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?”