me a glance. “I’m not sure hotels are naughty. It’s more that the people staying in them are.”

I couldn’t agree more—and last night, thinking of her, I definitely was. “You have me there.”

We sail into the boutique hotel, where I scan the lobby, mentally recording every detail, then inquire about a room.

The front desk manager says one is available right now, so I check in, perusing the restaurant, the bar, and all the amenities as we go, making our way to the elevator and up five stories.

Once we’re off the lift, we head into the room, but we have no plans to stay, only to appraise it.

I unlock the door, open it, then say, “After you.”

“Always such a gentleman.”

Once inside, Scarlett oohs and aahs, her gaze landing on a mirror on the wall. It’s sleek and modern, and positioned perfectly for a crystal clear view of any and all bedroom sports.

The mirror screams sex.

Her lips form an O. “That mirror is so decadent.”

I move behind her, meeting her gaze in the glass. “I trust you’re thinking about decadence for one thing and one thing only?”

She hums a yes. In her reflection, I swear I can see trysts and liaisons flickering across her green irises.

This woman.

What would she do if I were to reach my arms around her, unbutton her blouse, and let the fabric fall down? How would she respond if she were revealed to me in the mirror?

Would she want to be watched? Would she want to see how I look as I undress her, as I slide off all her clothes, as I run my hands along her soft, delicious flesh?

She’d see the truth of my desire.

The way I crave her and crave control at the same time.

If we existed in a parallel universe, I’d worship her as I put her on her knees. I’d adore every inch of her skin before I tied her up, had my way with her body, and fucked her into blissful oblivion.

Get a grip.

I blink away the dirty thoughts.

I must focus.

But it’s hard when she tilts her head and seems to be considering something in the mirror.

It’s hard, too, when I don’t want to tear my eyes away from the beauty with the sculpted cheekbones and full red lips.

“What are you thinking, Scarlett?” I ask.

She meets my gaze in the mirror. “This one is so much better than the one at our hotel in Avignon.”

“So you’re a mirror connoisseur?”

She nods, looking a little guilty. But it’s not a bad sort of guilty. Rather a dirty, delicious sort. “I am.”

Then abruptly she blinks and wheels around, almost as if she’s been thinking something she shouldn’t while she was gazing in the mirror.

She clears her throat and gestures toward the lavatory. “I should go check out the bathroom.”

“Go forth.”

She heads there, then gasps. “I’m going to retire right here, right now.”

Laughing, I follow her. The bathroom is sumptuous, with marble tile, thick towels, and a clawfoot tub.

“I love a clawfoot tub,” she says in a reverent whisper. Then, like a good investor, she heads to the bath, sits on the edge, and turns on the water, testing, I presume, to make sure it doesn’t come out rust colored.

“It’s perfect,” she says, then turns off the tap and whirls around.

She loses her grip, almost slipping.

“Oh!” she cries. Her skull heads toward the tap.

I lunge toward her as she stretches out her arm to brace herself on the edge of the tub, but she whacks it on the tap.

Hard.

“Ouch,” she yelps, grabbing her forearm, her face wincing as I reach for her.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

She tries to wave me off, her tone stoic. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

But the furrow in her brow, the pain in her eyes tells me she’s not.

“You’re not fine,” I say. “You just smacked your hand on the tap. I know what it’s like for a hand to be . . .” I don’t finish the thought. The scar on my right hand tells the story. Her eyes soften, drifting down to the mark. I ignore the sad look in her irises. “We need these hands of yours to work. To operate your spreadsheets,” I say lightly.

Despite my scar, my hands work just fine.

For nearly everything. There’s only one thing I want to do with them that I no longer can. But that thing has nothing to do with women, or strength, so I lift her up, scooping her into my arms.

Her eyes widen. “Why are you carrying me?”

“You’re wounded, woman.”

An eye roll is her reply as I carry her to the bed and set her down on the edge of the king-size mattress. “I’m not damaged.”

“Of course you’re not damaged. But you did whack your arm.”

“My hand too,” she says, softly this time.

I crouch in front of her, reaching for her. “Let me see it.”

“Are you a doctor?” she counters, but she lets me inspect her injury.

“I’m the doctor in the room,” I tease.

I ask where it hurts, and she points to her wrist, frowning. I run a thumb gently along that tender spot, that tantalizing place that can drive a woman wild.

If you touch her just right.

Which it seems I am doing, since Scarlett’s breath hitches.

“Daniel,” she whispers, her voice perhaps betraying her. “I’m fine. I swear I’m fine.”

I tuck my finger under her chin, lift it, and meet her gaze. “Are you sure?”

She nods, her eyes a little glossy. “I swear I am.”

“Let’s be certain.”

I lift her wrist to my face, my eyes on hers. Waiting for a sign. Waiting for more.

“Yes, please.”

So I bring her wrist to my lips and press a kiss to my business partner’s skin.

She lets out a low moan.

A groan works its way up my chest, and I swallow it down as I dust my lips over her pulse point.

I close my eyes, inhaling her, savoring the scent of her skin, of her lotion, of her Scarlett-ness.

I should move away. But she’s right here.

Images of last night’s fantasies flicker before me, along with the moment just now in front of the mirror, and how she looked at the reflection of her and me.

I open my eyes.

She nibbles on the corner of her lips, gazing down at me as I look up at her.

Is she thinking the same thing I am?

One kiss.

One taste.

That’s all.

I tamp down the groan in my throat as I breathe in.

Then, I take the next step.

I stand, gently take her uninjured hand, and carefully tug her up.

I reach toward her hair, tucking an errant strand behind her ear, testing to see if she’ll make that sound again.

That gasp. That hitch of her breath.

She does. It’s sensual and erotic, and it goes straight to my cock.

I do the thing I’ve thought about doing for the last few years. The thing I’ve prided myself on resisting. I move closer, lean in, and press a kiss to her cheek.

It’s the same type of kiss I’ve given her every time we greet each other. But this time, I linger. I don’t back away. I simply brush my lips across her cheek and whisper, “All better now?”

She nods against me, grabbing my shirt, gripping the fabric. “All better.”

She steps away, runs her hand down her sleeve, glances at the clock, and says, “Now we really need to catch the train back to Paris.”

As we leave, I catch one last glimpse of us in the mirror as we walk past it. We look like we always do—confident, assured, on top of the world.

But also . . . frazzled.

Both of us. She seems thrown for a loop.

As for me, a small sliver of regret twinges in my chest. Was that my chance? To haul her into my arms, cover her lips with mine, and kiss her until she melted beneath me, until she begged and moaned?

Was that my chance to kiss her until she can hardly take all the pleasure I could give her?

That’s what I would do if I touched her—focus my ample sexual energy on her. Make sure she’s drowning in orgasms. Touch her in ways that make her writhe, moan, call out my name.

In ways that give me the control I long for.

Perhaps I do regret stopping.

But regret is a familiar emotion.

I’ve battled it many times and lost on nearly every occasion.

But I shouldn’t regret resisting a bad idea. And it is a very bad idea—a far more regrettable idea, and maybe a disastrous one—to introduce my business partner to how I like it in the bedroom.

We leave the hotel, returning to Paris to meet Cole, our other business partner.

Pretending we didn’t nearly kiss in the South of France.

But then, pretending is what I do best.

5

SCARLETT

That evening, freshly showered and dressed after the train ride, hand and arm thankfully unbruised after the faucet incident, I crank open the tall windows of my seventh-floor flat overlooking Champ de Mars and the Eiffel Tower.

The evening light filters in, and I inhale Paris.

It smells like home.

It smells like memories—the good ones, that is.

Maybe even memories that extend so far back they come from other lifetimes.

If that’s even possible.

I turn around, stride through my kitchen, and tap the cover of a paperback I recently finished—the story of a man who meets a woman he loved forty years ago, a woman who died in a boating accident one summer. It’s a heartrending tale of the possibility of living again and again, meeting the same lover over and over, but at the wrong times for both of you.

In this story, it takes the man and woman eighteen generations till they reconnect. My heart squeezes, like it did while I was devouring this tale of out-of-sync love.

I don’t believe in reincarnation.

Not of people, and not of souls.

Yet I do believe we can have connections to people, and especially to places that almost feel as if we could have lived there in another lifetime.

Paris is that for me.

Paris is my soul mate. It speaks to some deeper, ancient part of myself, of my soul.

It’s the lover I’m destined to meet again and again.

This city centers me, as if I have lived here before, as if I was destined to return to it.

I can still recall with crystal clarity the first time I set foot here.

When I was eight, my scientist parents brought me here for a research conference, and after they presented on gene mapping, we wandered.

I skipped down the Rue de Rivoli, traipsed through the Jardin des Tuileries, and climbed up onto a mint-green stool at Ladurée to order a chocolat chaud. I ordered it in French.

The server was most impressed. “C’est bien,” she told me.

My father snapped a photo of me, gap-toothed and grinning at the server. He captured another shot minutes later of me wearing a chocolate mustache and licking my lips. My parents still have those pictures framed in their Manhattan home.

That trip, more than twenty-five years ago, turned the key in the door of my heart, opening a latent part of me.

A part that had perhaps always been present inside of me.

Present as a hum, as a wish, as a hazy dream. To be here. Because I felt like I knew this place, and had for all time.

That day at Ladurée, I was certain that this city would be my home one day.

The sights, the sounds, the smells—they belonged to a part of me that perhaps already knew the city. The museums, the shops, the language . . . The way beauty exists on corners in the lines of streetlamps, in the glass of boutique window displays, and on sidewalks in the shape of cobblestones, especially as they glisten after a rainstorm, like they’re made of diamonds.

This city embraces beauty, and perhaps that’s why it calls to me—the beauty is the yin to my yang. It balances out all the numbers that march through my head.

Beauty has always been my other passion, whether it’s found in literature, in fashion, in architecture, or in the everyday as I walk through my adopted hometown.

Paris is mine. It gives me strength. It’s the place I returned to three years ago when my marriage died, burying itself in a coffin of lies. When I discovered what happened with my one-time husband, I could no longer stay in London, where I’d been at the time.

Paris called to me with comfort. Like a soft hand across your hair when you’re a child and you wake from a bad dream.

The city was my lullaby, whispering me home after love and life as I knew it had been demolished.

Perhaps I need that connection to Paris now to erase all these risqué thoughts of my business partner.

I need my soul mate to ground me.

With the windows left open, the evening light streaming in, I leave my flat, take the lift down to the first floor, and exit on Avenue de Suffren.

I head past the Eiffel Tower, then over the bridge that arches across the Seine, slowing to admire the view of the river that cuts through the city.

The river has secrets. Listen to it.

That’s what my father used to say when he brought me here after his meetings.

The river always knows.

Like the river was a wise old woman at the end of a winding path in the woods, perched outside her home on a bench, dispensing sage advice.

Yes, that’s the Seine.

Always telling you what to do if you’re willing to listen.

Tonight, I stop on the middle of the bridge and gaze over the sunset-soaked water, glittering with the fading rays of the day. Enjoying the view, the pause, the way stopping to listen feeds my soul.

“Tell me, river. What should I do about this blooming attraction to my business partner?” I whisper.

I strain my ears, listening as the river murmurs, “You know what to do.”

If only it were that simple.

But other things are simple—like taking out my phone, snapping a shot of the ribbon of water, then sending it to my parents, along with a short note in the family chat.

Scarlett: The river is chatty tonight.

My father replies instantly.

Dad: Ask the river if your mother and I should order Thai or Indian for dinner. We can’t seem to decide.

Mom: The river clearly is saying Tom Kha Gai, darling.

Dad: Funny, I hear it whispering about naan and tandoori chicken.

Mom: Wishful whispering, my love. Listen more closely. The river always favors your wife’s choices.

I flash back to the hotel manager with his adage about stories making for a good marriage. With my parents, listening to the wife is the rule my dad adheres to. With a smile, I tap back a reminder.

Scarlett: Dad, don’t forget what you used to say when I was growing up – my wife is always right.

Dad: Except when it comes to dinner choices.

Scarlett: Good luck winning that battle. Personally, I vote for avocado sushi.

Dad: Shocking. Terribly shocking.

Mom: That’s my second choice now, darling.

Dad: I never win the dinner debate. Sigh. Ah well, it’s only dinner. Thai it is.

Mom: Yes!

Loving their interactions, I reply with mom wins again, then turn away from the river, put the phone in my purse, and cut through the Louvre—because I can, because why live in this city if not to have the freedom to walk past the Louvre Pyramid whenever I wish?—then head to a brasserie to meet Cole and Daniel for dinner.

Business dinner with my two business partners.

Daniel is only a business partner.

No matter how delicious those fleeting moments in the hotel were, they are behind us, where they belong. The way his lips grazed my skin, scorched it with a fire hotter than any injury to my wrist . . . I shiver. We’ve always been flirtatious, but that was crossing a line, even for us.

Lucky we could segue so easily back into being friends, flirtatious business partners, at the drop of a hat.

Cole waits outside, having snagged a table on the sidewalk.

I click-clack toward him from one side of the street, Daniel coming from the other, looking sharp in jeans and a button-down that hugs his pecs, his biceps, his forearms.

Damn him for being such good eye candy.

His full, sensual lips curve into a grin, and his blue eyes twinkle as he whips off his shades.

My belly dares to swoop.

Stupid stomach.

We reach Cole at the same time.

“Do my eyes deceive me? Or is it the great Cole Donovan in repose?” The cheeky remark comes from Daniel.

Of course.

Cole is indeed leaned back, almost horizontal in his chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

“Please rib me. I’ve missed that,” Cole says, as dry and deadpan as he’s always been.

Cole looks the part of a classy tourist in the early evening, decked out in slacks and a sharp polo, enjoying his glass of red wine in the City of Lights. He rises and drops air kisses on my cheeks.

“So good to see you,” I say.

He smiles. “It’s always good to see you, Scarlett. You’re our better third. But I wish I could say the same thing about this cad.”

Cole claps Daniel on the back, and the Englishman laughs, flashing that fantastic smile. It makes him seem like the most lighthearted man in the world—wearing a permanent vacation grin.

I’ve learned, though, that smile is his mask. The free-and-easy way he has isn’t the whole truth.

While I don’t know the details of his family—he doesn’t share that with me—I do know he’s lost both his parents. I know, too, that the scar on his hand has taken something away as well.

But he keeps that to himself as well.

And I don’t pry. It’s not in my nature.

Secrets have a way of coming to light on their own, I’ve learned. Sooner or later, you open a drawer, unlock a cupboard, and they tumble free.

I take a seat, and Daniel and Cole follow, the three of us settling in at the small round table as Parisians scurry by on the sidewalk, muttering into their cell phones, the smattering of plans for dates, for rendezvous, for affairs, even, floating past my ears.

“You always love seeing me,” Daniel says to Cole. “You can’t stay away. Why else would you come all the way from Las Vegas to Paris?”

Cole taps his chin. “Let’s see. I believe I’m here with my fiancée for a crazy little thing called a vacation.”

Daniel adopts a shocked expression, complete with the head jerk and jaw drop. “I didn’t know you knew how to take a holiday.”

Cole stares daggers at Daniel. “I know how to vacation just fine. Sage and I even went on a bike tour through Tuscany, visiting wineries, before we came here.”

“Bikes and vino. Sign me up,” Daniel says as the waiter swings by and asks if we’d like a drink.

Daniel orders a red, then asks if I want my usual chardonnay. He winks like he did earlier in the day when we pretended to be married.

Cole chuckles, almost to himself. “You two are like a married couple.”

“Funny you should say that,” Daniel begins, then meets my gaze. “Want to tell him?”

Our American partner sits up straighter. “You went to the South of France and got hitched?”

I scoff. “No, we simply pretended to be husband and wife this morning when we checked out another property. Which is one of the things we wanted to chat with you about. So, thank you, Cole, for taking an evening out of your vacation to meet with us.”

“Business doesn’t wait,” he says. “Besides, Sage is meeting with a friend who started a business running off-the-beaten-path tours of Paris. They’re roaming F. Scott Fitzgerald’s old haunts as we speak.” He lowers his voice. “If she likes it, we might partner with the tour company, add it to our exclusive tours at our Rue de Rivoli property.”

A smile takes over my face. “Oui, oui, and more oui.”

Cole smiles. “I thought you might like that.”

“I love it. I take it Sage doesn’t have any plans to expand here?” I ask. Cole’s fiancée is our rival in Vegas. She owns the hotel across the Strip from ours, as well as other properties around the world, but none in Europe.

“She doesn’t mind, since this city is still ours. The whole continent, in fact. So let’s talk about expanding our dominance in Europe.”

“Yes, now that we’ve stolen you away from your vacation with your fantastic fiancée, why don’t we dive right into our devilishly brilliant plans?” I say, rubbing my palms together. I can’t help it. Business excites me. Deals thrill me. The chase of a new acquisition turns me on.

Business and Paris and beauty—those are the cornerstones of my life. After I learned the truth about my marriage, these have been the things seeing me through.

“Yes, what do we think about the Avignon property? Is it the beginning of a new line of boutique hotels?” Cole asks, a glint in his eyes.

Daniel quirks his lips up into a grin. “Actually, we think the Aix-en-Provence one could be the start. We took a little detour out that way this morning.”

Cole shoots him a look that says tell me more. “And what did you do there?”

We almost kissed.

I don’t say that, of course.

Instead, I chime in, “We came across a rather lovely property that we think could be a perfect acquisition target. We’ve been looking for a chain of boutiques to invest in.”

Cole’s eyebrows lift. “You found one?”

“Yes. While in Avignon, we got a tip on another inn, Le Pavillon de Aix-en-Provence, part of Le Pavillon group of hotels. So we did a little recon. It seems to have a lot of promise. The Aix-en-Provence hotel is one in a small chain of hotels across France and England. It doesn’t need as many renovations as some others we’ve seen. I don’t think we’re going to run into a situation where we buy something and it turns out all the chandeliers are falling down. Nothing that can’t be remedied, but I don’t want to be in that situation again if we can avoid it,” I say.

I fill him in on this morning’s issue at the Avignon hotel, then tell him more about what we encountered on our visit to Aix-en-Provence, about the property we saw, and about the research I did on the train ride home. “Le Pavillon and its sister hotels are owned by an investment group eager to sell. I want to do our due diligence, conduct some research, and be ready to make an offer once we know exactly what we might be getting into. That requires on-site visits to the properties.”

“Honestly, the three of us should go check out all of them,” Cole says. “I could probably slip away for a day or so. We could see a handful together.”

I shoot him a don’t you dare look. “You’re on vacation.”

“I know, but this is important if we’re talking about an investment this large.”

Daniel shakes his head. “You have business partners for a reason. You don’t have to do everything.”

“Besides, you’re the only one among us who’s happily besotted and betrothed. I insist you enjoy it,” I say with a smile.

“And I do,” he says, a little naughty undertone to his voice.

“Good.” I pretend to zip his lips. “Then don’t speak a word about it again. We can handle it.”

“I could probably convince Sage,” Cole mutters, trying once more.

Daniel will have none of it though. “You could. But you won’t. She’s a junkie, like you. Let the lovely woman have a break from work.”

“Tell me what you really think, Daniel,” Cole deadpans.

Daniel remains steadfast, and I’ve always admired their relationship—they tease and mock, but they are equally protective and caring. They are like brothers in some ways, looking out for each other as only family can.

Makes sense, since Daniel doesn’t have his own family.

“Say nothing more,” Daniel adds, his tone remaining intensely serious. It’s not one I hear often from him. But when he uses it, he means it thoroughly. He’s a concrete wall.

Cole huffs, a sign that he’s relenting, as the waiter stops by with our wine. We thank him, then I turn to Cole. “Stay with your fiancée. Daniel and I can go check them out.”

“But you’ll report back? Take photos?”

Daniel rolls his eyes as he lifts his glass. “Yes, I think we can manage that much.”

Cole hums, like he’s deep in thought.

I sip my wine and wait. Daniel swallows some of his wine too, then sets down the glass.

“I’ve known you for fifteen years, mate,” Daniel prods. “That means the wheels are turning. Serve it up.”

Cole draws a deep breath. “You said you pretended to be married?”

I arch a brow, unsure where he’s going. “Yes.”

He points from Daniel to me. “Why don’t you do that as you check out these hotels? It’ll be easier to fade into the woodwork, so it won’t be so obvious we’re kicking the tires. If you go as honeymooners, you’ll blend in even more.”

I’m quiet for a beat. So is Daniel.

I mull over Cole’s idea. Checking in as Daniel Stewart and Scarlett Slade, owners of a luxury hotel chain, might be suspect. Until we know whether we’d like to bid and, indeed, how much we’d be ready to offer, it would be best to catch the group owners unaware. Using secret identities could work.

But this is a dangerous game Cole’s suggesting we play. Only, it’s a game that admittedly holds some appeal.

Still . . . I need rules.

Surely he can’t be suggesting we share a room together—so what exactly does this game of make-believe involve?

“What would being honeymooners entail?” I ask.

“You could appear as a couple as you check in, visit the bars, stop into the restaurants. Make it easier to blend in.”

“I still have a passport with my married name on it. We could use that for photo ID. And a credit card that hasn’t expired,” I offer.

Daniel grins. “You’re brilliant. And the idea is brilliant too, Cole.”

Cole points from Daniel to me. “People won’t look at you like you’re two top hoteliers checking out a property. You’ll seem like a couple.”

I turn to Daniel, nerves in my chest, goose bumps on my skin.

I like this idea more than I should.

This one alluring chance to pretend.

6

DANIEL

After we finish our dinner meeting, Scarlett kisses Cole’s cheek, then mine.

Since I’m a competitive bastard, I take note of the fact that her kiss on my cheek lasts a few seconds longer.

I could dismiss this as a courtesy given to a taken man.

But I like to look on the bright side—the bright side being her lips swept over my cheek for longer than they swept over his.

Maybe she craved that almost-kiss in the hotel room this morning too. Craved it like I did.

I’m damn, damn sure we both wanted it.

Certain, too, that we both ought to resist the dirty energy that seems to flow between us.

But as she says goodbye then heads off into the Parisian night, the golden streetlamps casting her in a warm glow as she walks down the block, my eyes don’t stray from her silhouette. Not until she turns the corner and disappears out of sight.

Cole clears his throat. “Stare much?”

I glance at my friend, whom I’ve known for a decade and a half. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re so transparent.”

“Haven’t I always been?”

“I suppose you have. You’re not one to hide the fact that you love to look at beautiful women.”

“She’s beautiful and brilliant.”

“She is brilliant. As for her beauty, it’s probably not my place, as her business partner, to comment on it.”

I lift a brow and tuck my phone into the pocket of my trousers. “Are you saying it’s not my place either?”

“I’m saying I know you admire her for her brain. I’m saying, too, that I’ve never seen you have this sort of chemistry and connection with someone.”

I bark out a laugh. “Are you an anthropologist now? Observing humans?”

“Maybe I am. And when I do, I see how you are with her. I’m not stupid, Daniel,” Cole says as we walk down the street in the opposite direction of Scarlett, heading toward our hotel where he and Sage are staying.

“Stupid? I never once thought you were.”

He smirks. “And yet you think I don’t know you have ulterior motives?”

A scoff bursts from my chest. “I didn’t think they were hidden. But they aren’t truly ulterior motives. They’re ulterior desires, but not ones I will act on.”

“You sure about that? The way you look at her is sometimes rather relentless,” he adds.

“You think I’m relentless when it comes to the chemistry and connection?” I ask, trying to figure out what he’s getting at exactly.

He nods crisply. “I do. So be careful.”

I’m not one to mince words. “Are you worried I’ll capsize our partnership if I fuck her?”

He stops in his tracks, administers a terrific eye roll, then scoffs. “I know you’re well versed in how to mix business and pleasure. I don’t worry about that or about you. I say this because I see the two of you. I know you. I understand you. I see things you don’t see. But I also care deeply about her. And I worry about her. She’s not cut from the same nihilistic cloth as you.”

“Aww. Thank you for noticing my tailor’s fine work in stitching me together from my favorite philosopher.”

“Your tailor is a regular Nietzsche.”

“Indeed. And nothing to worry about, mate. Scarlett and I are friends. Scarlett and I go way back. Scarlett and I have a good time together.”

He tosses his head back, laughing. “Scarlett and I, Scarlett and I, Scarlett and I,” he says, imitating me. “And yes, you do. You two have quite the friendship indeed. I remember the two of you pulling the strings that made sure I met Sage.”

I shrug happily. “What can I say? We both knew that she would be perfect for you.”

“You’re like a little matchmaking agency.”

“And we have an excellent success rate.” Cole and I reach the corner, slowing to a stop near the train station. A few blocks away, the Palais Garnier looms, rich and opulent. My mouth waters as I look at it. My fingers tingle. My dreams, shelved but not forgotten, jostle their way to the front of my brain once again, like riders on the metro trying to shove their way onto the last train of the night.

My eyes lock on the grand structure, sweeping over the palatial expanse. The steps. The columns. The balustrades. The spectacle of it, commanding a most regal spot in a most beautiful city. As I stare, my bones hum with desire that I have felt for only two things in my life.

Women. And music.

As we draw closer, the desire threads through me, wraps around me, tries to whisk me to a place I once thought would be my home.

The opera house.

The apex of classical music.

My first love.

It’s a battle to tear my gaze away, a war waging inside me. I want to march up those steps, grab hold of the huge metal handle, and yank open the door.

I want to step inside.

I want to feel like I belong, like I deserve to inhale the scent of time, of art, of Brahms, Bach, and Beethoven—of all the violin concertos ever played there. I deserve to smell the rich red velvet of the seats. Gaze up at the chandelier. I bet Scarlett would get a kick out of those chandeliers.

But I need to find the will to look away. My mind cycles to topics that hurt less.

Business.

That’s easy enough.

“Remember our first hotel?” I toss out as we move past the opera house.

“They say you never forget your first time. And of course I remember her.”

A smile tips my lips. “Because it’s a she.”

“All the best things in life are. I remember everything about our one-hundred-and-fifty-room beauty in Tuscany. The views were gorgeous, the rooms sublime, the service impeccable.”

“Like we planned back in university,” I say as we slow our pace at the street corner, waiting at the light as night falls, darkening Paris.

I keep my focus trained entirely on the conversation so I don’t stare lustily at the opera house behind us.

“Thank God you were such a card shark. If we hadn’t teamed up, we would never have planned that bold move,” Cole says as the light changes and we cross the street, turning down an avenue that curves away from the object of my lust.

My chest starts to relax. The tension, the longing unwinds the farther away we go from my unrequited love.

“We also never would have had any cash,” I add, since those games swindling rich kids out of their easy-earned coin saw us through some difficult times.

Cole gives me a most devilish grin. “Neither one of us seemed to have a single cent until we started those kinds of games. Those games that sent us down the path we’re on now. Now we are the rich sons of bitches. Do you think they’d hate us now too? The college kids whose wallets we emptied after two in the morning in the basements of the dorms?”

“I can only hope so,” I say. Then I sigh, a little wistfully, a lot happily. “Money does indeed make some things better.”

But even as I say that, I’m keenly aware of how utterly untrue it is. Money doesn’t bring back your family. Money doesn’t repair mistakes. Money doesn’t ease your regret.

But it does one wonderful, miraculous thing—it makes the here and now delicious.

And since the here and now seems to be all that matters, I like money. I like what it allows. I like how it makes it possible for me to enjoy the twenty-four hours we have each day, and to enjoy them in ways I didn’t think I ever would for the longest time.

Back when my life was ripped from the headlines.

Can you believe what happened to the Culpeppers?

Oh, I feel so sorry for that family.

I wince, the memories lashing me.

I have another name now—Daniel Stewart. One so generic I could be anybody, rather than the survivor named in all those news stories many, many years ago.

“Money certainly makes things easier,” Cole says. “But better?” He deals me a questioning and serious look.

“What are you getting at?”

Cole sighs. “You know what I mean.”

I laugh, because deflecting is easier. “Is this where we have a man-to-man? And you tell me exactly what I need for my life to finally be satisfying, just as yours is now that you’ve met the love of your life?”

“I would think you, of all people, wouldn’t mock someone for falling in love.”

“I’m not mocking you for falling in love,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder, meaning this from the bottom of my black heart. “I am incredibly happy for you, Cole. You met a woman who gives you everything you’ve ever wanted. Who satisfies you. Who fills the empty spaces in your heart and makes it bigger.”

A smile spreads easily on his face, a knowing sort of grin. “She does that for me. We do that for each other. I never knew it was possible to feel like this.” He sighs, the thoughtful variety. “You could have that too, you know.”

I scoff. “Sweet of you to offer, but I’m pretty sure we’re done with the threesomes.”

He rolls his eyes. “Not what I meant.”

I meet his gaze head-on, wanting him to serve it up. Cole and I have known each other for years. We don’t beat around the bush. “What do you mean, then? Are you truly telling me to go fall arse-over-elbow in love?”

My longtime friend shrugs, giving me a small smile. “Is it the worst idea?”

“It’s the unlikeliest. I’m not looking for that. I don’t want that. And I don’t have any empty spaces in my heart.”

If I did, that would mean there were spaces in my heart that are already filled.

Pretty sure mine is totally empty, drained long ago of any feeling.

“I don’t believe that,” he says in the same cool, confident tone he uses when he negotiates deals.

“Believe it,” I say, strength in my voice too.

“And yet I don’t.” Cole drags a hand through his dark hair, as if lost in thought briefly, before he tosses out, “Are you happy?”

All I can do is laugh.

How can he ask that question? He ought to know.

But I answer him anyway. “I do all of the things that make me happy. I enjoy life. I dine on fine meals; I drink the best wine; I go to concerts, symphonies, operas. I attend galas and fetes. I indulge in women, and I work it all off the next day at the gym. I make tons of money. And I enjoy that. I am meticulously happy. Insanely happy.”

His brows narrow, the doubtful look of a cross examiner. “Meticulously happy? That’s not a thing.”

“Maybe it’s not. But the point is, I am as happy as I possibly can be. I’ve learned to take each day for what it is.”

We near our hotel in the eighth arrondissement, the magnificent archway rising up to greet us, doormen flanking the entrance. “That’s what worries me,” Cole says.

“You think I’m enjoying the pleasures of the flesh too much? I’m not with a woman tonight. And I wasn’t last night either. No need to worry, mate.”

“Amazing, your restraint. But be that as it may, someday you might want more than pleasures of the flesh, pleasures of the wallet, and pleasures of material things.”

“That’s hard to imagine,” I say deadpan, but not entirely.

Because it is hard to imagine when everything else is so damn fleeting. Life, talent, skills, love—they can all slip through your fingers.

The only thing that’s left at the end of the day is money. So I grab onto that, and I hold tight so it won’t slip through.

That’s what I’ve built from the ashes of my life, from the detritus of my choices. From the carnage wreaked in one furious moment when I let emotion get the better of me. When I let rage and unserved revenge lead me to an untenable choice that upended all my dreams.

Now, a decade later, I’m left with a scar on my hand, the memories of what I once did, and a slightly above average skill.

We stop outside the entryway to our property. Cole meets my gaze with an intense look. An I’m about to dispense important advice look. “And so I return to my point. Be careful with Scarlett. I don’t think she’s as far gone as you are, and certainly not as far gone as you let others think you are. How do you think things will go when you travel around to these hotels with her?”

The question is open-ended. It can be addressed in a myriad of ways. I’m tempted to choose the easiest way out. To say, I think it’ll be great. We get along well. You know that. We’re good friends.

Instead, I speak honestly. “I think it’ll be tempting as hell. I want her terribly. She’s the most fascinating person I’ve ever met. She keeps me on my toes. I can’t seem to stop wanting her. But I’ll find the will.”

With a smile, he nods. “You do that.”

We head to the bar, where Sage, his lovely fiancée, is waiting for him with a glass of bourbon. She calls me over, and I say hello.

“Did you gentlemen have a lovely time tonight?” she asks.

I tip my forehead to Cole. “Your fiancé gave me a terribly hard time about my romantic prospects. Apparently, he fancies himself something of a matchmaker,” I remark, making light of the conversation.

“Seems I might have hit a nerve,” Cole says.

Briefly I consider that, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, because I’m not sure why the nerve is pinching. So instead I say, “On that note, I shall leave the two of you alone.”

I say good night to my friend and his lovely bride-to-be, then I leave them.

I take the brass-paneled elevator up to the penthouse floor, which is permanently reserved for me. I head down the hall, turn the corner, and unlock the suite that’s become my home away from home.

Once inside, I’m drawn to the corner of the room by a window overlooking the city. I stop in front of the glass and stare out at the lights, a longing pulling at my chest. Answering it, I pick up my violin case, open it, and remove the precious jewel of an instrument. I position it under my chin, bow in hand.

My heart floods all at once with joy, with the happiness that this instrument has brought me.

But it also bursts painfully into shards full of regret. A regret that intensifies when I slide the bow over the strings and play my favorite adagio from Brahms, staring out the glass at Paris, shrouded in night, full of revelers, thinkers, and lovers.

I imagine I am playing for them.

To the untrained ear, I do a fine job. I could entertain a drawing room. I could play at a tea party. I could amuse friends lounging in the living room on a winter weekend as the snow fell outside the window.

But that’s not what I once did with the violin. Party tricks were not my specialty.

I was capable of moving worlds.

I could make the instrument weep.

I could bring audiences to their knees.

I can still play.

But not like that.

More like a shadow.

My fingers, my muscles, my mind—they can all play the notes, and I hear the flaws in between the notes I play.

I know, too, how to repair them. How to make this instrument play magnificently in the kind of way that earned me a solo chair at the opera house.

Only, I can’t do that anymore.

My hands don’t work in that fashion any longer.

They can no longer make world-renowned music.

They haven’t been able to for more than fifteen years, since I was eighteen years old and consumed with an anger I never expected, courtesy of a decision that blindsided me.

A decision that failed to deliver the justice my family deserved.

At the time, righteous rage jet-propelled me to do the stupidest thing of all—punch a wall.

With my right hand. My prized possession. My greatest gift.

I damaged my ability to do what I loved most: making music.

It was a crime of passion. I was the perpetrator. I was the victim. I was the fool.

Now I’m left with memories of a once-great talent and a long, jagged scar on my hand.

It’s a reminder of how dangerous emotions are. Emotions lead to consequences. To families torn asunder. To talent squandered because of a matchstick choice.

I’m the sole architect of the destruction of my once-upon-a-time career as a violin prodigy, playing on the world’s greatest concert stages before I was even eighteen.

I ended the greatest love affair of my life with an emotional choice—a choice that ended the violin and me.

Now, it’s best to keep my heart sanitized of emotions.

Closing my eyes, I finish the Brahms piece, the slightly above average, merely good enough music that I now make doing its part to numb my heart once again.

I lower the bow, then run my fingers gently along the body of the instrument, treating the violin with the tenderness it deserves.

I tuck it away in its case where it’s safe from harm.

Safe from me.

7

SCARLETT

“What does one pack for a weeklong trip with her business partner?”

I pose that question to my friend Nadia a few days after the dinner with Cole and Daniel.

She furrows her brow as we walk through Le Marais following a lunch with some of her advertisers. Nadia is mostly fluent in French, but I was there to help her translate, since she’s in Paris meeting with advertising executives as part of her plans for marketing pro football here in Europe.

“That is the dilemma,” she says with a thoughtful hum as we pass Amelie’s, the delectable scent of raspberry tarts and chocolate croissants tempting me from the bakery. I lift my nose in the direction of the open door, like a dog shamelessly stealing a whiff. “Add in the caveat that one is actively trying to deny an attraction to said business partner,” Nadia continues with a wink.

My jaw drops, and I fling a hand to my chest. “Moi? Never.”

She points at me. “You.”

I shrug in admission. “Fine. Fine. No denials.”

“It’s always good to be honest with oneself and one’s friends. Men? That’s another story,” she says with a laugh as we round the corner, passing a boutique peddling shoe after decadent shoe. Her eyes swing to the display of fuchsia, garnet, and cranberry-red heels. She holds up a finger. “Hold on. We must discuss all the things, but first, I have to ogle these beauties.” She stops to practically undress the footwear with her eyes.

“Would you like to go in there and rub up against that lovely pair of sapphire-blue pumps?” I ask, pointing to a shiny four-inch set in the display. “Perhaps mate with them? Take them home and pet them all night?”

“As a matter of fact, I think I will,” she says, then tips her forehead to the store. “Let’s indulge in shoes as we discuss hot, broody, complicated men.”

“So, just like any other time we’re together?”

Flipping her dark-brown hair off her shoulder, she laughs. “You know me so well. Shoes make my lack of a love life so much better.”

I shoot her a sympathetic look. “I thought you were mostly content with your lack of a love life?”

She shrugs, then sighs heavily. “Mostly. But at other times, I wonder—what does it take to get a date as a twenty-five-year-old who owns a football team? I’m anthrax to men.”

I pat her shoulder. “The dilemmas of the young female billionaire.”

“Exactly. Men are terrified of me, or I’ve been taught not to trust them.”

“I can’t fault the trust issues. Mine are a mile-deep and a canyon-wide.”

“Understandably. But shoes? Shoes I trust,” she says breezily as she grabs hold of the door and tugs it open.

We head into the shop, faint strains of Édith Piaf playing overhead as wafer-thin sales associates with carved cheekbones organize stylish boots, strappy sandals, and sexy heels.

“Yes, exactly,” I say, then toss out a bonjour to the associates.

“Bonjour. Let us know if you need anything,” a man in black jeans and a sequined tank top says to us from his place near a display of completely shameless shoes with peacock feather embellishments.

“We will,” I reply.

Nadia beams at the man and asks in French for the sapphire shoes in her size.

“Bien sur.” The shopkeeper scurries to the back room to grab a pair of the blue shoes for Nadia.

“The height of my fluency is shopping terms,” she says to me.

“You know much more than how to shop. But you do excel at transactional French,” I say, my eyes drawn to a pair of silver flats. They’d be perfect for the trip. Great for walking around. For checking out hotels.

I hold up the silver flats for Nadia to see. “Shall I get these for my trip?”

She eyes them disdainfully, then asks, “Is that your strategy—wearing flats around Daniel so that you don’t look as sexy as you know you look in heels?”

I shoot her a curious look. “Mince words much?”

“Never, so I won’t now. You’re attracted to him. You said as much a few minutes ago. And for some reason, you’re going all proper and businesslike, twinset and pearls, on this trip. But not wearing heels around him isn’t going to stop your attraction.”

“I wear flats every day. I wore them to dinner with him and Cole,” I point out.

But what’s the point?

The flats I wore didn’t make him less attractive.

Is Nadia right? Am I deliberately picking clothes that make me feel businesslike with Daniel? So I can stay in that familiar zone? So I’m not tempted to explore this rush of feelings I have for him? “Flats are easier for navigating Paris,” I tell her, perhaps trying to convince myself as well.

“They are. But a good pair of heels can make you feel the same way as a new lace bra-and-panty set does,” she adds, dropping her voice as she flops into a plush pink chair. “I bet you bought that for your trip.”

I shoot her a withering glare. “How do you do that?”

“See right through you?”

I nod. Of course I bought new underthings, but a woman always needs those. “Yes. That exactly.”

“I know you well,” she says, and she’s right on that count. We met a few years ago, when I was mentoring her in her bachelor’s degree program. Since then, her life’s been a whirlwind—inheriting an NFL franchise from her father, running it with her friend . . . Nadia’s the youngest team owner in the league, but winning the Lombardi Trophy her first year at the helm has helped her earn the respect of her peers.

“You know me better than anyone,” I say, since she’s become a confidante and a shoulder to lean on. Funny, how our roles have switched, but I think that’s how good friendships work—you need each other in different ways at different times.

“Now come, sit next to me,” she says, patting the chair beside her. I join her as I hand the silver flats to another sales assistant and wait for my size. “Why are you trying to ignore this attraction to Daniel? It is because you don’t want to get involved?”

“See point number one. He’s my business partner.”

She tsks me. But it’s sort of a loving tsk. “Is this really about him being your business partner?” She taps my breastbone. “Or is it about that heart of yours that’s still on ice?”

I sigh heavily. “Can you blame me?”

She shakes her head. Then she huffs out an irritated breath. “I only blame your husband. I still want to exhume Jonathan’s body and shake some sense into him.”

I cringe, laughing a little in horror. “You tend to be filter-free, but even I can’t believe you just said that. That’s kind of gross.”

Nadia arches a brow so high it practically rises through the ceiling of the store. “Kind of? I think it’s horrifically gross and quite macabre. But I still can’t believe what you learned after he died. It’s awful. One hundred percent filter-free awful.”

My heart winces, but it’s not the sucker punch that it was three years ago, after my husband was struck down with an aneurysm in Battersea Park when we were out for an evening walk, heading to dinner at our favorite Indian restaurant, the one with the chana masala I loved.

A night that ended with an ambulance, the words dead on arrival, and a gutting of my heart.

It’s not the serrated knife edge that scooped out the organ in my chest when I opened a drawer in our home a month later, deep in mourning, and learned who I’d been married to, who I’d buried.

I shudder. These days it’s not so much abject, awful hurt that rips through my body when I think about Jonathan. It’s coolness. It’s a chill. And that chill is a reminder to avoid falling in love. To avoid connection that can lead to being absolutely blindsided, smacked upside the head, and left behind. I shake my head. “Let’s not talk about Jonathan,” I say.

“But do you need to talk about him?” she asks softly.

I shoot her a sympathetic smile, then squeeze her arm. “I love that you’re always willing to talk. About anything. I love that. But let’s chat about shoes instead,” I say as the shopkeeper trots over and sets down a pair of blue shoes for Nadia and the silver flats for me, then takes off.

“I can always talk about shoes.” Nadia slides on the jewel-colored beauties, then emits an appreciative ooh.

I stare at the heels on her feet, a small burst of envy spreading through my chest. I make grabby hands. “Those are divine,” I say.

“Told you. You should just get a pair for your trip.”

I laugh. “Why do I feel like you’re trying to push me toward them?”

She leans a little closer, dropping her voice to a stage whisper. “Because I am.”

“And why are you so determined to get me to climb Daniel like a tree?”

“Because it’s been a long time for you. Maybe, just maybe, you could indulge a little bit.”

I blink, considering her statement. “You think I ought to indulge in a tryst with Daniel Stewart?” I whisper as if her idea might be the height of scandal. It kind of is.

“The two of you have these red-hot sparks. Every time I see you together at an event, you’re like the poster children for flirting. Why not indulge? He doesn’t seem like the relationship type. You don’t seem like one either. You both would probably be up to keeping everything at arm’s length.”

“Does that even work?”

“If anyone can pull it off, it’s you. You’re brilliant at that. You line things up the way you want. You plan, you strategize, you organize. And you make things happen. That’s what you do. Besides, why couldn’t you do it?”

Is she for real? Is that something that could actually work?

I slide my feet into the silver flats, staring at them, studying them as I ponder her forthrightness.

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 platform, 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.

Tryst.

So this is how it goes.

We’ll be spinning a fable. Playing pretend. Indulging in a tryst.

We are giving ourselves permission to be these other selves.

“I thought about you too. Wondered if you’d wear a dress on the train.” I regard the line of her hem, how it shows off her creamy thighs, her bare skin. “Imagined having my hands in those gorgeous red locks of yours. Have I told you how stunning your hair is?”

She trembles, flicking some of the strands. “Do you like it?”

“It turns me on. The way it falls down your shoulders. The way I think about gathering it in my hands.” I pause, taking a beat, locking my gaze with hers before I add roughly, “Tugging on it.”

“You could do that,” she whispers, her voice all feathery.

The train rumbles along the tracks.

The lights are dim. The car is quiet. Barely anyone is in this carriage. Twilight falls outside. Paris is well and truly behind us, falling away as we leave the city.

A quick glance around tells me the nearest passengers are several rows away. “I thought about you at work today. It’s a wonder I didn’t take my cock in my hand as I pictured you,” I say, throwing down the fucking gauntlet.

Her eyes widen; her breath hitches. “Did you think about what you would do to me on the train?”

Hello, fantasy.

“There are so many things I want to do to you on this train,” I rasp out, wrapping my hand tighter around her thigh.

Her chest rises and falls.

Her shoulders shudder.

Her cheeks flush.

And we’re pretending.

But we’re not pretending at all.

Not one bit.

9

SCARLETT

I imagine this is who we are. We are newlyweds escaping from Paris, getting away for a week. A week where we won’t even leave the bedroom. Satin sheets will be tangled, hands and bodies will collide, and fantasies will play out over and over again in a hotel room.

There is no question that right now I am this woman. This woman who’s incredibly turned on by her new husband.

So turned on she can’t even wait.

I don’t want to wait.

I want to indulge in every single second with him.

With my pretend lover on the train in the dark.

I invite him to continue traveling. Continue taking that sensual journey up my thigh. I spread my legs a little more, giving him more room to roam, but mostly giving him the signal to keep going.

That’s exactly what he does. His hand glides up my thigh, the fabric of my dress sliding along with it, revealing more of my skin.

His fingers are on a slow, tantalizing course for my hot, wet center.

He’s mere inches away. I push my back against the seat, my head pressing into the cushion, my chest arching.

We’re doing this. Oh dear God, we’re doing this.

A noise climbs up my throat, dances across my lips. It falls across them. But it’s louder than I would like.

He leans closer, his nose against my neck. “Darling, can you be quiet if I take you there right now? If I take you there right here on the train, can you be quiet? I don’t want anyone else to hear you.”

Can I be quiet?

The question means so much more. The question is about so much more than silence and skills.

What he’s really asking is . . . Can I touch you?

Can I get you off?

Can I make you come on the train when we’re ten minutes away from our stop?

I have no plans to say no.

I turn toward him, my cheek against his stubbled jaw. Then I pull back the slightest bit, my lips nearly grazing his. “Quiet me with your lips,” I tell him, uttering a seductive command.

One that gives him all the permission he could ever seek.

But I don’t stop there. I’m playing my part. And it feels so good to be this woman.

It’s freeing.

I shed my daytime self, sliding into a woman I no longer let myself be. A naughty, hungry woman. “Remember what you did to me at the restaurant the other night? I was too noisy. And you kept me quiet by kissing me ferociously. The only thing that kept me quiet enough was your lips,” I say, inventing a story.

“Dear God,” he rumbles, sounding filthy, sounding aroused. “I remember that perfectly. I was like iron in my trousers the whole time. I wanted to fuck you.” He picks up the narrative, telling the tale of our lust so seamlessly. “Wanted to take you out of that restaurant, steal around the corner to that little passage, push you up against the wall, put your leg around my waist, and fuck you hard right there.”

My body is on fire. My brain is electric. I ache for him. “I wanted that too. I wanted that raw roughness, and I loved everything you gave me. How you made me be quiet.” I lick my lips. “With your mouth.”

He slides his nose along my neck again, reaching my ear, licking the shell. “I’m going to do that again right now, love.”

All my fantasies of my business partner, of us together, are coming true as he kisses me for the first time. On the train. After dark. In between here and there.

He’s sweet at first, his lips brushing over mine, his tongue flicking open the seam of my lips.

It’s tender and lush.

It’s passionate and lingering.

I want to groan and moan and cry out. I want to let him know what he’s doing to my body.

Nerve endings are sparking. Electricity is flowing.

Hot, wild breath is caged in my lungs, fighting to escape.

My pulse surges, beating between my legs. I open them wider, urging him on.

He heeds the call. Covering my lips with his, kissing me harder, hot and urgent, while his fingers slip under the lace of my panties.

I melt.

My brain melts.

My body melts.

I want to sink into the delicious, divine feel of his strong, confident fingers as they slide through my wetness.

My body shudders as he strokes me.

I want to move and writhe.

I want to rock my hips into his talented fingers that brush across my arousal, that slide over where I want him most.

I want to toss my head back and call out his name.

But I can’t. Because he locks in all my noises with a heady kiss. And because we’re in public. Even though it’s quiet and even though we’re kissing, I need to stay as still as I possibly can.

I grip his arm hard like I did on the platform. Maybe I was signaling then that this would happen. Maybe I was telegraphing in advance what I wanted.

I dig my fingers tighter, my nails digging into his skin, and his fingers fly fast, rubbing me harder.

Our tongues tango; our mouths explore.

White-hot pinpricks of lust flash before my eyes in neon bursts of pleasure. I slide my other hand around his head, tangling in his hair.

He kisses me more deeply, and I rock my hips into his hand, riding his palm closer and closer to the cliff.

Pleasure coils in my body, winds tighter in my belly. My thighs quake; my center quivers. My every molecule pulses, cries out, and bliss sails through me as I surrender to it, then burst in a frenzy of ecstasy.

He doesn’t even need to thrust his fingers inside me. I’m that aroused, that turned on.

All I need is him stroking me and then I’m coming in his hand on the train as we pretend we’re newlyweds who can’t keep their hands off each other.

As I come down from a wild high, he pulls away, lifts his hand, brings his fingers to his lips, and licks off my taste.

I gasp, loving the way he seals my orgasm in his mouth.

His wicked blue eyes meet mine, and his are etched with wanton lust as he removes his fingers, dragging one across my bottom lip. “My filthy, beautiful wife tastes so fucking good.”

And in this moment, that word, all of those words, feels true. I feel filthy and beautiful.

And I have no idea where we go next.

10

DANIEL

We shuffle off the train, step onto the platform, then head into the depot of the train station in Giverny. Crowds are thin, like they were inside the carriage, but now all the passengers are converging into the small area, and there’s little time or space to talk.

But is now the time to talk anyway?

I steal a glance at my companion.

Scarlett runs a finger through her hair.

Or really, the wig.

She pushes it off her shoulder, then behind her, flicks it one more time.

Hmm.

It’s not like her to fidget. Normally she’s confident, take-charge, and quick with a quip or a quote.

And always, damn near always, she’s in control.

Perhaps she’s rattled. The least I can do is remind her I’ve got the details of the trip sorted out. Rooting her in practical matters should help.

“The car should be here any minute,” I say.

“Great. Great.”

“The hotel is only a couple miles away.”

“Great. That’s great too.”

“Are you hungry? Want to get a bite to eat when we arrive?”

She shakes her head. “I’m good. I’m great.”

And I’m guessing she’s not great.

As we walk through the station, she blinks a few times, like she’s sorting out her thoughts. Swallowing roughly, she clears her throat then takes her phone from her purse, swiping the screen. “You said earlier that you booked the rooms?” she asks as we stride past the travelers checking the boards for the next train.

Rooms.

It’s funny that she says rooms, plural. I’m not sure that now is the moment to correct her on that small detail. Instead, I simply nod and say yes. “It’s taken care of.”

She flashes her most professional smile, but she doesn’t quite send it my direction. She shoots it diagonally to me, like she can’t quite meet my eyes or hold my gaze.

She returns to her phone, checking messages, as she often does. “Great. Fantastic. Terrific,” she says, and the trifecta of adjectives is not lost on me. She speaks in threes when she’s rattled, something she rarely is, making the triple talk all the more telling.

She’s clearly endeavoring to reset.

But is she simply trying to slide back to who we were, or is she attempting to sweep the last several minutes under the rug?

We head down the steps outside, and I scan the street for the gleaming black town car I ordered.

I need a few minutes to regroup too, and figure out what’s next. Not just where we go from here, but how we interact with each other, because her nervous, out-of-sight-out-of-mind reaction isn’t what I expected.

But then, what did I expect?

I suppose, truth be told, I expected that if we ever did fuck, everything would remain the same.

Wishful thinking.

I laugh privately.

Perhaps that hope makes me a fool. But that’s exactly what I imagined we’d do next.

And precisely what I want.

A man in a black suit thirty or so feet away lifts an iPad with the words flashing on the screen: Mr. and Mrs. Dickens.

I drop my voice to a whisper. “We can pick a different name each night, different accent too. English tonight. The next time we could go for French, and we could be Mr. and Mrs. Descartes.” I slide into that accent, my lips curving into a grin.

That earns me a smile, and the smile makes me feel better, especially when she returns to witty, clever Scarlett. “Yes, of course. Let’s do everything in homage to your philosophy degree. We could then be Mr. and Mrs. Rousseau. Or what about Mr. and Mrs. Nietzsche? But then you would need to do a German accent.”

I adopt one. “I can do that. I can definitely do that if you want to go full nihilist.”

She laughs, then says, “Don’t forget English philosopher John Locke. That would keep you in your delectable English accent. But I love the way you speak French.”

Delectable.

Yes, let’s keep going.

I give her a taste of French, shifting not merely to the accent, but the language. “But if you want us to be Mr. and Mrs. Rousseau, I can pretend to be French for you.”

A tremble rushes down her body. A sign. This woman loves to pretend. She loves to role-play.

“I would like that,” she murmurs.

And I would like to keep this up.

But a voice cuts in as the driver steps closer. “Mr. and Mrs. Dickens, I presume?”

“Yes,” I say. “That’s us.”

“I’m here to take you to your hotel. It’s wonderful to see you,” the driver says, then opens the back door for us.

“After you, Mrs. Dickens,” I say to Scarlett, and she slides in, shaking her head, rolling her eyes, but laughing again.

Perhaps I have reset us. Perhaps a little more pretend is what Scarlett needs to feel comfortable.

I can give her plenty of pretend.

That’s my stock-in-trade.

I thank the man then join my temporary wife in the back seat. She already seems more herself again.

“Maybe next time I want us to be Mr. and Mrs. Joplin,” she says playfully, tapping her chin. “Or Mr. and Mrs. Nicks. Or Mr. and Mrs. Jett.”

“I didn’t know you were such a fan of classic rock and anthemic female singers,” I say with an approving look.

Her eyes twinkle. “Maybe I’m just a fan of surprising you.”

“You’re full of surprises, Scarlett. And I love them all. They’re the cat’s whiskers,” I say.

She furrows her brow. “Bullshit.”

“What do you mean?”

“By ‘bullshit,’ I mean I don’t believe you.”

I laugh. “Yes, I’m familiar with what ‘bullshit’ means. I’m wondering why you’re calling bullshit on what I said.”

“I don’t think you like surprises. You like to think you like surprises. But you always prefer to know exactly what’s going on.”

Scarlett sees inside me in a way that others rarely can. It’s as if she’s holding up a mirror, reflecting the truth back at me.

And it’s . . . enticing.

While she doesn’t know all the dark secrets I hold in my heart, she can see the edges. She can tell they have shape and form.

I don’t mind her having that knowledge, that power.

I’m not sure why it doesn’t bother me, but I’ll evaluate that another time.

For now, I take perhaps one of the biggest steps I’ve ever taken—admitting she’s right. “Yes, I suppose that may be true. I suppose I have spent a large portion of my life trying to protect myself against surprises.”

She shoots me a sympathetic look, then reaches for my hand, squeezing it. “Maybe someday you’ll tell me about them.”

She turns her gaze to the window, staring at the whirl of color and light on the street outside.

I sigh in relief that she’s not pressing, merely leaving open the possibility that someday I’ll share.

Maybe someday I will.

It’s hard to say. At the moment, I’m much more fixed on what other surprises this woman might have in store.

Something unusual happens when we arrive at the hotel.

It looks exactly like its photos.

Make that even better.

Despite the dark of night, the hotel beckons me with its beauty.

The car pulls up in the circular driveway, parking in front of the stone steps that lead into the spacious boutique inn. It’s big enough to be profitable, small enough to be wildly desirable.

And gorgeous enough to fit into our portfolio.

Scarlett gasps as she drinks in the sight, the stone front, the rustic charm, the white windowpanes all bringing a freshness to this provincial inn high atop a grassy hill in Giverny.

She turns her gaze to me. “It’s gorgeous,” she says in a whisper. It sounds almost reverent, the way she speaks.

“It’s even better than the photos.”

We emerge from the car, thank our driver, and shoulder our bags to go inside.

The lobby is both welcoming and modern. With sleek, low couches, clean white walls, and bright hardwood floors, the inn is inviting, open, and airy.

It also exudes the charm guests would want from an inn in a small town famous for an artist who painted here. Monet.

One wall boasts a replica of his work—an expansive Japanese bridge the artist was famous for painting as it arches over a pond full of water lilies.

As Scarlett takes in the lobby, she clasps my forearm. Like how she gripped my arm on the train not so long ago.

Her touch is electric, like a jolt of heat has ignited my blood.

Maybe I’m already addicted to her. I try to shake off that notion. I don’t get addicted. I don’t have it in me. I don’t ever want to feel so intensely for anything that it would be an obsession.

I have that already with music.

I simply like her touch. That is all. I like, too, that she seems enthralled with this place.

This is a business deal after all.

But I want her to like this inn because I get a kick out of her excitement. I love when she’s enchanted with a deal, a place, an idea.

“It’s everything I would want if I were coming here as a newlywed. It feels like an escape, Daniel. That’s what I love most about it,” she whispers.

I give her a smile, one that I feel deep in my chest, one that warms me up. “That’s exactly what this is. It’s like I’ve gone back in time, but it has everything that I want from this time too,” I say.

She nods enthusiastically. “Yes. That’s exactly what it feels like.”

With bags in tow, we walk to the front desk.

A black-haired woman lifts her face, flashes a bright smile, and says, “Good evening. Welcome to Le Pavillon de Giverny.”

Her name tag reads: Song/Hotel Manager.

Hometown: Beijing.

Languages Spoken: French, English, Mandarin.

Impressive that the hotel employs managers with such fluency. Another plus.

“Bonsoir,” Scarlett says.

“Bonsoir. Are you two checking in?”

“We are indeed,” I say as my companion hands Song her passport, and I give her the name on our reservation. I’d let the hotel know our names wouldn’t match the passport but that privacy was important to us.

The manager lowers her gaze to the computer screen, scanning it, hunting for our reservation, I presume. “And did you fly in, come by train, or drive?”

“We took the train,” Scarlett answers, then turns her face toward me. Her gorgeous green eyes lock with mine, and flames blaze in her irises.

From the mere mention of the word train.

A blush flushes across her cheeks. They turn a little pinker, a little redder, as if she’s reliving the memory of our train ride.

“Aren’t trains fabulous?” Song asks.

“It was the best train ride I’ve ever had,” Scarlett says.

Pride suffuses me, spreading through my molecules and cells as she gives an impromptu review of our train ride to the woman at the desk.

The woman smiles, raising her face from the screen. “Did you enjoy the scenery, even at night? It’s such a wonderful view coming here.”

A cough bursts from Scarlett. “Yes, coming here was great. I loved everything about the train trip. It felt like . . . a wonderful escape,” she says to Song.

Her eyes flicker to me once more.

And I know.

I have the answer now as to whether she wants to erase our train tryst or not.

The answer is, she doesn’t.

There is no regret for Scarlett Slade.

“I love to ride the rails,” Song says as she plucks away at the keys. “Makes me feel like I’m in another world. It relaxes me. It’s so wonderful to meet another person who’s discovered the joys of trains.”

Scarlett drums her fingernails on the counter. “Oh, I definitely discovered them. I didn’t know I was such a train person until I took this ride. But I’m absolutely one now.”

And it’s like she’s sealing the deal, making it crystal clear how she feels.

“And it seems your suite is ready,” Song declares with a smile, like she loves customer service as much as she loves the rattle and hum of the railroad.

Scarlett blinks. Taken aback. Her brow knits. “A suite?”

“A honeymoon suite. Your husband booked the honeymoon suite,” Song says, tipping her forehead to me.

I part my lips, weighing in for the first time. “Of course we want the honeymoon suite, darling. I can’t wait to show it to you.”

“Great,” Scarlett says. “Terrific. Fantastic.”

Alarm bells go off.

The trifecta of words is my warning.

I need to wait to show the room to her.

Because we need to talk.

I ask the cheery train lover to please have a bellman take our bags to our suite and we’ll be up there shortly.

“Very well,” she says, then hands me a key. “And I hope your stay is as fabulous, if not more so, than the ride here.”

“Yes, so do I,” Scarlett replies.

I take the key, drop it into the pocket of my trousers, then I set a hand on Mrs. Dickens’s elbow and I guide her away from the front desk. “We’re pretending we’re on a honeymoon. Did you actually think I was going to book separate rooms?”

She shakes her head, but her eyes are nervous again. “Of course you were going to book one room. I just . . .”

“You didn’t think we would actually have one room? Do you want me to book another one under my real name or another fake name, and I can go sleep in that?”

She meets my gaze, steadying herself. “No, I don’t want that at all.”

As we head farther into a corner of the lobby, I don’t let this go. “Are you sure? I don’t want to be presumptuous. I might’ve been presumptuous by booking this suite. But the plan was for us to appear as newlyweds. I could find a way to justify getting another room. I’ll devise something,” I say. I’m not sure what, but I’m not a formidable businessman for nothing.

I solve problems.

If Scarlett doesn’t want to share a suite, I can fix that.

I can find a solution.

She straightens her shoulders, squares them, and looks me head-on, her eyes blazing. “No. I’m going to share a suite with my husband,” she says, then lifts her arms, grips the collar of my polo, and says, “But first, get me a drink.”

“A drink it is. And we can talk about whether you’re sure you can handle it,” I say, since she likes a challenge.

She narrows her eyes, like she’s daring me. “I can handle anything. Any topic.”

That’s my Scarlett. “Shall we talk about philosophy, music, literature, art?”

“Try again.”

I lower my voice, going to a whisper. “Or we could talk about the fact that I made you come so fucking hard on the train that you’re both reliving it over and over and trying to deny how good it felt.”

She nibbles on the corner of her lips. “You’re forward, aren’t you?”

“When it comes to you, I am.” I meet her gaze, my eyes locked with hers. “Let me make this clear, Scarlett. Whatever happened on the train, and whether it is going to happen again or not, I care deeply for you. And because of that, we’re going to go talk.”

She gestures to the bar. “Let’s figure this out.”

11

SCARLETT

I like my life neat and orderly.

I like it understandable. I like it to make sense.

Most of all, I like it so that I can’t get hurt.

That feels less likely now than it did an hour ago.

Nothing about what happened with Daniel over the last few hours is neat and orderly.

Nor is it clear where to go from here. And I like to know where I’m going. I like to have an agenda, a to-do list, a plan.

I like maps. I like schedules.

But right now, I am whiplash. My emotions are a tilt-a-whirl, whipping me back and forth.

In one moment, I want to flirt with him, to tease him, to play with him.

The next minute, I want to boomerang back to who we were.

But I don’t think we can. Maybe we can only move forward and figure out what our new world order will be.

One thing I know for sure is that new world orders are best negotiated over martinis.

We head into the bar.

With low flickering lights, lavish archways, curved wood trim, and faded green woodwork on the walls, the quiet bar hearkens back more than a hundred years to turn-of-the-century Paris.

Even the bartender looks like she’s stepped out of the Belle Époque, hair piled high above her head and wearing a low, ruffled top.

She says hello to us in French as soft, sensual music floats in the air, surrounding us.

The kind of music that plays when you sigh wistfully, fling open your balcony window, curl your hands over the iron latticework railing, and stare out at the city, asking the river what you should do next.

I wish I could talk to the river. I wish it could tell me what to do about my desire.

But there’s no river here.

No one to ask either.

I can only ask myself if I’m going to proceed with the role-play. Take the game we began to the next level.

I flash back to Nadia’s words in the shop, to my own confidence then.

But then intimacy with Daniel was merely a delicious idea.

A lovely notion.

Now it’s real.

Now it’s happened.

Do I want it to happen again?

Well, the obvious answer is yes.

But can I withstand it when we need to stop playing?

Can I control my need?

We slide into a small circular booth, and his thigh grazes mine. A bolt of electricity rocks my body. Lights me up again.

I am flammable around Daniel Stewart.

One touch and I melt. One kiss and I flame. That’s how I feel around him.

Like I’m truly combustible.

Maybe because it’s been so long for me. Perhaps because I’ve shut down those parts of myself since my marriage, when my sense of faith and trust was immolated.

Or perhaps I’m vibrating with desire simply because I want Daniel Stewart madly, deeply.

The woman from behind the bar circles by our table. “What can I get you two? We have some specials if you’d like to hear them. We also have local wines.”

My instinct is to say yes to a white, but I need something stronger. “I’ll take a dirty martini, please.”

“Sounds perfect,” Daniel agrees. “Make it two.”

When the woman leaves, he looks at me and says, “We don’t ever have to do that again. But what we do have to do is this. Make sure we’re all good.”

At his words, all my worry slinks away. It tiptoes out, turns the corner, and barely waves goodbye. It simply fades into the night.

The fact that he cares so deeply about us, our friendship, our partnership, means the world to me.

“What do you think we should do?” I ask, eager to know where he’s at.

He locks his blue gaze tight to mine, holding my eyes with his intensity. “Scarlett, I’m wildly attracted to you. I want to take you to the room and fuck you. I want to bring you pleasure over and over again. I want to have you,” he says, and I tremble with lust. I squeeze my legs closed, my thighs rubbing together, my center aching for him. How can he do this to me over and over? Maybe the answer is because he’s so damn direct. He owns his lust. “But the next day, I want us to be like this again.” He gestures from him to me. “I want us to talk. To banter. To make decisions together.” A small, vulnerable smile crosses his lips. “That may be a dream. But it’s mine. Is that even possible?”

He raises an excellent question, one I don’t have the answer to, even though I love the idea. “Is it?”

He shrugs, sighing heavily. “I don’t know how that would work. I’ve never had a relationship like that,” he says, his tone more vulnerable, more earnest than he’s ever been.

And because he’s been honest with me, I must be with him. “I’ve never had anything like that before either. I’ve never had that kind of relationship at all.”

“Have you always been in serious relationships? Committed ones?”

The answer is easy. “Yes. I have. My marriage, and before that, I was always in relationships. I’ve never truly had a fling. I wouldn’t know what one’s like.”

He takes a beat, but his eyes never stray from mine. “Do you want to try?”

“I don’t know,” I say, answering from the heart as the server swings by, setting down our martinis.

“Here you go. Enjoy your stay at Le Pavillon de Giverny.”

He smiles at her as she leaves. “We will.”

I love his confidence. I want to scoop it up, take a spoonful, and taste it. I want to feel that same boldness. But maybe I can by believing him. By believing the we will when it comes to us.

He lifts his drink. I lift mine.

“To questions, and to finding the answers,” I offer.

“I’ll drink to that.” We clink glasses, and then we do what we’ve always done.

We talk.

“At the risk of knowing the answer, I suppose flings are something you’re familiar with?” I ask.

“Flings. One-night stands. And arrangements. I’ve played the field. I’ve had threesomes, as you know.”

I do know this about him. Before Cole fell in love with Sage, he and Daniel had engaged in threesomes, the kind where the two of them would focus solely on the woman’s pleasure. Daniel had entertained me with stories of some of those. I ate up those tales, loving the debauchery, the decadence, and the way he told them—with zero guilt.

With only an appreciation, it seemed, for the purity of pleasure and the pursuit of it.

In his world, pleasure is reason enough to indulge.

Is it in mine?

I don’t know, but I delighted in the voyeuristic thrill of listening to the stories of their bedroom antics, the kind where everyone said yes.

Where everyone wanted the game.

“I’ve never really indulged in bedroom games. Not like that,” I tell him. “And I don’t want a threesome.”

“I wouldn’t want to share you,” he says, then takes a drink, sets it down.

His lips are a ruler; his eyes are resolute.

That decisiveness turns me on. I don’t want to be shared. I’m a one-man kind of woman. “I’m glad you don’t want to share me. I don’t want that kind of bedroom game.”

“I sense that about you.”

“Is that why you don’t want to share me?” I ask, needing to know, craving the answer. “Because you can tell I don’t want that?”

He hums. Maybe a few notes from Beethoven. Perhaps “Ode to Joy.” A sign that he’s thinking. He licks his lips, inching closer. “No. That’s not the reason. Here are the reasons. I don’t want to share you for you. And I don’t want to share you for me. So make of that what you will.”

Part of me wants to make everything of that, but that’s a risky bet. “What do you make of it?” I ask.

“I’m trying to figure that out,” he says, and his forthrightness lures me. It makes my skin tingle. But also, it excites my mind.

That’s what electrifies me the most.

That’s what excites my body—when a man speaks his truth. When a man acts from truth. When he doesn’t lie.

Honesty is an elixir.

For all our flirting, all our games, Daniel has never seemed like a liar. Not once.

Right now, his eyes are etched with longing, a longing he’s letting me see fully. “But the one thing I don’t need to figure out is how much I want you,” he adds in a low, dirty whisper. “I don’t need to mull it over. I know I’d like to explore it, and I believe we can go back to who we were. We’re mature, thoughtful, caring. We can fuck and not let it ruin us.”

A pulse beats between my legs.

Fine, my brain isn’t the only organ that’s turned on.

My body longs for him. For the way he says fuck with such assuredness, such confidence.

“Are you asking me, Daniel? Are you asking me to engage in bedroom games with you?”

He lifts a hand and brushes the red strands that don’t belong to me off my shoulder. I tremble under his touch.

“It’s up to you, Scarlett. I’d very much like to indulge in you. What would you like?”

I lick my lips, lift the glass, and take another drink.

What would I like?

I would like to feel indulged in.

I would like to know what that’s like.

But I also don’t know what happens on the other side. How to make the exit neat and orderly. How to ensure I’m not ruined. “Our friendship matters to me. Our partnership matters to me,” I say. “I don’t want to lose any of that. We can make promises that nothing will change, but can we keep them?”

He knocks back his drink and sets down the glass. “We can certainly try.”

People make all sorts of promises. People try to commit. But promises are often broken. “I’d like to sleep on it,” I finally say.

A flash of disappointment crosses his blue eyes but then disappears, like he’s rearranging his features to hide it. “Fair enough.”

The hint, as brief as it was, touches my heart. If he’d had zero reaction, I’d think he didn’t care one way or the other. That he could take this or leave it.

We finish our drinks, pay the tab, and head to our suite, where I hope the answers will come to me at night.

But once the door clicks shut, I fear it’ll be that much harder to resist now that we’re alone together.

Since I’m not so sure I can simply take him or leave him.

12

SCARLETT

This is not the first time we’ve been in a hotel room alone together.

Obviously.

There was Aix-en-Provence, as well as countless other times since I’ve become a partner. We’ve visited many of our properties together, stopped in rooms, checked them out.

This is de rigueur for us, just a regular part of a day in business.

Tonight is business, true.

But it’s also personal, because this is the first time we’ve set foot in a hotel room after I pretended to be his wife. After I learned how thrilling games with Daniel are. And after he uttered those seductive words—we can fuck and not let it ruin us.

Words that send a shiver over my body as the echo of them resonates in my mind. I hear them over and over, along with other words like . . . indulge in you.

And . . . our friendship matters to me.

Those words ring in my head as we survey the room, my eyes drifting past the sunken living room, the French doors that lead to the bedroom, and a balcony that overlooks the shadow of the hill.

Beautiful.

“Is it too soon to say I’ve fallen in love with this property?” I ask, buoyed by the prospect of this purchase, if all the other properties hold up too.

“Love at first sight is perfectly acceptable with music and fine hotels,” he says with a wry grin.

I raise a finger. “And books. Don’t forget books.”

“I’d never forget books. Falling for a story needs no explanation.”

I smile, glad we can do this, grateful we can be friends, that we can banter this way.

Talk like partners.

That’s who we are.

But there are practical matters to attend to. I gesture to the French doors. “You can take the main bed, Daniel.”

He scoffs, furrowing his brow. “Woman, who do you take me for?”

“Is that such a terrible idea?”

He strides to the balcony, opens the sliding doors, then tosses me a don’t be crazy look. “I’m a gentleman. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“You don’t have to,” I say as he turns and gazes out at the view of the inky night sky. Stars wink on and off as a midnight-blue blanket covers the earth.

He shakes his head, brooking no argument.

I swallow, trying to figure out if I’m daring enough to say the next words. “We can still share a bed,” I offer.

Spinning around, he laughs this time. “Darling, we aren’t sharing a bed if I’m not fucking you. I’m not strong enough to withstand that.” He returns to the room, shutting the sliding doors.

“Truth be told, I’m not sure I am either,” I admit with a shrug.

His eyes seem to flicker with happiness. Like he’s grateful that the situation is hard for me too.

Believe you me, handsome, it so is.

He points to the couch. “But I am strong enough to withstand you from a sofa bed. And that’s where I’ll sleep.”

“At least let me get you a good pillow.”

He sets a hand on his heart. “A pillow. Hold me back. Perhaps some tea too? Maybe a biscuit?”

I roll my eyes, stride past the French doors, and grab a soft white pillow from the massive pile on the king-size bed. Briefly, my eyes linger on the mattress, images of us tangled up in the sheets taunting me.

Daniel’s strong back and shoulders, those sinewy muscles . . . I imagine his toned arms pinning me down, holding me in place. His hands traveling everywhere over me, gripping me, clasping me, pushing me to my limit.

And me, wanting all he gives. All he does.

Every rough, dirty deed.

Then, as I have before, I dismiss those tantalizing pictures, swiping them from my mind as I return to the living room.

“No tea tonight. But you know what the travel sites say—a good pillow is the measure of a great hotel,” I say as I hand it to him.

He takes it. “I’ll report back on its measurement at dawn.”

I return to the bedroom, making my way to the en suite bathroom. In there, I freshen up, brush my teeth, wash my face, and remove my wig. I set it down carefully in the suitcase next to a platinum-blonde one, and a black one too.

Maybe the blonde for tomorrow? Maybe in this wig I’ll be Mrs. Rousseau.

Or Mrs. Nicks.

I smile privately at the possibilities as I make sure the wigs are tucked safely away.

For now, I’m not Mrs. Dickens.

I’m Scarlett Slade, no artifice and not a touch of makeup. The remnants of my perfume have faded away.

I’m only me.

That raises the question. What would Scarlett Slade do?

I still don’t know the answer.

I know what Mrs. Dickens would do. She’d put on a jet-black negligee, head to the door, and strike a pose.

Invite him in.

A pang of longing tugs at my chest. His offer is so deliciously enticing. But I don’t know if I can take it.

I don’t know how I’d survive it.

Riffling through my things, my fingers stop on a soft, silky teddy. A cranberry-red one. The shade of desire.

I murmur as I stroke it, savoring the lush feel of the material. I bet he’d love to touch me in this piece of lingerie. Bet he’d love to run his fingers over it, under it, onto me.

I shiver, sensations rushing through me.

I want to put it on, but wearing it is far too risqué. Wearing it would be playing with fire.

Not so much for him, but for me.

I won’t be able to resist him if I wear this, and I need to know I can handle the pain and the pleasure.

The possibility of this tryst going terribly wrong.

But maybe it’ll only go right.

I reach for my faded Brown University T-shirt from my alma mater, where I earned my bachelor’s degree in economics. I tug it on, then pull on a pair of sleep shorts and head to the living room to say good night to Daniel.

He’s availed himself of the other bathroom, and has already freshened up, wearing those lounge pants and nothing else.

His chest is bare and worthy of a calendar.

All those muscles, all that smooth skin, with just the perfect smattering of chest hair.

I draw in a sharp breath. My body tingles, then heats as we share a dirty glance.

His eyes roam up and down my frame. “Didn’t work.”

My brow knits. “What do you mean?”

He flicks his fingers in my direction. “I still find you as alluring as ever, even in that gray T-shirt. So your attempt to wear something less sexy didn’t work at all. You still look seductive, if not more so, when you look like yourself. Because that’s the thing, Scarlett. I’m insanely aroused by you.” He sighs like he’s resigned to the score. “And on that note, I better get to bed.”

He sets to work unfolding the couch, putting a sheet over the mattress, and then flopping down on it as I retreat to the bedroom.

“Good night, Daniel,” I call out softly.

“Good night, Scarlett.”

I wish I knew for certain that I could survive whatever comes my way.

Fuck this bed.

Fuck this room.

Fuck this hotel.

An hour later, I’m staring at the ceiling, wide awake and miserable.

It’s midnight.

This king-size bed is so spacious. I flip onto my stomach. I flip back. I turn onto my side. I reach for my sleep mask. I shove it on with a grumble.

My world is dark. Maybe that’ll blot out these naughty thoughts frolicking through my brain.

But nope. I can’t even count sheep. Because all I can see are cocks. And I’m pretty sure counting cocks won’t help my cause at all. Instead, I count truths.

I want the truth.

Daniel Stewart didn’t give me a single line. He didn’t offer something he couldn’t deliver. He only offered himself for a limited time.

He promised nothing more, just that we’d return to the way we were. He’s capable of it, I’m sure.

Am I?

There’s only one way to find out.

That’s the decision I’m making right now. I want to find out. I trust him. But I also trust myself. I trust that we can return to who we are.

Now, though, we can be these other people.

We can pretend to be newlyweds in a hotel room, holed up together, making love.

If I’d just married him, I’d damn well be touching him already.

My temporary husband.

My make-believe mister.

I fling off the covers, swing my legs out of bed, and pad across the floor. He’s on the sofa, stretched out on his back, one hand flung over his eyes. His chest rises and falls.

He’s sound asleep.

My shoulders sag.

I’m turning to retreat to the bedroom when his voice calls out, all rough and sexy, “Come here.”

Shivers race across my entire body. They fill my cells. Need squeezes my chest, and I answer the aching pull of desire. I close the distance, joining him on the pullout couch, getting on top of him.

I straddle Daniel. “You’re hard,” I whisper like it’s a delicious secret.

One corner of his lips curves into a grin. “Does that surprise you?”

I shake my head as I set my hands on his shoulders, curling them over the strong muscles. “No. I suppose it delights me.”

He lifts a hand, slides it around the back of my head, threads his fingers through my hair, then whispers, “Then why don’t you delight in my cock, Scarlett?”

Heat blazes through my body. My hips move by instinct as I rock against him, grinding and pressing against that hard ridge, the tantalizing outline my eyes enjoyed a few nights ago in the hallway after the chandelier crashed.

The chandelier knew.

The chandelier was a sign.

Thrusting us together.

Wetness pools inside me as pleasure winds higher in my body. I rock as he grips me tighter, and I give in to the temporary us.

But there are things that need to be said.

Rules that need to be erected.

Boundaries that must be set.

So I stop, going still. “I have a proposal,” I say, all breathy.

He growls, tightening his grip on my head. “Let’s hear it.”

I draw a fortifying breath, then lay it out. “We do this. We do this for the length of the trip. We get this out of our systems. We role-play the whole time, and we pretend.”

His eyes blaze with desire. “Tonight do you want to be Mrs. Rousseau, my siren of a French wife, who slipped into the bed after dark, since she wants to be fucked hard and ruthlessly?”

I grin wickedly, savoring our naughty games, our tawdry make-believe. “But the thing is, Mrs. Rousseau loves being pushed, getting worked up, being turned on all day long.” I drag a hand down his chest. “When I’m Mrs. Rousseau, I want to spend the day wandering around town, you whispering filthy words in my ear, telling me all the things we’re going to do when we return to the room at night. I want to be driven mad with lust by Mr. Rousseau.” My whisper is soft and sensual as his eyes glimmer as I promise these dirty deeds. “And then when we return to our room tomorrow night, you can ravage me. You can ruin me in bed.” I nibble on the corner of my lips, voicing my final, tantalizing wish. “You can do anything to me.”

A full-body shudder is his answer, then a low, deep rumble that seems to take over his entire being. “What are you proposing tonight, then?”

My hands travel down his body, trailing over his pecs, then to his abs, tracing the grooves of them, the ridges, my nails brushing against his hot skin. When I reach the waistband of his pants, I slide off him and settle between his legs.

I look up, meeting his eyes. I lick my lips. My intentions are clear. But words help, so I finish with, “Tonight, I’m going to suck my husband’s cock.”

The only sound that comes from him is a command. “Suck me hard and deep, darling. Like you love to do.”

Oh, yes. I’m sure I’ll love every single second.

13

DANIEL

This is precisely what I was imagining before she walked in here. When my cock was already rock-hard. When I was tempted, so damn tempted, to take matters into my own hands once again. But I don’t have to.

Because she’s going to take matters into her mouth.

She tugs my pants down, and I kick them off. She kneels between my legs and slides her hands up and down my thighs. My skin sizzles. My bones crackle. Lust thumps through me as my dick announces it’s ready and eager for her.

She’s quiet for a moment, studying my body as if she’s contemplating how she wants to take me in her mouth—slow and sensual, or rough and deep.

I have an idea of something I’d rather enjoy while she sucks me off. “Why don’t you take off your shirt?”

Quickly, she reaches for the hem, then tugs it over her head and tosses it onto the carpet.

My cock hardens even more thanks to the view of her beautiful breasts, all creamy skin and dusky rose nipples standing at attention.

“I’d like to take those beauties in my mouth, bite your nipples, play with your tits, and lick you all over. I bet you’d like that. I bet you’d like it if I squeeze them hard while I fuck you.”

“I’d love that,” she murmurs as she reaches for my cock, wrapping a soft hand around it.

Her touch feels spectacular.

But she also seems to know that I want so much more than hands.

Because seconds later, she bends down, her soft, chestnut hair brushing against my thighs, and she licks the head.

I arch up, needing more of her mouth, craving all of her. I want to bury my cock in her throat. I want to defile those lips. I want to see how far she can take me. “That’s right, love. Take it all. Swallow my cock,” I say, urging her on.

She swirls her tongue around the head, moaning and groaning against my shaft as she gets acquainted with my dick. The sensual curves of her lips fit so perfectly around me as her lush mouth goes deeper, drawing me in farther.

Pleasure pounds through my body as she licks and sucks.

My hand wraps around her head, roping through those strands, tugging her even closer. “I like it deep, Scarlett. Can you handle that? Can you take me like that?”

She nods, whispering “I can” against my shaft, then she shows me. In one swift move, she swallows me all the way down.

Electricity zaps through my body. All my cells light up at once. I close my eyes and rock into her mouth, moaning, “That’s right. You’ve got me now.”

I wrap both hands around her skull, tightening my grip. She doesn’t seem to mind. She responds to the way I handle her, somehow miraculously relaxing her throat.

This woman.

It’s like she doesn’t even have a gag reflex, and it’s my lucky day. Hell, my lucky year.

I open my eyes, gazing down at the filthy sight in front of me. My business partner sucking me off. Her right hand roams to my balls, her nails playing with them, flicking over them, the other hand traveling to my cock. She wraps a fist tight around the base while her mouth works me up and down.

As lust barrels through my body, Scarlett rocks her hips up and down too, like she’s savoring this, like she’s loving every second of it.

The way she’s enjoying this blow job trips a wire in me. I thrust up harder, and she takes me deeper, my dick melding to her mouth, lodged in her throat. Pleasure ratchets up the base of my spine, then it explodes—a glorious carnal annihilation of my senses as I come hard and deep.

My thighs shake. I groan for ages as bliss blots out the world.

Eventually, I push up on my elbows to find Scarlett wiping a hand across her lips, giving me a sly smile, then saying, “I had my tonsils removed when I was younger. I pretty much have no gag reflex.”

I shudder everywhere. “That’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said. And I intend to fuck that beautiful mouth so many times.”

She licks her lips. “Can I fuck your mouth now?”

Holy hell. She’s sinful and delicious.

“Get up here.”

14

SCARLETT

I shed my shorts and my underwear. Damn panties are useless already, soaked all the way through.

I climb up his body, sitting on his face.

That’s exactly where he wants me. His hands fly to my hips, and he tugs me down tighter, and then he goes to town on my pussy.

I’m so aroused, so ready, so craving another orgasm.

This man is intent on giving it to me. He flicks his tongue across my clit. I cry out, urging him on.

Yes.

Just like that.

Don’t stop.

I rock against him, and he holds my hips, gripping them tighter as I find a rhythm, fucking his mouth. My hands trail up my body, gripping my breasts, squeezing them.

I meet his gaze for a hot, delirious second. His blue eyes are searing, glittering with filth and lust.

He lets go of my hips, runs his hands up my belly, then pushes mine away, grabbing my tits.

I shove my hands in my hair as I rock against his mouth while he squeezes my breasts, kneading them, pinching my nipples.

Like he promised he’d do.

I feel like his depraved wife.

Like his wild midnight lover.

Indulging. Relishing. Savoring.

And fucking his face as he grabs my breasts harder, twisting my nipples, sending pinpricks of pain through me.

Pain that’s pleasurable.

Sharp, hot pain that’s so delicious it goes straight to my clit.

As he licks me ferociously, I fly over the edge, my pretend husband coaxing a powerful orgasm from me.

The world goes blurry and beautiful. As I cry out, panting his name, he grabs hold of my hips so that I don’t fall as I come hard on his face.

I’m moaning and murmuring and so drugged out from my climax that I barely have time to process what’s happening next.

He scoops me up, carries me in his arms, and brings me to the king-size bed.

I half expect him to leave, but instead we slide under the covers together.

He wraps his strong biceps around me and kisses my neck, whispering, “You’re so beautiful when you come, darling. I want to do that to you over and over again.”

I am a woman unleashed.

I speak from the heart of both desire and trust in him when I say, “I want all that and more.”

Forget water lilies.

Monet’s blue kitchen is the artist’s true masterwork.

I discover it in its colorful glory the next day as we visit Giverny’s most famous spot—the artist’s garden where he drew so much inspiration. But I’m more lured by the artist’s house.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me about this slice of heaven?” I ask as I gawk.

Yes. Gawk.

There is no other way to describe what I’m doing in the spacious kitchen of the home of one of the greatest artists ever.

It’s a robin’s egg of a room, a dreamscape of this one sumptuous color, with sapphire-blue stone on the stove, shades of pastel blue splashed across the table, and colorful patterns of ocean blue, sea blue, and tropical blue on the mosaic tiles on the wall. I wheel around, turn to Daniel, flick my blonde hair off my shoulder—today I am platinum—and arch a brow sharply.

“You’re in trouble,” I say.

He smirks. “So it’s my fault that you didn’t know about Monet’s house before?”

I spin in a circle, gesturing to the pinwheel of blues before us. “Yes. Because a blue kitchen is magnificent, and since you’re the one who’s brought me here, you must have known about it previously.” I raise my chin defiantly, stepping closer to him, getting in his face. I poke his chest. “What kind of husband would keep this a secret from his wife?”

His smirk turns into a devilish grin. “Maybe I only kept it a secret because I’m just now getting to know what you like. I’m only now discovering all these sides to my brilliant, beautiful wife.”

I shiver at those words, at our games, because these roles with him are delicious. “Still, you should have brought me here sooner. Perhaps when you were courting me,” I say, like this is a version of naughty improv theater, and it’s his turn to decide where to take the flirty scene.

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.

Nearly 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, and 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

The to-do list is never far away. Scarlett is a woman with an agenda.

I’m a man with one too.

We are gathering intel, making decisions, and prepping to visit more inns tomorrow.

After the detour at Monet’s home, we return to the task at hand.

Assessment.

Due diligence.

Back at the inn, we check out the entire grounds of the hotel, taking photos for Cole, sending them along to him. We wander across the property, drinking in the view, getting a sense of the spaciousness, how it feels, how it looks.

What would it be like to be a guest and wander across this section of the vineyard adjacent to the hotel?

How would it feel to wake up in the morning, fling open the doors, and stroll across the grounds?

Would this inn inspire you to post a review on travel sites? Show photos all over social media?

Since other guests are snapping photos and sharing them, we decide that yes, in fact, this hotel elicits that sort of reaction.

Like the spies or mystery shoppers that we are, we canvas the inside too. We walk up and down the hallway on each floor, check out the stairwells, visit the pool. The platinum-blonde beauty by my side taps away on her tablet the entire time.

“Always the notetaker,” I say.

“Notes are good for both of us,” she says.

“They absolutely are.” I tap the side of my head. “I’m recording every single detail up here.”

“And what is your conclusion so far?”

“I love it,” I say, holding her gaze, and I’m not just talking about the hotel. I’m talking about the whole experience of being here with Scarlett. The things she’s shared with me. Getting to know her better. Understanding her. I love knowing her, and that’s a terrifying notion except that we also have built-in safety precautions. We have an escape plan—that’s what will make this work. We’ll stick to it.

Of course we will.

Once our afternoon of intel-gathering is complete, Scarlett says she needs to change her shoes.

“You’re switching to bedtime slippers already?”

“Au contraire,” she says with a flirty grin as she sails into our suite, rustles around in her suitcase, and finds a pair of sapphire-blue heels.

She slides into them, and my mouth waters.

“You’re stunning,” I say as I roam my gaze over her body, savoring the shape of her long, lean legs, imagining how they’d look draped over my shoulders.

“You’re not so shabby yourself.”

She ditches her wig next, brushing out her hair, looking fantastic as herself again.

We head to the veranda for cocktail hour—another opportunity to get a sense of the property.

Because one thing that cocktails do is loosen lips.

Soon enough, as Scarlett sips a glass of Chenin blanc, she’s making small talk with another couple. A blonde named Elodie, who looks like she could be Kristen Bell’s stunt double, and her glasses-wearing hipster wife named Hazel, who reminds me of Kerry Washington. They’re from Las Vegas, they say.

Scarlett introduces herself as Violet, saying she worked in retail, and asks the others why they’re here.

Elodie sets a hand on her wife’s shoulder. “We’re newlyweds. Just like you two,” she says.

Scarlett smiles. “Is it that obvious?”

The blonde leans closer to us, adopts a wry grin, then points to Scarlett’s hand. “Patently. The way you look at each other—like there is no one else in the world. Also, I love your ring. It’s so daring. So bright,” Elodie says, and flashes her own ring, bright and blue. A sapphire.

“Some women like it loud. Some women like it bright.” With every word Scarlett shares with this couple, it’s like my business partner is revealing more of herself.

To me.

And I gobble it up, taking notes the same way as before when we were analyzing the hotel balconies.

Hazel clears her throat, weighing in. “So when did you two get married?”

“Three days ago,” I chime in. “In Paris, where we live now. The ceremony was held in a small little passage—Galerie Vivienne. Mosaic floors. Stained-glass ceilings. Iron latticework,” I say, painting the scene and seeing it vividly, a small, private affair.

Scarlett jumps right in with the ruse. “It was gorgeous. Just friends and family,” she says, and my heart thumps harder. She imagines our pretend wedding the same way. This . . . delights me.

Elodie brings her hand to her chest. “You look so happy together. That’s so wonderful. How did you meet?”

Elodie is hitting on all the details Scarlett and I haven’t practiced. I suppose I didn’t think we’d be queried over them. But that’s the joy of role-play. It involves improvisational skills.

Scarlett seems to savor this thrill, her lips curving into a grin, her eyes twinkling. “You’ll probably never believe this,” she says in a whisper.

“Oh, try me,” the blonde says eagerly.

Scarlett shifts her gaze back and forth then drops her voice to a whisper. “We met at a club. One of those risqué, after-dark type of clubs.”

The blonde’s eyes widen. “A sex club?”

Scarlett laughs, nodding.

Holy shit. My pretend wife has quite an active imagination.

“The funny thing is we work in the same building. But we met after-hours at a sex club. It turned out we had a lot of the same predilections,” Scarlett says with a lift of her eyebrow, a naughty little gesture.

Hazel’s face goes a little red, but she sits up straighter, higher. “That’s great that you have so much in common.”

“And when I found out he was in the same building, I kept finding reasons to go to his office. One thing led to another . . .” Scarlett says, tossing me a dirty glance, crafting such a gorgeous, seductive tale.

I pick up the thread from my improvisation partner, playing along easily. “Darling, are you truly going to tell them about all the things we did in my corner office?”

Elodie’s eyes go wider. “I know I’d love to hear. Wouldn’t you, babe?”

Hazel laughs, a little embarrassed. She adjusts her glasses, then lifts her chin. “Fine. I’d love the dirty details too.”

“Mmm. I had a feeling you would,” Elodie says.

Scarlett runs her finger along the rim of her wineglass, dipping her head then raising it. “Let me just say we had the hottest sex of my life on his desk,” she says.

My blood surges, heating as my wife opens the door to her fantasies.

Then she kicks it wide open with a stiletto-heel boot. “And there was nothing ordinary about it. I’d never felt anything like it before. I was dominated. And it was everything. I wanted the roughness. I wanted the pain. He made me feel alive. He made me feel desired. In the previous relationships I’d been in, I’d never felt that way.”

Holy. Fuck.

Scarlett just unspooled her dirty dreams.

In my lap.

She laid them all out for me to see.

I see them. Oh hell, do I ever.

Elodie waves a hand in front of her face. “My God. I think I’m getting turned on just hearing about the two of you together.”

Hazel leans in closer, kisses her neck, and whispers in her ear, “I can help you with that, sweetie.”

“You better.” Elodie gives her wife a kiss, then adds, “And on that note, I think we’re going to have to go back to our room.”

Hazel grabs her drink, swallows it in a down-the-hatch fashion, then clears her throat. “Thank you for getting my wife worked up. We’re heading upstairs.”

Scarlett laughs playfully, then waggles her fingers. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“I’ll do everything you’d do,” Elodie says with a wink, then they scurry away.

Scarlett tosses back the rest of her wine and sets down the glass.

My gaze pins hers. “Let’s do all the things you would do.”

As we walk down the hall to our room, I slide a hand around her waist. “You have a little bit of an exhibitionist in you,” I whisper.

“Apparently, I like it when strangers think we have the hottest sex ever,” she says.

“They don’t have to think it. Because I know it. Because we do.”

She stops, drags her nails down my chest, and grabs the waistband of my trousers. “We do. It’s raw and it’s primal, and my husband can’t get enough of me.”

I growl, desire pounding through my body as Scarlett makes all of her wishes clear. She’s communicating her fantasies. Letting me know she’s never had the kind of sex that she wants. She’s never been worshipped. She’s never been ravaged. I cup her cheeks, gripping her face hard. “You’ve never been fucked good and hard by a man who wants nothing more than to have you.”

“No. I haven’t.”

“That’s about to change.”

We open the door and go inside.

17

DANIEL

Inside the room, I pounce. I grab her wrists, pinning them above her head.

She trembles, her body vibrating with need. “Did you do that on the veranda to get me all worked up?” My voice is dark, smoky.

She grins like a siren. “Did it work? Did it get you worked up?”

I slam my hips against her, letting her feel the length of me. “Every second I’ve spent with you today has made me want what I’m about to do to you now.”

“What are you about to do to me now?” She’s breathy, her voice laced with wanton curiosity.

I drag my nose along her neck, inhaling her scent. It drives me mad with lust. She’s wearing the perfume I gave her. When I reach her ear, I draw her lobe between my teeth then nip.

She murmurs, a sign for me to bite harder. I nibble on her earlobe, and she gasps. “The way you smell reminds me that you’re mine,” I whisper.

“Because you gave it to me. Because you want to mark me.”

“You want to be marked.”

She thrusts her hips closer to me, her pelvis seeking me out. I slam my body against her again so she can feel what she’s done to me.

With her arms high above her head, her wrists pinned in my left hand, I drag my stubbled jaw across her face, my kisses trailing over her cheek. I reach her lips, dust a kiss there, then claim her lush mouth, hard and devouring. It’s a kiss that makes my brain hazy, that makes every cell in my body heat up.

I drop her wrists, pull back, and gaze at her lust-struck expression, her glossy eyes. “I know that you want it rough. But the question is, how rough do you want it, love? How hard do you want me to fuck you?”

She swallows, her lips trembling, then she lifts her chin. “I want to feel it tomorrow. I want it to blot out everything I’ve ever felt before. I want it to be the only thing I feel.”

Desire thrums through me. I run the back of my hand down her cheek. “Like I said, my wife is dirty.”

“So dirty,” she whispers, then I claim her lips once more with a ruthless kiss.

I’m not gentle. Not in the least. I devour her mouth, kissing her hungrily. I consume her, tugging her bottom lip with my teeth, making her moan, making her growl. I travel along her neck again, biting as I go. She arches against me, her nails dragging down my back. I listen to her every cue. I slide my hands along her stomach and up over her breasts, reaching for the top button on her blouse.

I tug at her blouse, then rip it apart, and she gasps.

I shake my head, pressing a finger against her lips. “Don’t say a word, love. I’ll buy you a new one tomorrow,” I say.

She gives a quick, eager nod, then whispers, “Tear all my clothes off. I don’t fucking care. Tear them off like it’s all you want.”

The corner of my lips curves into a grin. “I don’t have to do it like it’s all I want. It is all I want.”

I yank her short skirt, tugging it down her legs, letting it pool at her heels, where she steps out of it.

She wears only the shoes, a white satin bra with lace trim, and matching knickers. I grab at the middle of her bra. Twisting it. Making the fabric squeeze her tits together, pushing them up above the cups. My dick throbs harder as I stare at those gorgeous globes. “You bought this for me to rip it off, didn’t you?”

She nods, panting out a yes.

“You want me to ruin this gorgeous piece of lingerie?”

“Yes.”

I tug at the satin fabric, yank it hard, then I grip the hook, jerking it off, not caring what happens to it.

I free her tits.

I grab them, squeezing and twisting, and she tosses her head back, moaning and groaning, her noises rising higher, growing even more desperate.

“My God, you love when I play with your tits, don’t you?”

She bows her back, arching, and moans, “Yes, like that. Just like that.”

I give her everything she wants. I want it too. The wildness of pleasure, the roughness of sex, the intensity of us coming together. I treat her tits like they’re toys, like I can do anything to them I want. I knead them as I bend my neck, drawing one delicious nipple into my mouth and biting hard. She yelps, grabs my face, and shoves me back against her chest.

I suck and devour her breasts, giving it to her just the way she wants. Her hips thrust against me as I nibble greedily. She moans, a delicious series of oh Gods and yeses. Finally, I release her tits, rise up, thread my hands into her hair, and kiss her neck again, dragging her head back, pulling hard.

She yelps.

Every moan she makes is a symphony, and I want to play her body, hear all the music she can make.

She’s better than the violin.

She’s sexier than a Beethoven concerto.

She’s more alluring than any Brahms.

I bring my lips to her ear. “You want to be ruined, don’t you?”

“I do,” she says.

“I’m going to ruin you by fucking you the only way you should be fucked.”

“And what way is that?” she asks on a savage pant. I lower my right hand, thread my fingers into the waistband of her knickers, grab them, and pull roughly, watching as the satin tightens against her pussy.

Tugging on the fabric, I turn it into a sex toy, pulling it up and down, back and forth over her wet clit.

She grabs my shoulders, thrusts out her hips, and moans.

“You need to be fucked by a man who wants you. By a man who is consumed by you and only you,” I tell her as I work the lace fabric up and down over the delicious rise of pleasure.

“I do, I do,” she gasps, savoring every tug and pull as I use the lace to get her off the way she wants me most.

Her fingers curl tighter on my shoulders, digging in, hanging on. Her eyes are closed, her lips are parted, and then she’s screaming out in pleasure. “Yes, yes, yes.”

I pull up the white satin, twisting it harder, dangerously close to sending her to her first orgasm.

Her hands go tighter around my shoulders.

“I bet you can come in seconds,” I grunt.

She gasps wildly, then she’s crying out, moaning and groaning and falling apart in pleasure.

Panting, gasping, murmuring.

My skin crackles with lust.

My dick has never been harder.

It’s thumping against my trousers, eager to bury itself in her.

I growl in her ear. “You’re so fucking dirty. Look at you coming in your own knickers.”

Her mouth parts, and she breathes out hard. “Do you like knowing you married a dirty woman?”

“I like treating you like the dirty woman you are. Now turn around, raise your ass, and tell me how much you want me to smack it.”

“So much,” she says, trembling as she turns around, presses her palms against the wall, and offers me that beautiful ass. I raise a hand high in the air, then bring it down hard on her flesh.

She shakes, crying out.

Then the other cheek.

She moans and groans.

I grip the flesh of her ass, squeezing it roughly as I gather all her hair in my other hand, pull it to the side, then tug it. “That’s what you want, don’t you? To know that I’m as wild as you are?”

She practically cries as she nods. “Yes.”

“Then let’s get you down on your hands and knees. Leave your shoes on.” I tug off her knickers, sliding them down her legs. She steps out of them and kneels on the floor, sapphire heels still on.

“Watch me as I take my clothes off,” I tell her.

She stares like a hungry creature with ravenous eyes as I unbutton my shirt and unbuckle my belt, tossing them carelessly onto the floor behind me. Shoes and socks go next, then trousers, then my boxer briefs. I’m down to nothing.

I take my cock in my hand, shuddering from the pleasure. “Do you know how badly I want to come on your face right now?”

Her eyes float closed for a second, and she shudders. “Tell me how badly.”

I slide a hand over her hair, coiling it around her skull, my dick sliding along her lips. “I want to come in your hair, on your back, on your face, but I want to come inside you even more. When my cock is in you, I’m going to own your body. I’m going to ravage it. I’m going to leave marks all over you,” I say as I bend, reach into my trousers on the floor, and grab a condom.

I get behind her on my knees, sheathing myself, then press a palm between her shoulder blades. “Down to your elbows. Lift your ass. It’s better for me to fuck you ruthlessly.” I savor the view in front of me as Scarlett obeys every command, offering herself, giving me the most fantastic view in the universe, her wet, needy pussy practically begging for my body. “Are you aching for me?”

“I am.”

I slide my hand between her legs where she’s wetter and hotter after her orgasm. She arches and moves with me as I slide my hand up and down, savoring her slickness.

“This is how you need to be fucked. By a man who wants you.”

“I want you too. So much,” she says, like she’s begging.

My eyes eat her up, enjoying the feast of her body as I line up behind her.

She lifts her hips higher, giving herself to me. I rub the head of my cock against her wetness, a sharp, delicious burst of pleasure surging through me.

Lighting me up.

I push farther, and she groans wickedly.

That’s all I can take.

I slide into her in one hard, deep move, filling her to the hilt.

She groans like an animal, tossing her head back.

I still myself for a few fevered seconds, savoring her hot grip, the way it sends shock waves of lust pounding through me. Inhaling sharply, I let breath flood my body as desire washes over me.

I’m going to fuck her hard.

This is what my woman has been missing, and I’m going to give it all to her.

I take her words at face value, holding nothing back. I keep one hand on her shoulder blades, making sure she’s near the floor. As I drive into her, I draw out her moans and groans and wild sounds of ecstasy.

But that’s not enough. She wants to be marked. She wants to feel this for days. I take my hand off her shoulder blades and grip her hips, digging my fingers in, leaving marks. “You want bruise marks?”

“I do. I do,” she says, gasping and writhing as she thrusts her hips back onto my cock, fucking against me as I fuck into her. I reach around to her tits, grasping them, gripping them so damn hard in my hands.

I swear I can feel her pussy grow wetter as I punish her tits, squeezing so hard they’ll be bruised tomorrow.

I let go and return to abusing her ass, smacking her over and over again. Her sounds are the most erotic thing I’ve ever heard as she chases wild pleasure. As she seeks out the kind of bliss she’s evidently never had before. As she learns exactly what it’s like to be taken by a man who’s consumed by her.

As her moans grow louder, the pleasure in me spirals higher, gathering in the base of my spine. When I can tell she’s near the edge, I band an arm tight around her waist, play with her clit, and coax an epic orgasm out of her.

Her sounds are delirious notes of bliss.

Seconds later, my own climax throttles me, blotting out anything, everything, as I come hard, so damn hard inside her.

I want to collapse on her. Fall on top of her. But first, I pull out, remove the condom, and toss it into the bin. Gently, I take off her shoes then lift her up, carry her to the bathroom, and turn on the shower.

“Let me clean you up. Let me look at all the places where you’re going to be marked tomorrow,” I say.

She simply nods, looking drugged out, blissed out, as I wash her tenderly in the shower. She murmurs then smiles. “I’m so hungry.”

I laugh. “Then I better feed my naughty wife dinner before I feed her my cock again.”

“That sounds like a perfect evening.”

The only thing that’s not so perfect is when she runs her finger across my hand, across my scar, and I can tell, I can absolutely tell, that soon she’s going to want to know all the things I don’t share.

All the things I keep locked up.

But maybe, for the first time, I want her to know.

Some of them, at least.

18

SCARLETT

A message blinks at me in the morning.

I picture it tapping its toe, checking its wristwatch, huffing and puffing, saying, “I’m waiting.”

It can only be Nadia.

With my body deliciously sore, I slide open the message.

Nadia: Where is my report? I WANT IT NOW!

I laugh quietly from under the covers, the handsome man I spent the night with sound asleep on his stomach.

In our honeymoon suite.

My life is indeed a theater. And I love playing this part.

I read the next text.

Nadia: I can only conclude either you endured a horrible injury from the sapphire heels, which you damn well better be wearing, or you suffered a sex injury. Did you break your vagina? Is it in a cast? A sling? A splint? Sidenote: do they make vaginal splints?

A laugh bursts from me, but I quiet it quickly so I don’t wake my companion. I tap out a reply.

Scarlett: New market opportunity—vaginal splints for over-sexing. Fortunately, I’m simply in my bed as a result of a condition known as orgasm excessia.

Nadia: Too many orgasms. I’d like to catch that one. Give me the details now.

Scarlett: I hardly know where to begin except . . . you were right.

Nadia: Always a good start to any story. I take it you indulged in the wigs and a little role-play?

Scarlett: Yes! I had no idea that would unleash everything so quickly. But it did. I swear, as soon as I saw him at the train station, and I was dressed as a redhead in a sassy, bold dress, I felt liberated.

Nadia: Liberated from your past, you mean?

Scarlett: Exactly. I felt like a different woman. Like someone who could own all her fantasies. Someone who had a partner who wanted to know them, indulge them. It was never that way with Jonathan. He was never that excited. Anyway, let’s not talk about Jonathan.

Nadia: Words to live by. Tell me all about Mr. Orgasm Dispenser instead. Is that what you call Daniel now?

Scarlett: Oh, yes. Of course.

Nadia: Excellent. I probably won’t use it when I see him, but it’s useful to know his secret identity for party planning and whatnot. So, how does the whole fake name ruse work?

Scarlett: We pick different names each day. It’s crazy and wonderful. We pretend we’re newlyweds, and it’s like a whole new world.

Nadia: And that gives you the freedom to explore what you want and what you’ve craved. Right?

Scarlett: Yes. I’m finally having the sex I want. It’s wild and carnal and frequent. Last night, we fucked twice before bed. I’m in dirty heaven.

Nadia: So it’s a sex cornucopia? I want to be incredibly jealous, but if anybody deserves that, it’s you.

Scarlett: I’m devouring all the goodies in the cornucopia, thank you very much. I’m feasting like a glutton. But the thing is, I also feel like when we pretend, I can open up to Daniel in other ways. I actually told him—gasp!—about Jonathan.

Nadia: Whoa. That’s a huge step. You don’t usually share that with anyone.

Scarlett: I don’t. But it was easy to tell him—more so than I expected. Maybe because it’s all occurring in this container of make-believe. But it felt so freeing. Like I’d been carrying around this terrible and embarrassing secret and could finally let go of it.

Nadia: How did he take it? What did he say? I know that’s been a worry of yours—how it would reflect on you.

Scarlett: Yes, like something was wrong with me, but I’m saying goodbye to those thoughts. And he handled it, I suppose, exactly like I’d hoped he would. Once he knew, he didn’t look at me the way Jonathan would have. He didn’t look at me like a man who wasn’t interested in his wife. He was enraged on my behalf, Nadia. It was sort of arousing and comforting at the same time.

Three wiggling dots dance on my screen for a while. Her response is short, though, and to the point.

Nadia: You have feelings for him.

I close my eyes, wishing she weren’t right.

But when I open my eyes and turn my gaze to the man sharing my bed, his strong shoulders, his sculpted back, his sex-tousled hair, I can’t wish these emotions away.

Especially when I catch a glimpse of his profile, with his carved cheekbones and soft lips, and I think of everything those lips have said to me—his kind words, his protective words.

She’s dead right. Emotions rise up in me, strong, powerful ones. Ones that threaten to break my heart all the way open. I don’t know where these emotions fit into my life. The trouble is—I don’t think they can.

I need to get them out of my head though.

Scarlett: I do have feelings for him. But the trouble is, there’s nothing on my to-do list telling me how to handle these sorts of feelings. I don’t know where to go from here.

Nadia: Does he have feelings for you?

Another glance at the man, and the memory of the last two days rushes in, bright and clear. The passion in his voice. The intensity in his eyes. Of course he has feelings for me, but I don’t think he’ll allow them to dance past a certain point. And I don’t know if they’re the same as mine.

Scarlett: He might, but he also made it clear that this thing with us exists in its own time and space, and that we’ll go back to the way we were. He was up-front about that from the start.

Nadia: Then you enjoy it for what it is, for that moment in time. Some relationships are meant to last for a long while. Others burn bright and hot for a few days, maybe a week. It doesn’t make them less valuable. They all help us learn something. Maybe this is exactly what you need to finally put all the pain of the past behind you. To understand and to see on a true, visceral, physical level that you can be worshipped, cherished, and adored in the bedroom.

I swallow past a tight lump in my throat. I’m certain she’s giving me exactly the advice I need to hear. I know, too, that I ought to absorb it into my bones, into my blood, and to act accordingly.

To be smart. To protect my heart.

Scarlett: I suspect you’re right. Also, how the hell do you know so much about relationships?

Nadia: I’m not sure I know that much. But I try to listen to all the things people around me have said in various situations. When my brother was going through heartache a few years back before he met his eventual fiancée, my mother said something similar to him. It helped him move on. So I’ve shared it with you in case you need it at some point to move on. If Daniel’s made it clear that there’s no future beyond this tryst, just remember you’ll be fine, and you’ll come out on the other side. And I’ll be here for you.

I draw a deep breath, processing her wisdom. Grateful for it, and her support.

I know how to protect my heart. I’ve done it for years. If I have to do it with Daniel, I’ll do it with Daniel.

I send one last note to my friend.

Scarlett: I’ll be fine. I’ll be perfectly fine.

Soon, I get dressed and ready, then when he’s up and freshened up too, we gather our bags and head to the lobby, running into Hazel and Elodie.

They’re lounging on the leather sofa, drinking coffee.

“Good morning, Violet,” Elodie calls out, her voice a little hoarse.

It takes me a moment to remember I’m Violet. Blinking, I fasten on a smile. “Hi Elodie. Hello Hazel. Did you have a good night?”

The blonde threads her free hand through her wife’s. “The best. Thank you.”

Hazel laughs softly, resting her head on Elodie’s shoulder. “We’re all such honeymooners, aren’t we?”

I chuckle, but it feels forced. “We are indeed.”

“Love you madly, babe,” Hazel says to her wife, then plants a soft kiss on her cheek.

“You too, sweetie.”

Hazel squeezes Elodie’s hand and my heart clutches. They’re so…real.

I want that. I want that kind of true romance.

But it’s not in the cards.

“Have a wonderful honeymoon,” I call out and we head to the airport, Nadia’s words ringing in my head like a trumpet.

You’ll come out on the other side.

I will. I have to believe it.

19

SCARLETT

The Mediterranean sparkles like a cache of jewels.

The sea shows off its opulent brightness, the water shimmering like a sapphire one sun-soaked minute, then a turquoise stone the next.

With the backseat window open and the breeze blowing in, I inhale the salty sea air. “Yes, this hotel chain is looking like a gem indeed,” I declare as a driver whisks us along the coast of Nice, heading to our next destination, after our morning flight to the South of France.

“It’s hard to resist so far,” Daniel agrees.

It’s our third day of diligently assessing this chain’s potential for acquisition.

I have to see the timing that way rather than as our third day of make-believe.

I will focus on the work purpose of this trip. I won’t lose sight of what’s been my salvation since my marriage ended.

Business. Deals. Strategy.

I’ll have to remember that this game of make-believe has a purpose. It’s giving us the cover we need to determine whether we want to spend millions of dollars to make a can’t-resist offer to the owners.

That’s all.

If pleasure serves business, so be it. This thing with Daniel is a moment in time that won’t last.

But what will last is the deal.

We have four more days to make our decision.

Four days is plenty of time, too, to savor this tryst for all that it is—a delicious slice of seduction—and all that it’s not—a future.

Daniel stares out the open window of the town car. “Lots more to check out, but I like the way everything is shaping up so far.”

“Same here.”

“My only hope is that it’s not simply the endorphins talking,” he says with a grin, reaching for my hand as the driver maneuvers the car onto a side street, winding toward the inn that’s next on our list.

Le Pavillon de Nice.

I roll my eyes. “My, my, you think highly of yourself.”

He deals me a you’ve got it all wrong look. “Love, I was speaking specifically of the endorphin rush I have being this near to you.”

And my traitorous heart goes full fangirl in my chest, screaming and shrieking for him, wanting to throw its arms around this man.

I press the brakes a little, try to locate a modicum of restraint. Perhaps I’ll find it by focusing only on the sex. I squeeze his hand harder. “I’ve never had sex like that,” I whisper, though I already told him that last night when we fell into bed, exhausted. I told him that in the shower, and on the flight too, but I suppose it bears repeating.

“You might’ve mentioned that. And I like hearing it.”

“Good. It’s all true.”

“And I like giving it to you. Do you know why?”

“Why?”

He leans in close to me, brushes the strands of my jet-black wig from my shoulder, and whispers in my ear, “Because I’ve wanted you since the day I met you.”

I straighten, licking my lips as I process this new information. “For three years?”

“The day I met you for lunch, I was wildly aroused by you. I’ve dealt with it. I’ve existed with it. But I’ve felt this attraction pulsing through my veins for three long years. It’s only grown more intense as I’ve gotten to know you,” he says, low and smoky, another seduction.

There goes the organ in my chest again, working itself into a frenzy. I try to keep my cool, tossing out a husky, “Is that so?” when I truly want to say, This tryst feels like more than a week. It feels like it could turn into weeks, months, more.

“And do you know what it’s like to finally have you?” he asks.

A shudder runs through my body. The intensity of his words is almost too much for me to bear. “What’s it like?”

Leaning closer, he pulls my earlobe between his teeth, nips it, then jerks back, setting a hand on my cheek. His eyes laser in on mine. Those blue irises are so intense I can’t look away from him, nor do I want to.

“It’s like I’m finally having everything I want. And it feels like a frenzied, fevered dream. All this desire inside me is rising up, spilling over, and I just want to have you again and again.”

He’s talking about sex, he’s talking about sex, he’s talking about sex.

I have to remember that.

But then he presses his forehead to mine, tender and gentle. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me, Scarlett. But you make me want to . . . tell you things.”

Those last three words.

He says them slowly and carefully, like they taste new on his tongue, like they’re hard for him to say but necessary to voice.

They echo in the car, reverberate in the space between us.

Telling me things feels like a line he didn’t want to cross.

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 obvious, 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.

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.”

“When were you first able to play it the way you wanted to play it?”

“I was ten.” I bring my hands to my forehead and rub my temples, calling up the memory. “I played it for my parents. I said I was going to do a concert for them after dinner.” I laugh as something like happiness surges over me at the images of my home flickering before my eyes.

“Were they thrilled to hear it?”

“Yes, but they wanted me to eat first. Patience, I suppose. That’s what they were teaching me.”

“Did it work?”

With a grin that can’t be contained, I shake my head. “I could barely last through dinner. I gobbled down the chicken, left the rest of my plate on the table, and ran to the living room, tugging them along. Made them sit down. Then I raised my violin, and I played it,” I say, my voice distant as I linger in that faraway memory.

When I meet Scarlett’s gaze, her green eyes are simply enrapt. Like I’m a storyteller, and I’m enchanting her with a tale.

Well, hell, bloody fucking hell, I’m enchanting myself with these memories that I haven’t let see the light of day in my own mind.

“They must have been so delighted. They must have been beside themselves with pride,” she says, like there’s a lump in her throat.

I don’t mind the emotion in her tone. It’s not pity. It’s not judgment. It’s appreciation.

Somehow that’s the permission I need to keep going. “I also loved Beethoven’s Violin Sonata No. 9,” I say, then I hum a few notes of that. “Another complicated one. I played that in London when I was seventeen.”

“Amazing,” she says, then makes a rolling gesture with her hands. “More, more. Tell me more.”

The ball is rolling, the avalanche building. Notes and chords swell in my mind, racing to reach the front of it, to earn her attention. “Brahms’s Violin Sonata No. 3. So melancholy, but full of sweetness too. God, so much sweetness,” I say, and this time I raise my hands as I hum, picking up an imaginary instrument, slowly, languidly stroking an unseen bow across the strings. My eyes fall shut as I imagine playing that sonata for this woman.

Maybe I’m the one enrapt.

No. There is no maybe about it. I am enrapt. I’m back in time, but I’m also here in this moment, telling her this story while reliving it too.

“That’s beautiful,” she says in a reverent whisper.

“I’ll play it for you.”

She blinks, her expression shifting to shock.

Quickly, I dispel the idea that I might play it. I don’t play for anyone. “I meant on your phone. We’ll find a recording. It’s an incredible piece,” I say, then I hum a few more notes.

“I hardly know any classical music, but now I want to,” she says.

“Then you should start with the Brahms. It reminds me of you,” I say.

She tilts her chin in curiosity. “Why’s that?”

Stepping closer, I run my knuckles over her cheek. “Because even when it’s sad, it’s sweet.”

“Is that me?”

I dust a kiss to her forehead. “Yes. You’re as sweet as Brahms, and as complicated.”

She sighs wistfully, but contentedly. When I pull back, she tosses another question at me. “What was it like? To possess that talent? How did it make you feel? I can’t even imagine having an ability like that.”

Her questions don’t pierce me like I’d expect. Instead, it’s as if she has a key, turns it easily in a lock, and swings a door inside me wide open. The chance to talk about music is blissful relief. I feel unlocked. Freed. “It was like life; it was like love. It was . . .” I reach for another word, but there aren’t words to do it justice. I set my hands on her shoulders, curling them tightly around her. “It was like a possession.”

“The music possessed you,” she says, her voice full of wonder. “And a part of your soul.”

I nod, feeling understood. “I was compelled,” I say, then I laugh. “Can you picture me? Six years old, obsessed with the violin?”

“I can’t see you as six, Daniel.” She laughs.

“Ten?”

She shakes her head again. “It’s hard for me to see you as anyone but who you are now.”

“How about fifteen? Can you see me as a fifteen-year-old, driven to play the violin at all hours? Standing in my room in my pajamas, staring out the window at the stars, playing Bach?”

“Now I can see it, because you’re painting the picture vividly. How old were you when you played in St. Petersburg?”

“Sixteen. I played with the symphony orchestra. I was the guest solo violinist,” I say, thrilled to share these stories at last, grateful she’s indulging me.

“Were you ever scared? Playing in front of crowds like that?”

That night in St. Petersburg flashes in my mind, clear and bright. The looming concert hall, the bright lights, the stage. “My parents were there,” I say, the memory rising up in full force like Poseidon plunging out of the sea. “They sat in the front row. I should have been terrified, but I wasn’t. I did it without fear.”

“Maybe that’s another reason why you were so good at it. You were fearless. You played fearlessly,” she says, her tone intense and full of understanding. Like she’s absorbing all my stories, seeing them, holding them in her hands, feeling the weight.

“Yes. I think I was. That’s one of the things I had going for me. I played fearlessly. And when I went onstage, I had no notion of stage fright. It felt like where I was supposed to be. Maybe because it was my whole life.”

“You still are fearless, Daniel. Even if you don’t play like you used to.” She reaches for my arm, slides her hand down it, and squeezes my forearm. “You go after deals fearlessly. You go after business that way. You approach life that way.”

I huff. “But do I? I’d like to think so, but I’m not sure that’s true, Scarlett,” I say, like I’m baring part of my soul. I don’t know that I would have said this to her a few days ago. I don’t know that I would have let down my guard to this degree. Because I don’t know if I’m truly living a fearless life like I did when I was younger, when everything was possible, when everything was love.

“You were fearless for your friend,” she says, gripping my arm harder, like she’s giving me some of her own courage. “Don’t you remember? You were fearless for Cole. You knew Sage would be right for him. So you engineered it. You brought them together. You made their romance happen. You were determined because you knew it would be good for him.”

I raise a hand, brush it along her hair, grateful that she’s not wearing a wig today. She’s simply Scarlett here with me, her chestnut-brown hair glinting gold in the sun, her clothes the simple but sexy ones she wears, the shoes on her feet silver flats. “You helped,” I say. “Don’t go all revisionist and claim you aren’t a matchmaker too.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I was involved. Yes, I gave my seal of approval. Yes, I had a feeling it was what Cole needed. But you came to me with it. You had the idea. I was simply your biggest cheerleader. Because I loved what you wanted to do for your friend.” She taps my chest. “But you made it happen.”

I grab her hand, bring her fingers to my lips, and kiss them. When I let go, I ask a question that tugs at my mind now and then. “Does it bother you that I was part of that? Part of a threesome with them?”

She tosses her head back and laughs. “No. Not in the least. I don’t care. I understand exactly why you did it then, and why you and Cole engaged in them. Why would I be bothered?”

I give a shrug, a little unsure. “Maybe it makes me seem like a hedonist. Maybe you don’t like that.”

She laughs, a confident sound. “You are a bit of a hedonist. But there’s nothing wrong with that. It was something you and Cole did, and now he’s with her.” She pauses, then narrows her brow. “Wait. This isn’t where you change your mind and tell me you want to have a threesome with me after all?”

I laugh, deep in my body, far into my heart. “I still don’t want to share you with anyone. Not a man. Not a woman. I want all of you for all of me. And I can’t stand the thought of another person touching you,” I say, jealousy flaring in my chest in a nanosecond. “So riddle me that. I’ve certainly never felt that way about anyone else.”

Her smile lights her face. Seems to light the whole damn city. Pretty sure I just told her that I’m falling for her.

But I also know that falling is dangerous.

I’ve got to reel it in. To be careful.

I’d do well to remember that I destroy the things I love.

That’s why I can’t let myself love her. I can’t let myself fall harder.

Enough talk for today. I drape an arm around her, drop a kiss onto her cheek, then squeeze her shoulder. “Come now, Mrs. Brahms. Let’s go take some pictures by the sea.”

We walk toward the water. I take out my phone and snap endless shots of the two of us. Pictures of us, the Mediterranean behind us, Marseille in front of us, and the world at our feet. Someday I’ll look at these and remember the day when I was the happiest.

I make myself a promise not to destroy this moment.

23

SCARLETT

This is risky.

But spending more time with an unavailable man I’m falling hard for is a risk I’m willing to take.

When we return to our room that evening, I grab a bottle of Cassis rosé, pour two glasses, and raise mine in a toast. “To acquisitions,” I say, since it’s looking more and more like we’re going to make an offer on this chain.

He clinks his glass to mine. “To mergers,” he says in his deliciously seductive voice that sends a thrill down my spine.

We both drink, then I set my glass down. He does the same before looping an arm around my waist. “Now let me taste the wine on your lips.”

I oblige, lifting my chin, offering my mouth.

He takes it, a greedy man, but a tender lover too. He kisses me slow and deep, sliding his tongue over my lips, opening my mouth, exploring me. His kiss is hungry, insistent, but never too much. I love that he can be rough when I beg for it, and gentle when I need sweetness. Right now, I crave this tender side of Daniel.

I loop my hands into his hair, feeling the soft strands, arching against him, seeking closeness.

We break the kiss, and I’m already turned on, wildly aroused. “Will you undress me? Spread me out on the bed and take me?”

I want to add make love to me, but I won’t dare use those words.

“I will,” he says, a husky promise.

His fingers travel to my blouse, unbuttoning it slowly, like a seduction. The hair on my arms stands on end. Pleasure sweeps over me, and every part of my body sings for him.

He pushes my shirt down, letting it fall to the floor. My skirt goes next, and I step out of it—out of my flats too. I’m wearing only black lace panties and a bra, but he’s still fully clothed. “I think I better get to work on you,” I say.

“Be my guest,” he says, and I like that we can trade off.

Soon, he’s down to his boxer briefs, and I push them off, then reach for his shaft and squeeze it, savoring the hot, hard feel of him in my palm.

He closes his eyes, groaning my name. “Scarlett.”

“I love the way my name sounds on your lips,” I whisper, because it sounds like desire. Like passion. Like lust.

He opens his eyes. “I want you so much.”

He pushes my hand off of his cock, unhooks my bra, slides my panties off, then glides his hand between my legs. He moans as he feels how silky I am for him, how wet.

“You’re dripping,” he says, his lips curving into a wicked grin.

“And you do that to me,” I say.

We make our way to the bedroom, where I reach for a condom on the nightstand. I hand it to him, then lie flat on my back and raise my arms over my head, pressing them into the headboard as I part my legs wide.

Naked. On display. For him.

He groans his appreciation.

He kneels between my thighs, his eyes roaming over my body. “I love how you give yourself to me,” he says, his tone like gravel and lust.

That’s exactly what I’m doing. I am giving myself to him.

He rolls on the condom then rubs the head of his cock between my legs, and I arch up, crying out in pleasure from that first touch. My skin crackles with longing.

He rubs against me, making me moan, making me groan, drawing even more desire out of me, teasing me. Then he bends closer, bracing himself on his forearms, his chest close to mine. “I’m going to tease you, love,” he says, driving me wild, and I love the madness.

“I’m not above begging you to fuck me.”

He reaches a hand down, grips his cock, and presses the head against me once again, toying with my entrance, running his length up and down my wetness till I can’t take it.

“Fuck me. Please fuck me now,” I pant out.

“As you wish,” he says, and he slides into me, sinking deep, and I nearly cry from the pleasure. Bliss rains down all over my body. Pressing my palms harder against the headboard, I arch my chest, thrusting my hips against him. He goes deeper and deeper, plunging into me. Our bodies move, and time seems to melt away. All that’s left is this feeling, this intense connection with him.

He dips his head and grazes his lips along my neck, fucking me harder, deeper. Soon, pleasure coils in me, commanding every cell. An orgasm overtakes my entire body as I come quickly, hard and fast.

When I open my eyes, I laugh lightly.

“What’s so funny?”

“It just kind of seized me. I wasn’t expecting to come so quickly.”

His eyes go feral. “Then let’s make you come again.”

“Put me on my hands and knees,” I say.

His eyes narrow, glinting with lust as he pulls out, grabs my hips, and flips me into a new position, the first one we fucked in. He enters me from behind, going deep into my pussy again, filling me once more.

He grabs my hips, digging his fingers in. I want to be marked again. Because this time feels like a whole new time. He’s fucked me gently, he’s fucked me tenderly, and now he can fuck me rough, hard, brutally. He can own my body.

“Daniel, make it hard. Make it hurt,” I say, begging.

“As you wish,” he says, and before I know it, his hands are gripping my tits, and he’s twisting them, teasing at my nipples, pinching them. He brings his mouth to my ear. “Next time I’m going to get you nipple clamps. I bet you’d love that.”

I grow wetter from that promise. “I would. Please do.”

He slams harder into me. “I’ll give it to you.” He pushes a hand on my back, pressing me against the bed so my stomach and my chest are flat on the mattress. He keeps my ass in the air. He goes to town on my body. Rocking, thrusting, slamming into me. His hand slides up into my hair, twisting, tugging, pulling.

I can’t move.

I’m pinned by his body.

But not quite. Not all the way.

The trouble is my hands are free, my arms stretched in front of me.

I want to be owned completely. Taken all the way. “Daniel,” I whisper. “Grab my wrists. Don’t let me move.”

A growl rumbles from him as he lets go of my hair, clasps my wrists, and pushes them hard into the mattress, holding me down. His other hand slams on my shoulder blade, jams it down to the bed.

Yes.

I’m his prisoner.

Caged in by sex, by desire, by wild, wanton lust.

His hands hold me savagely as his cock devastates me.

He pounds into me, ruining me, fucking me ruthlessly as I cry and moan and ask for more, more, more.

“So filthy, my wife,” he rasps.

That’s all I need.

An orgasm roars through my body, raging, burning, blasting everything in its path, leaving only punishing pleasure in its wake.

In our wake, since he’s right there with me, grunting like an animal as he unleashes his climax too.

My world spirals into bliss, into something ecstatic that feels like the truest risk of all—falling into love.

But surely it’s a chance we can take together.

That’s what I tell myself. Even though I fear it’s a lie.

24

SCARLETT

I have a confession.

“This is my first time in Lyon,” I tell my traveling companion the next day.

Daniel’s eyes grow to the size of beach balls. He blinks, jerking his head back. “Woman, how is that even possible?”

I shrug with a smile. “I don’t know. I guess I should blame it on Paris, right? It was too enticing to leave.”

“Naturally, Paris should always take the blame,” he says as we leave the inn in Lyon and make our way across the cobblestones, heading to the nearby Rhône river that cuts through the city. “But still . . . how is it that you never found your way here?”

I glance around, soaking in the architecture, the winding streets, the gorgeous hills. “Now that I’m here, I’m asking myself that same question, because I already adore Lyon. I think I’ve fallen in love with this city at first sight,” I say as we walk across one of the smaller bridges, a red iron latticework one curving over the Rhône, near a steepled church set into a high hillside.

The inn is perched up on the hillside too, overlooking the river. This place needs a little work, some sprucing up here and there, a bit of new decor, so my tablet has been kept quite busy with notes here on the fifth day of our trip. But it’s good to find things to work on. A plan helps me to focus on the practical—vitally important when the impractical side of me is spinning wildly out of control the more time I spend with this man.

Yet I don’t want to stop spending time with him. Don’t want to stop exploring with him.

We stop in the middle of the bridge, our hands curling over the railing. “I take it you’ve been to Lyon before? Wait, don’t tell me. You performed here,” I say, teasing him.

He laughs, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, and I’m so glad I made him laugh about something that can hurt. He nuzzles my hair. “Look at you, already taking the piss out of me about my once-upon-a-time career.”

I slink closer, looping my arms around his waist. “And you like that I do that,” I say.

He pulls back, tucks his finger under my chin, and raises my face to meet his eyes. “I do. I truly do.”

He sighs a little wistfully, then turns his gaze back to the water, staring out at the curving ribbon as he leaves his arm around me. He doesn’t say anything, and I suspect he’s remembering the last time he was here. Maybe with his family.

“Were you here on vacation when you were younger?” I ask.

“Yes, I was . . . maybe twelve,” he says, seeming a little lost in thought. I say nothing, giving him the space to keep going if he wants. “There’s so much history in this town. I always loved that when I was a kid. I asked them to bring me here.”

A grin spreads across my face as I picture him as a kid, tugging on his parents’ hands, asking for a trip. “Why did you want to explore Lyon when you were a young English boy?”

His blue eyes glint. “Don’t tell anyone, but I had a secret fascination with the French Revolution. I guess I loved the idea of the revolutionary spirit, so I made them take me to France, to visit Versailles and Paris and Lyon. I wanted to come here and learn more about this city’s role in the French Revolution, but I think I was most taken by the river.”

“Ah, that I understand. I’m the same way,” I say.

“Are you a river junkie?”

I gaze out at the water, drawing in a huge inhale. “I have a bit of a thing for them. I feel this primal, almost ancient sort of connection to the Seine. Which is not entirely surprising, because I feel a sort of primal, almost ancient connection to Paris. Is that crazy?”

He shakes his head. “No. Paris has that effect on people. Paris has an effect on you. I told you the other day, you were made for Paris and Paris was made for you.”

“When my parents first took me there, I knew deep in my heart,” I say, tapping my chest fiercely, “that I would live there someday.”

“It spoke to you when you were younger?”

I tell him all about my connection to the city, how I feel at home there, at peace there. “Do you know that’s why I moved away from London? Because my marriage ended?”

His expression goes serious. “I don’t think I entirely knew why you left London, only that you were leaving shortly after I met you. And I enjoyed visiting you in Paris once you were there.”

“I had to get away from London. It contained all the memories of Jonathan and my time with him. There was only one place I wanted to go. I felt like Paris welcomed me with open arms. It helped me to heal.”

He runs a hand along my wrist. “Because it’s your home. It’s where you feel you belong. And you needed that.”

“Perhaps I did. The river was like my shrink.” I dip my head, a little shy, a little embarrassed. But it’s freeing, too, to tell him that.

“Is that so? You and the river talk to each other?” His voice is lighthearted. This is the Daniel who delights in fun and games.

“We have many, many conversations,” I say playfully, no longer embarrassed.

“Does it give good advice?”

“Sometimes it does,” I say with a coy shrug. “Sometimes it gives me stock tips. Sometimes it tells me who to bet on in the World Series.”

“Lucky you. I want to have your river. That’s why you’re such a financial wunderkind.”

I laugh as a breeze kicks up from the water, gusting through my hair, blowing it behind my shoulder. He reaches for the strands, tucking some over my ear. “Tell me more about why you loved Paris when you moved there a few years ago.”

As we both gaze out at the Rhône, I picture the Seine—the heart of my answer. “I loved to walk across the bridges. I came to know all of them. How they made me feel. What they could do for me. As I was trying to make sense of what had happened in my marriage, I’d think and walk. I’d wander across them, stop in the middle, rest my elbows on the railing,” I say, sliding down onto my elbows here as if to demonstrate. “And then I would tell the river what made me sad.”

“Did the river say anything back to you?”

His question is wholly serious. So is my answer as I say, “I would pretend it would reply. I’d pretend it was listening.” I take a beat. “Maybe that sounds foolish.”

“It doesn’t sound foolish at all. Sounds like you needed it. Like it helped you get through a difficult time. And I can see that rivers are like that. They’re not as daunting as oceans. They feel like they could talk to us, right?”

He gets it. He gets me. “Like they have something to say. They feel, too, like they’ve seen more interesting things than the ocean, don’t you think?”

He moves his hand in front of him, wiggling it back and forth to imitate the river winding through the city. “Rivers snake through cities. They spy on us. They know what we’re up to. Maybe they know our darker secrets,” he says as something black flickers across his eyes. Almost like he has a deep, dark secret, perhaps one he’s shared with a river. Then he’s quiet, possibly drifting off to thoughts of those secrets. I sense he still has them. I can hear their echoes in the words he doesn’t say, the way he sometimes quiets at the end of a sentence or a thought.

Leaving so much unsaid.

I’m not like that though. Now that I’ve opened up to him, I see no need to hold back. “My love of the river came from my parents,” I say with a contented sigh. “My dad was like that. He was the one who loved it and took me to it, and he was the one who said the river would talk to me.”

“You got that from him,” he says, wonder in his voice.

“I did.”

Daniel stares off in the distance across the Rhône, his profile inscrutable.

Is he thinking of his own family? I want to know what’s in that faraway gaze of his. I’m tempted to ask, when he turns back to me and says, “Do you ever see yourself living any place besides Paris?”

I shake my head. “It’s my home now. I’ve no reason to leave. What about you? What about London? For all intents and purposes, that’s your home base. Even though you’re really only there half the time.”

“I don’t seem to put down roots, do I? I’m constantly drawn to Paris though,” he says, his eyes going flirty, journeying over my body, letting me know that I’m one of the reasons he’s drawn to that city. My God, I hope I can keep being one of those reasons.

I want to tell him to stay in Paris. Don’t go back to London. Camp out, stay with me. But that’s dangerous. That’s so damn dangerous. We’re ending.

Even though the more we talk, the more it feels like we’re only just beginning.

“I suppose I don’t feel like I’ve had a home in a long time, honestly,” he says, his tone melancholy. “I don’t think I’ve really felt that way since my parents died. I’ve been all over the world since then.”

“College in the US with Cole,” I say, prompting him.

“Yes, then I lived in New York. And I’ve lived in Los Angeles. I’ve spent time in Las Vegas. I have a home in London, but I also like to be in Paris. I suppose I feel like I’m everywhere,” he says, a note of mourning in his voice. “And perhaps nowhere all at once.”

My heart squeezes at that wistful note from him. I brush my hand along his back. “Do you like that though? That nomadic life?”

He heaves a sigh, then shrugs. “Maybe it suits me.” He’s quiet again.

Is he wandering back in time? Is he a nomad because of his family? I’m torn between patience and pushing. He seems to like both. He seems to like when I take my time, but also when I ask him things too. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. “Do you say it suits you because your family is gone?”

His eyes squeeze shut. When he opens them, they’re dark again, those blue irises like hard gems. “Nothing will ever feel like home again,” he says, his tone icy but at the same time full of self-loathing. The sound chills me and worries me. “You’re close with your parents, aren’t you?” He shifts the conversation with a question.

I go with the changeup. “My dad sent me a text this morning. It was a picture of his dinner the night before.”

Daniel’s grin is electric, buoyant, and wonderful. Like that’s the best thing I could have ever received. “What did he have?” He sounds deliriously giddy.

“He had a saag paneer. He loves Indian food,” I say.

“I want to see it,” Daniel says, and there’s that desperate tone again.

I take out my phone, click on the screen, then find my messages. I show him the photo of my father’s dinner. “Here you go.”

Staring at the picture, he works his jaw over and over. “It’s so pedestrian. It’s so everyday,” he says, soft and full of wonder. “That’s what I love about it.”

My heart lurches toward him. In his words, I can hear all the unsaid things. All the wishes. He wishes he had a text from his parents about what they had for dinner.

He hands me my phone, and I put it away. I slide a palm along his arm, rubbing it up and down. “You still miss them.”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement of this immutable fact of his existence.

He draws a deep breath, then expels it like he’s letting it go across the river, like maybe the river is inhaling his breath.

“I miss them every day.” He turns to me, looks me square in the eye, and drops a bomb. “When I was seventeen, they were murdered.”

25

DANIEL

I haven’t said those words out loud in more than a decade. The last person I said them to was Cole when we were in university in the United States. When I was young, when I was still emotional, when I was still a wreck from everything that had happened.

My role in it, my complicity.

Cole listened, understood, and knew who I was. Who I still am. But no one else has ever needed to know. No one else gets to see me.

But Scarlett.

This is the effect she has on me. She’s weaved her way into my heart, under my skin, loosening all the iron walls I’ve built, all the bricks I’ve stacked sky-high, all the steel barriers that have kept my emotions locked up.

Because locked up is safer. Locked up is always safer.

When truths come out, when people are known, when love is revealed, that’s when it can be stolen, bludgeoned, and destroyed.

But Scarlett is my river. She makes me want to tell her things. She makes me want to share parts of myself that I don’t like sharing.

I want to tell her my truth, and I need to tell her. She deserves to know. But there’s more than that at play—I want her to know me. I want to tell her because I’m falling in love with her.

When you fall for someone, you don’t want iron walls and steel barriers. You want there to be bright windows and wide-open doors. For better or for worse, this is who I am. I can’t hide it any longer.

“Daniel, I’m so sorry to hear that,” she says, her voice full of emotion, her eyes full of sympathy.

But there’s no pity in them.

Good.

I don’t want pity. But is that what she’ll feel for me when she learns the rest of the story?

Time to find out.

I grip the railing, my knuckles going white as I curl my fingers around it. I will tell her the rest. I can say this. I stare out at the water, then rip off the Band-Aid of truth.

“They were murdered in our home,” I say, turning to her because I don’t want to say it to the river. I want to say it to the person I’m falling madly in love with.

Love is such a dangerous thing. Love drives people insane. It makes them mad. That’s what I’ve always believed, until I felt it for the first time with her over these last few days. Maybe, just maybe, love isn’t as dangerous as I’ve contended. Maybe love is safe. Maybe love can make it okay to utter unspeakable truths.

That’s all I want. I want her to know who I am. Why I am. “He was my violin teacher.”

The look that crosses her green eyes is one of sheer horror.

“That’s terrible,” she whispers. “And I know that’s an awful understatement. And there’s nothing I could say that will give it the weight it deserves, but that’s terrible.”

She doesn’t know the half of it, but I’m about to tell her. My God, this is so fucking hard, but it’s also so incredibly necessary. I reach down deep inside myself and test out the words for the first time in ages. “I asked them to hire him for me. I tracked him down. He was the best in the country. He had been my teacher for the last three years before he killed them. A crime of passion.”

“How?” she asks carefully.

“He fell in love with my mother. It was sort of obvious to everyone. We thought it was a crush.” Like it was yesterday, I remember the jokes.

William has a crush on your mother, my dad would say.

My mother would laugh it off. He hardly has a crush on me.

I’d chime in too. He must have a crush on her because she makes him tea and biscuits every time he comes over.

“That was it. A silly crush from a man twenty years younger than my mother. A mere twenty-five-year-old. Wide-eyed, awkward, and obsessed with music like I was,” I tell her, keeping my tone even, controlled. “A great teacher. He taught me how to become better, more nuanced, more precise. He taught me how to find emotion in the music.” I close my eyes briefly, squeezing them. When I open them, Scarlett’s gaze stays locked on mine. Her focus is intense and reassuring too.

Searching for more words, I come up short. She reaches for my hand, threads her fingers through mine, then runs her thumb over the top of my hand. She says nothing. She simply waits.

The river of Scarlett.

I begin the tale of blood.

“One night, he came over for dinner,” I say, taking my time with each word. It was a night I will never forget. A night that still blazes with cruel clarity. “He sat at the dinner table with us. We had chicken, a green salad, and asparagus.” I push out a forced laugh. “Such a simple meal. Some wine too, of course, for the adults.” I swallow past a painful, horrible lump in my throat. “We were celebrating. A concert in Vienna.”

Understanding flickers in her eyes. “Was that when you played Adagio for Strings?”

I nod, my heart thundering toward her because she remembers the music, the night. “We were celebrating. And he said that he forgot to pick up the cake at the bakery around the corner from our house.” I wince, bring my hand to my forehead, and drag it down my face, drawing a deep breath.

An image of William, his horn-rimmed glasses, his baby face, his simple but awkward laugh, taunts me. His words too. The last ones I heard from him before he changed my life.

I forgot the cake.

Another picture flickers in front of me. My mother flashing her warm smile, asking me to go fetch the dessert. “My mother said, ‘Daniel, why don’t you run down the street and grab it for William?’”

Scarlett winces when she hears his name. “And you went to get the cake,” she says, filling in the pieces, helping me as the tale turns bleaker and more grueling to tell.

I see it all unfolding.

The walk, the bakery, the familiar, jolly woman behind the counter who knew me by name. Who handed me the cake, saying, “For you, Daniel. Our superstar.”

I thanked her, turned around, and returned home, carrying the cake.

“A simple chocolate cake. That and me—that was all he needed to commit the crime.”

“You were only seventeen,” Scarlett says gently, her thumb still rubbing the top of my hand. “You were so young.”

I grit my teeth, staving off my emotions. “I was old enough to know better.”

“No, you weren’t. He was your teacher. You trusted him. Your parents trusted him,” she says softly. “You had no way of knowing.”

I soldier on, hell-bent on finishing, needing her to know. “I went back to my house, unlocked the door, and called out to Mum and Dad. It was eerily quiet. No one made a sound. All I heard was a gasping coming from the other room.” The entire tableau of horror slams back into me. “I walked into the kitchen, the hair on my arms standing on end, dread filling my whole body. My blood turned cold as the gasping voice croaked, ‘Help me.’”

Her grip on my hand tightens, her eyes fluttering closed for a second before they open again, and she asks, “Was it your mother or your father?”

I press my lips together, draw a fueling breath, and shake my head. “It was William. He was the only one still alive. He’d stabbed them both with a kitchen knife. And then he’d turned it on himself and sliced his own neck.”

Scarlett’s entire body nearly doubles over, but she straightens quickly, clasping her hand to her mouth, gasping. “Oh my God.”

“He lived,” I say coldly. “He survived. I called the ambulance right away. They came quickly. They found me in the kitchen, covered in blood, crying over my parents’ bodies. And William, half alive.”

Her eyes flash with complete understanding, in all its awfulness. “The medics took him to the hospital and he lived?” she asks, like she needs to be sure of that one terrible fact.

“He survived the knife wounds to his own neck. My parents didn’t,” I spit out, the bile rising in me, thick and black. “I wish the bastard had died, Scarlett. Every day, I wish he had died.”

She takes my other hand, holding both of them, her voice fierce. “Of course you do. Of course you’d feel that way.”

“But he didn’t die,” I hiss. “He lived, and he went to trial. A year and a half later. I kept playing music—it was my balm, my salve. It was the only thing that didn’t hurt. And then the trial began. But the trouble was, the case was high-profile. Because of me. Parents of noted young concert violinist Daniel Culpepper.”

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.

Cole looks at me, reading me. “What did you do wrong?”

Where do I even begin?

28

SCARLETT

I don’t go to the river. I don’t wander over the bridges. And I don’t stroll down the street to find a sidewalk café, grab a table, and watch the city go by as I dine alone.

I did that after Jonathan. I won’t do it now. This is not the same.

This is different.

This was merely a tryst. One that ended exactly when it was supposed to end.

No more, no less.

This is not a marriage that died and turned out to be a lie. I won’t invest it with that much monumentality.

That’s what I tell myself as I enter my building, then again as I head into the tiny lift that chugs noisily up to the seventh floor.

This was only a week.

After hunting for my key inside my purse, I find it quickly. I unlock the green door to my flat, toss my suitcase inside, shut the door behind me, and . . .

Drop my forehead into my hands.

“Fuck,” I mutter, then pinch the bridge of my nose. I slump my back against the wall, then slowly, at molasses speed, I sink down to the floor. Hitting it with a thud, I let out a long, hard exhale.

Like it’s dredging up my insides.

And it hurts so much more than I ever expected.

Closing my eyes, I give in, letting myself feel. I replay the last few days, the reel flickering before my eyes.

The train ride to Giverny.

The first night there in the bar, in the room, in the bed.

The next day at Monet’s house. The way we opened up, how we talked, and the things he said.

How we came together in Nice, Marseille, and Lyon. The stories he told me. The stories I told him.

It was only one week, yet my chest is like an empty cavern, and I ache, wishing that it hadn’t ended so soon, so cruelly. Because I’m not investing this with too much monumentality. I’m investing it with exactly as much monumentality as it deserves.

I fell in love with Daniel Stewart.

Not merely in a week, but over the last few years as I’ve gotten to know him.

As he’s been my business partner. As he’s made me laugh, made me smile, shown me respect and admiration.

I’m not simply grieving the loss of a one-week tryst. I’m not only mourning my one-week pretend husband.

I’m saying goodbye to the way the feelings built slowly but surely and steadily during the last few years. During all our dinners, our nights out, our time together.

As I let all that play before my eyes, a sob wracks my body from deep within. It lashes at me like a storm, rain beating hard and heavy against the window.

I let it rip through me, holding my head in my hands, my eyes stinging, my chest heaving. As the tears flow, I do my damnedest to mourn something that ended too soon.

The possibility of an us.

An us that won’t happen. But an us that would have been so spectacular.

That’s what I have to say goodbye to.

A chance at something great, something real, something amazing.

A few more cries. A few more tears, then my eyes are dry.

Drawing a deep breath, I stand, grab a tissue, and blot my cheeks.

There.

That’s done.

I roll my bag into my bedroom and set to work methodically unpacking, seeking comfort in routine, in the sorting of clothes and shoes into the hamper, onto the shelves. Then I put the bag away on the highest shelf in my closet.

I grab the hamper and take it to the washer and dryer stacked on top of each other in a hall closet. I shove in a load, pour some detergent, and start the machine, washing away the trip.

The memories.

The past few days.

I set my laptop and tablet on the worktable I use in my living room, and I turn to my old friend. My steady, reliable friend.

Email.

I’m hoping for a reply from Le Pavillon. But there is none.

My shoulders sag. A heavy weight sinks in me.

But that’s just as well, I tell myself. We only sent the offer a few hours ago.

And it’s the evening. Who’s working now anyway?

It’s all going to be fine.

I sigh, hunting through my phone for a new book on my reading app, finding a tale of two time-travelers in love.

Their paths are parallel. They don’t cross except once a year. That suits my mood. I start the story, but fifteen minutes later, the words are swimming on the page.

I have no idea if it takes place this century or a thousand years ago. I don’t know who’s coming and going in the past or the present. My trick’s not working. The book isn’t working. The solace in myself isn’t working.

Perhaps I need to tackle missing Daniel the same way I handled my marriage dying.

By walking around Paris.

I need my city.

Only this time I don’t need to do it alone. A smile tugs at my lips as I remember that Nadia is still here.

I don’t have to do everything alone. I don’t have to process the first horrible feelings by myself under a cloak of shame. I don’t have to share only with the river.

I have someone. I have lots of someones, from my parents to my friends. I dial Nadia.

“Bonsoir,” she says, her pretty voice floating across the phone.

“Please tell me you’re not out on a hot date with a wonderful Frenchman that I interrupted?”

“Shame on you for wishing I’m not dating,” she says, laughing. “I’m in my hotel room, packing for my return trip tomorrow.” A pause. “But it sounds like you need me?”

I swallow past a lump. “I do.”

29

DANIEL

My defenses go up.

“Why do you presume I did something wrong?” I toss the question out at Cole as we remain at the table after Scarlett leaves.

He stares sharply at me. It’s a look that says, You can’t be seriously asking me that question. “I wonder.” His response drips with sarcasm.

Perhaps I deserve it. “What do you want me to say, Cole?”

He tips his forehead in the direction of her retreating silhouette. “What did you do to hurt her? To cause her to walk away like that?”

I did everything I shouldn’t have done. I let her in. “I told her the truth about my family,” I say as coolly as I possibly can.

“And?”

“And that’s all. Because the truth is, I’m not right for her. I’m all wrong,” I say. But those words feel less believable than they did a week ago, a year ago.

How is that possible?

Cole shakes his head, frustration in his dark eyes. “You’re such an asshole.”

I bark out a laugh, though the moment isn’t particularly amusing. “Why don’t you tell me what you really think?”

He stabs the table with his finger. “You told her about your family, right?”

“Yes. I said that I did.”

“And then what?”

I lift my glass of bourbon and knock some back, feeling the burn. Perhaps needing the burn as I force my mind to return to how she reacted, how gentle and tender she was. How open and vulnerable. How much she seemed to care.

She didn’t run. She didn’t hide. She simply understood.

Perhaps that’s why those words about being all wrong feel less believable than they did a week ago. Perhaps I’m not as damaged as I thought. Maybe being with her started to heal me.

But the trouble is, I know what happens to full hearts. To healed hearts. They’re as vulnerable, perhaps even more so, to slaughter.

“I told her what happened. And I told her I was falling in love with her,” I explain clinically to my friend.

He arches a very knowing brow. “Hmm. Called that one.”

I shake my head. “Try not to look too much like the cat who lapped up all the cream.”

He laughs. “But I am. Except I’m not. Because you want to be with her.”

“Yes, it all sounds well and good in this fantasy world. And do you know what?” I ask, straightening my shoulders, keeping my tone firm. “I’m in love with her. That part is simple. But other parts are not. It would be a massive mistake to continue.”

“Why?” he asks, relentless in his questioning, like a barrister in the courtroom.

“You know why,” I say, as lawyerly as he has been.

He crosses his arms over his chest. “No. I actually don’t. I don’t know why at all. Because we’ve all been through shit. We’ve all been through hard things. Granted, I can never pretend to know what your pain has been like. I will never pretend that I understand your grief intrinsically.” He inhales deeply, uncrossing his arms. “But I do understand grief. I’ve dealt with it myself. I know it’s horrible and awful, and it makes you want to close off from the world. But you’re not closed off. You’re a human being. And you went and fell in love. So why do you want to throw it all away?”

His questions are valid, but so are my answers. “I don’t want to put her in the position of being with someone who’s this damaged,” I say, sounding as stubborn as I feel.

“I know you believe that.”

“I believe it because it’s true,” I say, trying to convince myself, but inside, a nagging voice keeps asking, Is it?

I’ve always believed that, and that belief has steered me, has served as a rudder for years. But maybe it no longer does.

Cole leans forward, steepling his fingers. “Do you mean it when you say you love her?”

“Yes,” I bite out.

“Then, man, just let her in,” he says, imploring this time. “It’s worth it. You’re not the same person you were when you went to college. You’re not the same man you were when you needed the walls, the games, and when you sought out pleasure just for the sake of pleasure. You’ve changed over time. I’ve seen you with her. You’ve been enchanted with her for a long time.”

I shrug an acknowledgment. This last week has been the culmination of years of longing, of wanting, and of falling. It’s never been merely physical with Scarlett. My emotions are not born from a desire to take her to bed, though that desire is potent. I have been entranced by her mind, her mouth, her words, her heart, her brain, and her brilliance.

Cole continues on, as determined as ever. “You didn’t even give her a say in this. In what she’s willing to risk. And now you’re simply going to let her slip away because you’re afraid of hurting her?”

“Yes.” At least he understands why I’m doing this.

His eyes lock with mine, intensity in his gaze. “But it’s not her you’re afraid of hurting.”

I jerk back. Furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”

He points at me, accusatory. “It’s you. You’re afraid of getting hurt. You’re terrified of letting someone in. You’re scared of what will happen if your heart isn’t the black hole you’ve turned it into.”

My jaw clenches. I grit my teeth. I want to hiss, to seethe and spit and say, You’re wrong, you’re dead wrong.

But he’s not wrong at all.

He’s completely right.

I’m a fucking coward. I didn’t let her go for her. I let her go for me. Because I don’t know how I’d handle it if she broke a heart that’s already been shattered twice.

I look my best friend in the eye, and I find it in me to tell the truth. “You’re right. I don’t know if I could handle it. I don’t know if I could survive it if I let her love me and then she were to leave me. I don’t know that I’m strong enough to go through that one more time,” I say, admitting the truth.

A faint smile crosses his lips. “Thank you.”

I scoff. “Why are you thanking me?”

“You finally spoke the truth.”

“And what am I supposed to do with this awful truth?”

He sets his elbows on the table, leaning in close. “I don’t know. But my hope is that you’ll take the chance. You’ve taken a million chances in business. You’ve risked money a thousand times over. You gamble with that constantly. And I hope that you can find it in you to gamble with your heart. Because it’s worth it. It’s completely worth it.”

I want to fire back, Easy for you to say.

But it hasn’t been easy for him. He’s done the hard work. He’s loved, he’s lost, he’s grieved, he’s moved on. He’s fallen in love again, and he’s made damn sure he didn’t lose her.

I’ve already lost Scarlett, though, because I let her go.

We say good night and part ways. I don’t wander back to the hotel. Instead, I go to the Palais Garnier. The sign outside advertises an evening of Beethoven sonatas, a special two-week only series of performances. Kismet, perhaps? It’s rare for the opera house to showcase only music, rather than ballet or opera.

I walk in, go to the ticket counter, and buy a ticket.

A young woman at the counter – perhaps a teenager, maybe fifteen or sixteen – arches a curious brow. “Hello. Do you know intermission has already passed?”

“I do.”

“You’ve missed most of the performance of Violin Sonata No. 9.” She sounds terribly concerned.

“That’s okay. I know the piece by heart.”

Her dark eyes brighten. “Me too. I can play it. All of it. But I am learning to play it even better in school,” she says, a little shyly. Her accent is faintly Nigerian.

“You are?”

She nods, proudly. “I moved here with my family. So I can study the violin in Paris. I want to play here someday.”

“At the Palais Garnier?”

“Yes, and Philharmonie de Paris. And Sala São Paulo in Brazil. And Symphony Hall in Boston. And The Sibelius Hall in Finland. And Concertgebouw in Amsterdam.” The words tumble out with the breathless excitement of youth.

Of possibilities.

A pang squeezes my heart as I picture the days and opportunities ahead of her. The chances she’ll have. The ones I hope she won’t squander.

“Don’t stop playing. Don’t stop learning,” I tell her, with an intensity that both surprises and doesn’t surprise me at all.

“I won’t,” she says, like it’s a solemn promise.

“Being able to play Beethoven is a gift. A precious gift. Treat it as such,” I say, then I laugh, a little embarrassed. “But who am I to give advice to a stranger, to a prodigy? I’m only a music lover. All I am saying is I hope all your dreams come true.”

“Me too.” She takes a beat, then taps her chest. “I’m Ayo.”

“Daniel.”

She tips her forehead to the entrance. “You won’t want to miss anymore.”

“You’re right. The ending is so lovely.”

“It is. I haven’t grown tired of it, and I’ve heard it every night for the last two weeks. It breaks my heart every time, and puts it back together.”

My throat tightens. “Music can do that. And I don’t think I’ll ever grow tired of it either,” I say, then I head inside, turn off my phone, take my seat, and listen.

I used to feel so at home here, like the Phantom. I’d imagine I was the damaged, scarred man haunting the lake beneath the Paris Opera House.

Obsessed with music—obsessed with beautiful music.

I am still obsessed. Perhaps I always will be.

Maybe that obsession can bring answers though.

I close my eyes, listen to the notes, and try desperately to find the answers I need.

30

SCARLETT

Nadia raises her glass. “A toast.”

I quirk a brow. “Why exactly are we toasting?”

“To loving again,” she says, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

I laugh, shaking my head in amusement. “Did you not hear me? He said he didn’t want to try. He’s not willing.”

Lifting her glass of white wine, Nadia nods sagely as she kicks her heel back and forth from her spot at the sidewalk café. “But I’m not talking about him. I’m proud of you for loving again, so I’m toasting to you.”

“Fair enough,” I say, raising my glass and clinking it against hers. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Always.”

We finish, I pay the bill, and we wander along the cobblestone street in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. She hooks her elbow through mine. “You tried again. That’s a big deal. You were hurt. You were devastated. And you found it in you to give love another shot,” she says, ever the encouraging friend.

“But did I?” I ask, a little pensive as we stroll along the boulevard among Parisians and tourists out for the evening.

“You told him you loved him. That sure sounds like you did.”

“But did I fight for him? Did I do enough?” I stop at the corner, looking up at the streetlamp, then at the green sign on the building marking Rue Bonaparte. “Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t.”

She nods, like she’s considering the question. “So you think you should have done more. Like what?”

As I turn around, soaking in the city, the answer is right in front of me. The answer is all around me. The answer is—I am here.

I am in this place that I love, living this life that I love.

I did move on. I did mourn. And I did heal from the pain, the shame, the self-loathing.

Daniel is not Jonathan. This is not the same. The man I’m crazy about is alive, and he’s here, and I can say my piece. I don’t need to retreat when I have words to say and a heart that’s still full.

I have a chance to live differently.

I grab Nadia’s arm, excitement roaring through me. “I don’t need to say more for him. I need to say it for me. Not to win him back. Not to change him. Because that’s up to him. But I want to say something more because I can. I want to tell him my heart, my truth. Because that’s what he did for me. He showed me that I could love again,” I say, my chest filling with happiness, with possibility. With hope. Whether for a future with Daniel, or just a future where I don’t hurt.

Because I don’t hurt anymore.

He showed me love. He treated me like a queen. He adored me. Whether he can do that for a long time or a short time, our week was worth it. I loved every second with him, and I want to say everything to him that’s true and powerful.

I didn’t get to say all of the true things to Jonathan, because he died too soon.

But Daniel is alive. Whether we can ever be together or not, I can still express how he made me feel in that week of time.

“I can speak the truth now. And I want to,” I say.

Nadia smiles, bright and proud. “Then do it.”

I grab my phone from my purse, slide the screen open, and I’m about to call him when a message pings from my parents.

I open it. It’s a photo of an ice-cream cone.

Dad: We went to a new vegan ice-cream shop in the Village. I got a double chocolate. Impressed?

Mom: Salted caramel for moi. Mine was better. Your father knows it and tried to barter for my cone.

Dad: Not true. I simply suggested trading off.

Mom: Translation: you had ice cream regret. Admit I picked a better flavor.

Dad: I will admit nothing of the sort. But I’ll admit this – Scarlett, when you’re in New York next, we will definitely go to Sweet Nothings.

I reply quickly.

Scarlett: Oh yes, we will. Also, you had me at vegan.

Dad: I knew we could get your attention with that word!

Mom: Does that mean you’ll come visit us soon?

Scarlett: I promise.

My chest expands, it glows, and I see things even more clearly.

I have this. I have this frequent connection, this regular contact, the thing Daniel misses the most.

It’s such a simple, wonderful thing.

No wonder he’s scared. No wonder he’s terrified. He lost something more than precious.

I know what it’s like to have it.

I can do something for him and something for me. To let him know how deeply he touched me and how much I’d be willing to try for him.

But it’s past midnight. And midnight is for regrets, so I don’t call him. Instead, I send a message asking him to meet me in the morning.

31

DANIEL

In the opera house, I listen to the end of the piece, remembering my parents in the audience the last time I played this, and their words to me after.

No matter who you play for, you have a gift and you used it well, my father said.

I loved it now as much as I did the first time you played it when you were seven, standing in the living room, struggling with some of the notes, my mother said.

That’s a memory I haven’t allowed to come to the forefront of my mind for a long, long time.

It’s a memory I’ve pushed back, but now it reminds me that I am more than a once well-used gift.

I’m not empty without it now that it’s gone.

I had it, I lost it, but music isn’t all or nothing, played on either the stages of the world or not at all.

It can be just as fulfilling to stumble over the notes for your parents.

It can be just as uplifting to hear others make music.

It can be just as necessary to your soul to play in an empty room.

For years and years, I’ve played only for myself. I’ve only picked up the bow and the violin in a quiet corner of a hotel room.

All that time I thought I was hiding inside my cold black heart. But it turns out all along I was actually healing myself.

The music I played alone somehow, in some way, over time, over the years, worked its magic.

Maybe, just maybe, it healed me enough. Enough to see that all is not lost.

Enough to see that there is more to life than carpe diem, than daily moments of pleasure, of money, of material goods.

That music mattered as much when I played it in the living room as when I played it before strangers wearing black tie.

And that music, too, can express the very soul of a person.

When I return to my hotel room that night, I pick up the violin, open the window, and play for the city. I serenade Paris, and I imagine that somehow my music is floating over the river and across to the other bank, serenading a woman.

But it’s not enough to imagine it.

I have to tell her.

When I am done, I don’t feel regret. I don’t feel anger. I only feel hope.

I turn on my phone and send her a text as soon as it powers on, though it’s two in the morning. I ask if she can meet me tomorrow morning.

Once it’s sent, my phone downloads my new messages and I find one from her.

Not an answer, but from earlier.

In the morning, I wake up to a text with a location. A bench along the River Seine, across from the Notre Dame.

I shower, get dressed, and take the thing I’ll need most.

32

DANIEL

Paris and music go hand in hand.

In the scheme of things, I’m not doing something that stands out. I’m part of the fabric of the city. I blend into the scene, another street musician busking by the Seine.

But I am more than that. I’m a man on a mission to push himself. To do something terrifying because maybe something terrifying can lead to something wonderful.

I arrive early, nerves gripping my throat, fear seizing my chest. They are my regular bedfellows, along with something new.

Hope.

I stand by the bench and wait, my pulse spiking, my heart beating in my throat, my violin case sitting at my feet. My skin prickles, and my hands begin to sweat. I brush them over my jeans. I had no stage fright as a young musician. I had zero as a teenager.

I have too much now.

But this is, in many ways, the toughest stage in the world for me.

When I see Scarlett across the street, her chestnut hair, bright eyes, and gorgeous lips, a thousand hummingbirds flap their wings in my chest.

I take out the violin, set it under my chin, rest it on my shoulder, and raise the bow.

She hasn’t spotted me yet. She’s scanning the riverbanks, looking for me. Or maybe she’s listening to the river.

This time, I’m making sure the river has something to say.

When she’s about twenty feet away, I begin making music for another person for the first time in fifteen years.

It’s sweet and complicated, complex and tender. It’s the one that reminds me of her.

The Brahms.

Her pace slows when she hears it.

Her eyes widen. Her lips curve into a grin, and she locks eyes with me.

Everything in her face transforms.

That hardness, that toughness she wore last night, all vanishes, fading to dust.

As her eyes gleam, I soldier on, nerves be damned.

For years I was ashamed to play for others, ashamed of what I’d done to my hand, how I’d squandered my talent, how I’d ruined music, ruined myself.

But as I play, I choose to let those beliefs go.

To take the gift for what it is—a gift. And to receive it.

She closes the distance, stopping a few feet in front of me, beaming like the sun. As I play and I play and I play.

Then, when I’ve reached the end, I stop, lower the bow and the instrument, and say, “It reminds me of you.”

“So you told me.”

The stage fright I felt moments ago?

That’s nothing compared to the fear that races through me now, that threatens to pull me under, to make me want to run away.

But the music has given me strength. The music has always given me strength, only I didn’t realize it till last night.

Or maybe I finally found my own strength through her. I use it to speak my heart’s desire.

“I thought maybe if you were talking to the river, it might talk back to you. It might feel sad and sweet, melancholy but happy. That maybe the river would talk to you through music,” I say, my heart skittering.

“Perhaps it is. But I would need a translator. Someone who understands music intimately. Could you be that person?” she asks, hope in her tone, a hope that matches mine.

I smile, my nerves dissipating some. “I can. I know what all the notes mean.”

“Tell me. Tell me what the river is saying.”

I put the violin down, setting it carefully in its case, then closing it.

I meet her eyes. She’s waiting for me. It’s my turn. I’m the one who shut the door on us yesterday. I’m the one who has to kick it wide open again. “I was wrong. Dead wrong.”

She nods carefully. “About what?”

That’s so very Scarlett. Open, earnest, but making sure that I deserve her. My God, I hope I can deserve her. “I thought I was protecting us by making a decision to end the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened to me,” I say, opening my whole heart to her.

Her lips shift into a grin. She tries to fight it. But she seems to have no luck. “The most wonderful thing ever?”

“Yes. That’s what you are. And I didn’t give us a chance.”

“That’s true. You didn’t give us the opportunity to learn how to trust each other, to feel truly safe with each other,” she says softly, but it’s not an indictment of me. It’s simply the truth.

“I know,” I say, wishing I could go back in time and fix things. But the world only spins forward. You can’t change the past. You can only live differently in the present. That’s what I must do with her. “I didn’t give you a chance. I said we couldn’t be together because I didn’t want to hurt you,” I say, then pat my chest, owning it. “But the truth is I’m terrified of being the broken one. I’m so damn scared of letting myself be loved again. Maybe even unconditionally. I don’t think I know how to be vulnerable. If I’m vulnerable, then I can be left. I’d thought I was protecting both of us. But I was only protecting myself. And in so doing, I didn’t protect you. I only hurt you. And I’m so very sorry.”

She lifts her hand as if to touch me, but then seems to think better of it, tucking her hands into her jeans pockets. Perhaps I haven’t said enough. Or maybe she has something to say.

A boat glides along the river, and a young woman with two toddlers in tow ambles along the path. Cars and buses trundle by on the avenue.

“Daniel, you’ve been through something terrible,” she says. “And when my father sent me his photos of dinner and ice cream, everything hit me all at once. How hard it was for you to open yourself up at last. At all, really. When I told you yesterday that I loved you, I didn’t get to say my piece. And so I’m going to say it now.”

She draws a deep breath, as if for courage. She casts her gaze to the river, her source of strength. Then finally she speaks. “I love you. I just do. And I want to give this a chance. I want to give us a chance. But mostly, I want to know that, if you’re here to ask for a second chance, you’re all the way in. That you’re ready for it,” she says, laying her heart on the line. “Because know this—I will be here for you. I will be here when you’re sad, when you’re hurt, when you’re happy, when you’re vulnerable, when you’re lonely, when you’re horny, and when you’re happy. I will be here for you. As your friend, as your lover, as your woman. All I ask is that you be here in this too.”

How could I not?

My heart thumps wildly, embracing her words.

I step closer, reaching for her, because I can no longer stand the thought of not touching her. I clasp her shoulders, then I run my hands down her arms. She shudders as I touch her.

“I want to know what it’s like to live again, to love again, and to feel again. Will you give me another chance?”

She laughs. Shakes her head. Laughs again. “Don’t you get it? That’s what I just said.”

I laugh too. “This is all new to me. But you need to know I’ve loved every second of the last week with you. I’m tired of moving through my days only half alive. I want to be fully alive, experiencing everything and experiencing it with you.”

She slides closer to me, looping her hands around my neck. “So experience me. Let’s take on the world together. Let’s do this thing here in Paris, you and me.”

“No ending. Just beginning every day.”

“Every day. And every night.”

I clasp her cheeks, bring her close, and kiss her like I’ve been searching for her for years.

I’m pretty sure I have. She is all I want. As we kiss by the river, I make a decision.

Because that’s what every moment is—a decision as to how you’re going to go on from here.

And so, I make a choice I’m ready for at last.

I let the past go. All I want is the present.

When we break the kiss, I stroke Scarlett’s cheek, cup her jaw, then whisper, “Thank you.”

Taking her hand, I set us off, and we walk along the river. This seems fitting—my violin case in one hand, hers in the other.

I ask her if her father sends ice-cream and dinner photos every day.

With a smile, she answers, “Every few days.”

“I’d like to see them. Will you show me when he sends them?”

She slides her thumb along my hand. “I would love to. And I want to hear you play again.”

“I will. For you.” That is an easy promise to make. No more nerves. Playing for her feels like what I’m meant to do with music now.

“I’ll be your audience,” she says.

That feels right too. Playing for the one I love.

When we reach her flat, I press a kiss to the back of her neck, and she shivers as she works the key into the lock.

As she pushes the door open, I graze my lips along her neck, inhaling her perfume.

“You’re wearing it,” I say as the door snaps shut behind us.

She gives me a flirty, dirty grin. “My husband bought it as a gift. He likes the way it smells on me.”

A rumble works its way up my chest and out of my throat. “He’s mad about you.”

“Is that so?” she asks as she leans against the wall inside her flat.

“He’s absolutely crazy in love with you,” I say, and I press a kiss to the hollow of her throat.

“What else?” she asks in a heady whisper as I graze kisses over her skin, savoring her.

“He wants to fuck you and love you and cherish you.” I raise my face, meet her eyes, and look deeply into them. “Because you’re the only one, Scarlett.”

“And you for me,” she says, sliding a hand over my heart, pressing her fingers against it. “For the record, I never thought your heart was black.”

“What color did you think it was?”

She brings her face close to mine, her eyes gleaming with heat and desire. “Red-hot.”

I take her to bed, and I show her exactly how red-hot I can be as I slide inside her, fill her, fuck her.

She wraps her legs around me, hooking her ankles together, bringing me closer. I go deep, deeper than I have before. And we are a tangle of limbs, flesh, heat, and skin.

Of love, trust, and intimacy.

Like that, we let go, moving beyond our fears, fucking and loving each other into a whole new possibility of us.

EPILOGUE

Scarlett

I sign the final page of the contract with a flourish.

We pulled it off. My first big acquisition since I became a partner in this luxury hotel group. Pride suffuses me—pride in a job well done. We got a screaming deal with terrific terms, and everyone is pleased.

I set the fountain pen down on the desk in Cole’s office at The Invitation in Las Vegas, where we’ve finalized the paperwork.

“And it’s done, gentlemen,” I say.

Daniel claps. “Congratulations, you savvy, moneymaking businesswoman,” he says with the same kind of sexual innuendo that rolled off his tongue the first time I met him, when he said he wanted me to help him make money turn into more money.

Cole lifts his chin, flashes a big smile, and says, “Congrats. Also, I’m glad you two so thoroughly worked through that little issue of ‘Can business partners date?’ and are now flirting in my office.”

“We did indeed,” Daniel says, dropping a kiss onto my cheek.

We worked through it in the simplest of ways.

By doing it.

By taking a chance.

By believing we could have it all.

We work together most of our days and play together most of our nights. It’s a good life, inking deals, running a worldwide business, making decisions, taking chances, and taking them together.

Meeting family too—tomorrow we go to New York for Daniel to meet my parents.

Tonight, though, we’ll celebrate with friends here in Vegas by going to a concert headlined by the rock star Stone Zenith. We’re meeting Nadia at the show on one of her last nights in town before she relocates to San Francisco.

I grab my purse, shoulder it, and rise. “On that note, I have a concert to go to, so I better get ready.”

“I better go as well, then, since this means I can stare at you while you shower,” Daniel offers.

Cole rolls his eyes. “Really?”

“What? Did you think we’d be chaste?” Daniel asks, as if that’s the height of foolishness.

“No. Not in the least.” Cole pauses, licks his lips, then grins. “Before you go, though, remember how you two knew that Sage was right for me?”

I furrow my brow. “Yes. I do remember Daniel engineering things between you and the love of your life.”

“You played a part too. You knew we were right for each other.”

“Fine. I did play a part,” I acknowledge.

“Well, I knew the two of you were right for each other,” Cole says, pointing at us.

“Sure. You’ve mentioned that before,” Daniel says.

Cole absently twirls a pen. “Remember that waitress in Avignon? At the café next door to the hotel?”

“The one we met at breakfast?” Daniel supplies.

“I remember her,” I say, an image of her freckled face flashing before me.

Where is this going?

Cole grins like a cat. “She wasn’t a waitress. She owns the café. Her name is Solange. She’s married to Colin, our front desk manager at that hotel. I talked to the two of them and I made sure she personally waited on you that morning a month ago. Made sure she planted that tip about the hotels.”

“No wonder he was so chatty that morning. He probably wanted to make sure her shift had started. So she could wait on us.”

Daniel blinks.

Nothing surprises Daniel. But this nugget seems to have knocked the wind out of him. Cole nods, looking supremely satisfied with our reaction.

“I knew about Le Pavillon,” he continues. “I knew the inns were on the market, that the chance to visit them would be too enticing for the two of you to pass up. And I had a feeling that the more time you spent together away from Paris, with just each other, the more you’d realize that you each had everything that the other person could ever want.” He says it like Inspector Poirot at the end of a whodunit, revealing how the heist was pulled off.

Daniel’s grin widens, his eyes going bigger, brighter. “You’re a matchmaker,” he says, amazement in his voice.

“Cupid. Call me Cupid.”

I march up to Cole and throw my arms around him. “You are Cupid, and I couldn’t be happier. Thank you so much for sending that waitress to us.”

Daniel offers Cole a hand to shake. “You were right, mate. I’ve never been happier to say you were right. And you were absolutely right.”

“I know,” he says, grinning. “I know.”

Later that night on the way to the concert, I tell Daniel I’ll be right back, then I pop into the ladies’ room in The Extravagant. At the sink, I spot two familiar faces. The couple we met in Giverny who live here in Vegas. The blonde is touching up her wife’s lipstick. They look even more in love.

“Elodie! Hazel!”

They both turn to me, recognition in their gazes. “Violet!” Elodie says with a smile.

I laugh, shaking my head. “Actually, my name is Scarlett.”

“Oh. Did I remember it wrong?”

“You remembered it right. We were doing a little…role-play that day in Giverny.”

Elodie’s bright eyes sparkle. “Is that so?”

Hazel’s smile turns curious, a bit naughty. “Tell us more. You were so inspiring with your stories. My wife enjoyed them quite a bit. As did I.”

“We traveled through France as business partners, all the while pretending to be husband and wife.”

Hazel’s jaw drops. “You’re not married? Are you not together?”

“What about the story about the sex on the desk? The roughness? The pain. Please tell me that wasn’t made up?” Elodie sounds almost devastated.

“At the time, it was fiction. But not for long. It’s been like that for real since then. And we are most definitely together now. Funny thing – it took us playing pretend to fall in love for real.”

Hazel hooks her arm through Elodie’s, tugs her closer, gazes at her with heat and love. “We should pretend to be strangers later.”

Elodie slides her hand down Hazel’s arm. “Oh yes. I’ll pick you up at the bar. See if I can convince you to go home with me.”

“Maybe I’ll play hard to get,” Hazel purrs.

“Maybe I’ll be so persuasive, we’ll be playing other games.”

“Mmm. You’re on,” Hazel says, then turns to me. “By the way, I’m glad you and your man are together for real. Even though it was pretend, it never looked that way.”

“Sounds like it never really was,” Elodie adds.

“It never really was,” I echo, then wave goodbye to the happy women.

I leave shortly after, and a few minutes later, Daniel and I meet up with Nadia outside the theater. My good friend pulls me aside before we go in. “I’ve been dying to catch up with you. You’re never going to believe who called me.”

“Chris Hemsworth?”

She cracks up. “Even better. Crosby Cash.”

My brow knits. “Your brother’s best friend? The guy you’ve crushed on forever? The baseball player for the San Francisco Cougars?”

She nods, wiggling her brows. “That’s who. He’s the best man at my brother’s wedding.”

“Ooh la la. What did he call you for?”

“He wanted to make sure I’d save a dance for him at the wedding in a few weeks.”

“Someone wants to dance with you.”

She scoffs. “He’s just being friendly.”

I grin. “Friendly or not so friendly, sounds like the start of a good story.”

“You never know.”

“You never do. But I’d be willing to bet on it,” I say.

We head into the theater and enjoy one hell of a show.

The next night, Daniel and I are in New York, walking along Park Avenue, heading to a restaurant.

He opens the door for me. I flash him a smile. “You’re okay with this?”

“So good with it.” All I hear in his voice is certainty and excitement.

My parents are waiting for us at a table.

They rise and smile, both at me and at the man I love. They’ve talked to him on FaceTime. They’ve seen photos of him. He’s not a stranger.

But this is the first time they’re meeting him. As we reach the table, my father greets me with a hug, extends a hand for Daniel to shake, then changes his mind.

“Wait. Bring it in for a hug,” my father says.

Then he hugs Daniel, and Daniel says, “So good to meet you, Mr. Slade.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet the man who makes my daughter so very happy.”

Next, my mother hugs him. “The happiest. You make her the happiest.”

When Daniel pulls back, he offers them a smile that warms my soul. “And I intend to do so for the rest of my life.”

Once the food arrives, my father takes a picture of it and sends it to all of us.

When we’re back in Paris, we wander past the Palais Garnier one evening. Daniel checks the program at the window, as he always does. This time, his eyes light up like he’s seen a magic trick.

“Ayo is playing this weekend,” he says, with a childlike wonder I haven’t seen in him before.

“Who’s that?” I ask, figuring she’s some world-renowned star of the classical music circuit.

“She’s a violin student. Worked as a ticket taker the night I realized I’d be a fool to lose you,” he says, then tells me of his encounter with a young prodigy. “She’s doing a showcase with other students performing alongside the orchestra.”

“We must get tickets,” I say.

He practically rushes to the counter to buy them.

That weekend, we sit in the front row, and the man I love is wildly, incandescently happy to be listening to others make music.

FINAL EPILOGUE

Scarlett

A few months later

The chandelier is stunning. It catches the light from the window at the far end of the hall like a prism.

I gaze up at it, loving it.

“Looks like Mr. Crystal worked his magic,” I say, regarding the chandelier for the first time even though it was installed a few months ago. But this is the first time we’ve been back in Avignon since it fell.

Daniel stares up at it too. “It’s perfect. Funny, too, because that was the night that set us in motion.”

“We didn’t kiss that night,” I point out as we head down the hall to the elevator.

“No, but I entertained naughty thoughts of you when you returned to your room.”

“So, just like every other night, then?” I tease.

“Exactly. But the next morning was when a certain waitress planted an idea in our heads.”

“Such a good waitress,” I say as we step into the elevator.

“And thus proving my point that the chandelier was the start of it all.”

I arch a dubious brow. “If you say so,” I say as my stomach rumbles.

“We better feed you, Mrs. Brahms.”

“Breakfast is always a good idea.”

At the restaurant, I order the berries again.

Daniel orders the eggs.

From a male waiter.

As he leaves, I shrug an oh well. “Too bad our favorite waitress, ahem, café owner, isn’t here today.”

Daniel’s lips curve into a grin. “Or is she?”

I tilt my head. “What do you mean?”

The click-clack of shoes on tiled floor meets my ears. I turn, blinking when I see the auburn-haired woman who gave us the tip on the hotels, courtesy of Cole.

Solange.

“Good morning,” Daniel says to her, sounding pleased.

“Good morning indeed. I have something to add to your breakfast,” she says, grinning, as she hands Daniel a blue velvet box.

“Merci.”

“De rien.” Solange spins on her heel and walks away.

The air flees my lungs.

I can’t even catch my breath as Daniel grins, rises from his chair, then bends down on one knee.

I gasp.

I bite the corner of my lip. I’ve been hoping for this, wanting it so much.

“Scarlett, when that chandelier fell, it brought us together in a rather unexpected way. It made me think of all the possibilities that had been brewing in the back of my mind, brought them to the forefront. And then our trip and the time away together made everything so much clearer.”

I bring my hand to my lips, trembling, tears already sliding down my cheeks.

“And the whole time we were pretending, it never felt like pretend. It always felt exactly like how we were meant to be together.”

I nod vigorously. “Me too. It felt so real.”

“It’s always felt real. Everything with you has felt real, and safe, and daring at the same damn time. You’re brilliant and fascinating, warm and loving. I love you more than music, and I want to spend the rest of our lives making up pretend married names while knowing that you have my real one . . . if you’ll take it.”

“I will. I do. I love you,” I say in a rush, then he slides a stunning diamond on my finger. I can barely see it for the tears in my eyes.

But it doesn’t matter. I know that this time is for all time, and that we are the only ones for each other.

I tug him close, kiss him hard, and tell him yes a million times over.

Later that week, after we return to Paris and go home to the flat that we share, he takes out his violin and plays me some Beethoven.

When he finishes, I run a hand along his scar, then press a kiss to it. I meet his gaze and say, “I will always be your audience.”

“You’re the only audience I’ll ever want.”

And that’s enough. For both of us.

THE END

Dying to know what happens with Nadia and her brother’s best friend? The sexy, charming all-star baseball player? Find out in THE VIRGIN RULE BOOK, available everywhere at a preorder discount!

Cole’s story can be found in ONE EXQUISITE TOUCH.

Let me make a few things clear. I didn't go to the wedding intending to dance with the best man, to dare him to show me a very sexy pic on his phone, or to accidentally kiss him in the hotel elevator after the reception ended.

But you know how it goes. Things just happen at weddings...

The next day, Crosby and I agree to put all those shenanigans behind us. The fun-loving, stupidly gorgeous, all-star baseball player might be my brother's best friend, but he's my friend too and has been for years, so it's easy to move on, especially since I have a high-profile business to run.

But since he's newly single and I'm always single, it turns out we both desperately need plus ones. We agree to "publicly date" over the next two weeks of galas, parties and events before his baseball season begins.

The only trouble is the more time I spend with Crosby, the more I keep imagining how much I want him to take my V-card.

And when I broach the possibility with Crosby, his answer surprises the hell out of me.

ORDER THE VIRGIN RULE BOOK!!

ALSO BY LAUREN BLAKELY

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The Heartbreakers! The USA Today and WSJ Bestselling rock star series of standalone!

P.S. IT’S ALWAYS BEEN YOU, a sweeping, second chance romance!

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ABOUT

I love hearing from readers! You can find me on Twitter at LaurenBlakely3, Instagram at LaurenBlakelyBooks, Facebook at LaurenBlakelyBooks, or online at LaurenBlakely.com. You can also email me at laurenblakelybooks@gmail.com

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Contents

Copyright

Also by Lauren Blakely

About

My One Week Husband

1. Scarlett

2. Daniel

3. Scarlett

4. Daniel

5. Scarlett

6. Daniel

7. Scarlett

8. Daniel

9. Scarlett

10. Daniel

11. Scarlett

12. Scarlett

13. Daniel

14. Scarlett

15. Scarlett

16. Daniel

17. Daniel

18. Scarlett

19. Scarlett

20. Daniel

21. Daniel

22. Daniel

23. Scarlett

24. Scarlett

25. Daniel

26. Daniel

27. Daniel

28. Scarlett

29. Daniel

30. Scarlett

31. Daniel

32. Daniel

Epilogue

Final Epilogue

Also by Lauren Blakely

About