My One Week Husband Read online

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.

&nbs
p; 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.