Chapter 10 Daniel
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.”