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.