Chapter 7 Scarlett #2
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 .
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.