4. Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Duncan
I waited outside my apartment's door. Now that I was here, I wasn't sure what to do.
My wife called me at nine in the evening, as I had adamantly stayed late in my office on the day of our wedding, not sure where the hell I was supposed to go.
"Are you coming home for dinner?" She asked the most ubiquitously ball and chain question.
I cleared my throat. "I've already eaten."
"I haven't."
I took a deep breath. "Elsa, look—"
"I'd rather have this conversation face-to-face." She paused for a moment and then added, " Please , Duncan."
The please did it. I took the ten-minute walk home, scared shitless. I had still not called my parents. I had talked to Damian, who put me on speaker phone with Emilia laughing so hard that I, who had a thick skin, had been mildly insulted.
"Married? You?" Emilia could hardly get the words out she was so amused. "I can't believe it."
"Imagine how I feel," I grumbled.
"Congratulations, brother. You should tell Mom and Dad. They'll be thrilled they're going to be grandparents twice over."
"Oh, and the cousins will be the same age," Emilia said excitedly.
"And you don't think they'll mind being related to Jean-Luc Moreau?" I bit out sarcastically.
"Mind? They might think he's an asset. He has some very interesting connections in Africa." Damian was a businessman through and through, even if some of his ruthlessness had been tempered because of Emilia.
"You didn't marry this Jean-Luc dude; you married his daughter," my sister-in-law interjected. "You can't blame her for her father."
"Not blaming her, Em," Damian said defensively, "It's just that he'd be an asset when we're chasing after—"
"It's a marriage, not a business deal," Emilia quipped.
"Baby, come on, what I'm saying is—"
"Don't baby me. What you're saying is despicable. She's his wife."
"Doesn't change the fact that her father is a criminal we can use."
"Use? You're out of your mind."
"Sweetheart, now—"
"I'm going to leave you two to your brand of kinky foreplay," I drawled. "I'll talk to you later."
They did this bantering thing that led to a fight, and that led to sexy times. Like I needed to know so much about my brother and his wife's sex life. Merdé!
And speaking of sex life; what the hell kind of sex was I going to have with my wife?
Jesus!
I had a wife.
I rubbed my face with my hand. The incongruity of being married slammed into me like a Canova marble statue tumbling from its pedestal, shattering into countless irreparable pieces.
I opened my front door to the smell of food—delicious food. Garlic and spices. I walked to the kitchen where my wife was swaying to Janis Joplin, asking God to buy her a Mercedes Benz. She was in a dress with an apron that said, Embrassez le chef in French. Kiss the chef .
She smiled at me when she saw me right after she tasted whatever was simmering in the pot in front of her.
" Bonsoir ," she grinned broadly.
" Bonsoir ," I mumbled.
When I said she should make herself at home, I imagined she’d put her stuff in closets. I didn’t expect my kitchen to look like something out of a cookbook, with colorful jars of spices, mismatched vintage utensils, and eclectic decor filling every surface.
I cleared my throat. "I told you I already ate."
"Then you can keep me company while I eat," she suggested cheerfully.
I had lied. I hadn't eaten. The smell of her food was making my mouth water. "What are you making?"
"Poulet Colombo." She checked something in the oven, and I saw her dress tighten around her very pert ass.
"What's that?"
"It's a classic Martinican dish. A chicken curry made with a blend of spices, like turmeric, coriander, and cumin, along with garlic, onions, and coconut milk. I serve it with rice." She stood up and winked at me. "I think a man of your appetite will like something spicy like this."
"My appetite?" I inquired.
"Yes," she smirked, not in a malicious way but, fuck me, she was flirting with me. "I opened a bottle of Amarone. It's off-dry, so it'll go well with the spices." She paused, "You do eat spicy food, don't you?"
Yeah, baby, I do. And I'd like to eat your pussy right about now, which smells like vanilla and tastes like…fuck! I had to stop thinking about her pussy, her ass, her skin.
"I need a shower," I muttered and left her in the kitchen.
"Food's ready in twenty minutes," she called out after me like we were a normal couple and this was what we did every night.
My wife was an enigma. I didn't know what the hell to do with her.
I texted Dean: She's cooking .
Dean replied immediately, which made me wonder what time zone he was in: What's she making?"
Me: Something called poulet Colombo.
Dean: I love food from Martinique.
He'd know. Dean loved to eat and knew of every great hole in the wall and Michelin-star restaurant in most cities in the world.
Me: What the heck am I supposed to do?
Dean: You think she might spit in your food?
Me: What?
Dean: Eat the fucking food, you moron.
Me: Right. Shower first. Watching her cooking is fucking erotic.
Dean: TMI, brother. TMI.
After five minutes, Dean sends another message: Just saw her photo on her boulangerie’s website. Fuck, she's hot.
Me: She's my fucking wife, asshole.
Dean: And she's hot. Enjoy your COLD shower .
I didn't enjoy my shower. It was frustrating as hell because my bedroom and bathroom smelled of vanilla. I had hoped that she'd choose one of the guest bedrooms. No, that's a lie. I had hoped that she'd do exactly what she did, but now that she had, I wondered about my sanity. Could I fuck her? We were married, so I should be able to fuck her, right?
I changed into sweats and a T-shirt and walked barefoot into the kitchen.
The rich aroma of poulet Colombo filling the small kitchen. She had opened a bottle of Amarone, the deep red wine a surprising choice, which made me think that she knew her wine. Good. We could bond over that. And then I could fuck her? Right?
She'd set the breakfast nook in the kitchen for our dinner, fucking candlelight and all. White cloth napkins were decorated as fans on each plate.
"Did you bring this with you?" I asked, waving a hand at the set up.
She chuckled. "I raided your dining room closets."
"I have all this?" I had no idea.
Madame Lefèvre had set up the house along with an interior designer who had been instructed by my mother, who knew that I preferred to live at a hotel rather than a home. She insisted I needed an apartment, and when my mother insisted, I usually let her do whatever the hell she wanted, as long as it didn't mess with my life.
"You didn't want to eat in the dining room?" I asked.
"It's a bit too much for me," she said sheepishly. "Would you prefer to eat there? We can—"
"No," I smiled at her. The dining room, with its grand chandelier and antique dining table, stood empty and unused even when I was at home. "You're right; it's a bit too fucking much."
She giggled, and I was glad my sweatpants were loose because my new wife would be able to see my boner. Most new brides probably expected it. I had no idea what Elsa wanted.
I looked at the flowers at the center of the table. "That doesn't look like something Madame Lefèvre would allow into the apartment."
It was a rustic bouquet of vibrant wildflowers and smelled like lavender.
"I brought these from my apartment," she informed me, sitting down and moving her chin toward the bench across from her, inviting me to join her. "I have a small garden on my balcony."
I usually came into the kitchen for coffee in the morning, water after a workout, and the wine fridge or liquor cabinet at night. But in the years I'd lived here, my kitchen had never seemed this vibrant and alive with smells and color. I realized, with a pang of discomfort, that I had never really eaten here. I was always on the go, rarely spending much time at home. The thought of that changing didn't seem to bother me as much as I'd thought it would—in fact, it sounded like something I'd enjoy very much. Because Elsa Archer was beautiful in warm candlelight.
We ate in companionable silence for a while, the clinking of cutlery and the occasional sip of wine (for me) and water (for her) filling the space. I watched her from across the small table, her delicate fingers expertly navigating her plate. There was an ease to her movements, a grace that contrasted sharply with my own clumsy attempt at domesticity.
"This is delicious, Elsa," I said softly. She wasn't the first woman to cook for me. I had eaten Emilia's cooking when I was in San Francisco—but this was the first time a woman had cooked just for me.
"I felt like a little comfort food," she confided in me. "It's been a tumultuous day."
No shit!
"Yeah. So…ah…."
Smooth, real smooth, Duncan. In a business meeting, you're hell on wheels, but this petite woman with her almond-shaped eyes is kicking your ass. You can barely form words!
She took a sip of her water and then followed it with a deep breath. "How do you see our marriage working, Duncan?"
I nearly choked on my wine. I wasn't prepared for this conversation, not here, not now. I liked Elsa more than I was willing to admit, but I had no clue how to be a husband. Hell, I didn't even know how to be in a relationship. I fumbled for words, trying to sound confident.
"Well," I began, clearing my throat, "I think we should just continue as we have been. You know, not let the marriage interfere with our lives."
Her captivating hazel eyes searched my face. I could see a flicker of something—disappointment, maybe, or confusion.
"I see," she replied quietly. "So, you want things to stay the same?"
"Yes," I said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "This is all new for both of us, right? There's no need to complicate things."
I could hear the awkwardness in my own voice, the uncertainty. The truth was, I was scared. I was frightened of having a wife, of being responsible for someone else. I had no idea how to navigate this, and the thought of failing, of hurting her, terrified me.
Elsa took another sip of water, her expression thoughtful. "That's not a marriage, Duncan, and we are married. Oui ?"
"We are." I set my silverware down. "Elsa, I don't know what it means to be married."
She smiled then, a small, genuine smile that lit up her face. "Join the club. Isn't that how you Americans say it?"
I felt my heart lighten a little. I wasn't the only clueless one in this marriage. "Do you know what you want?"
She put a hand on her stomach, and I felt something pulse inside me, something I recognized as possessiveness. I wanted to put my hand on hers, on her stomach. I wanted to feel our baby.
"Can you feel her?" I whispered.
"Her?"
I shrugged. "When I think of the baby, I think of a mini you. Pretty and cute, with curly hair and dark eyes."
" Oui ?" Her eyes lit up. "I think of a mini you ."
"Let's hope not," I replied honestly. "I'd much rather our baby be beautiful like you."
"You think I'm beautiful?"
I blinked. "Stunning," I revealed.
"I think you're very handsome," she said shyly.
Me? I was a son of a bitch and a hard ass. I was a nasty piece of work. No one had ever called me handsome . Well, except for escorts, but I paid them, so what the hell else would they say.
"You moved your things into my… our bedroom." My heart was beating fast now. Did she want a real marriage? Probably. It was just that I hadn't given it much thought. I was marrying the woman pregnant with my baby whose father was a criminal with a gun—but I hadn't considered the ramifications of a marriage.
She seemed uneasy, and I wondered if I'd said the wrong thing. "It needs…a little color."
"The bedroom?"
She nodded.
I sighed in relief. "You can decorate it any way you want. Whatever you want is fine with me."
"Our styles are very different."
"I have no style," I blurted out. "This is all Madame Lefèvre and some interior designer Mom hired."
"You can't have no style." She furrowed her brows.
"I guess. I just I don't know what my style is. I grew up in my parents’ home and then lived in furnished apartments and hotel suites. This is the first place I've owned. Not the company, just me." I looked around and felt no connection to this apartment at all.
"What do you like?" she probed.
I thought about it and shrugged. "Hotels."
"Your place looks like a hotel." She looked through to the formal dining room past the wide doors of the kitchen.
I drank some wine. "Elsa, I don't spend a lot of time here. I travel a lot. I usually stay at the Ritz where there's room service and—"
"Escorts?"
I nodded. "Yeah, that too."
"Will you…ah…still…ah—"
"No," I immediately said. I was all kinds of an asshole, but I wouldn't cheat on my wife. Hell fucking no. "I haven't been with anyone since you."
Her eyes went wide. "What? Why? You got hurt or something?"
Well, that put me in my place. She thought I was such a hound dog that the only reason I wouldn't fuck for a while would be because I broke my dick. I wanted to tell her it was because I didn't want to fuck anyone else since I did her, but that was a bridge too far for me. I couldn't be that vulnerable with her. I'd already revealed more about myself than I normally did.
"I've been busy." My tone was sharper than I intended it to be. "To answer your question, I'm not going to insult our marriage, for however long…I mean, whatever it is."
"However long? You think this is temporary?"
I saw hurt flash in her eyes, and I hated that.
"No. I… fucking hell , Elsa, I don't know what I'm doing or saying. Can't you see I'm lost here?"
"Lost?"
I nodded. "You know what would help?"
She licked her lips. "What would help?"
"If I could fuck you, it would really help clear my mind."
She looked at me with shock, and I cursed my lack of filter. Yeah, she was going to run back to her apartment in the Marais because of my total lack of finesse.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that and—"
"Okay." She stood up.
"What?"
"Okay. Let's go and consummate this marriage."