“My turn,” he says, and a minute later, his fingers are inside me, and I’m coming again.

  Somehow, we’ve just sealed a marriage deal. Our agreement is to help each other in business, and to bring each other bliss.

  Just so there are no misunderstandings, I wrap my arms around his neck. “This is a deal. It’s an arrangement.”

  “We’re in agreement.”

  “It has a beginning,” I say, my eyes never straying from his.

  “It does.”

  “And it has an end,” I say, keeping my tone strong.

  Resolved.

  I am resolved.

  He nods, his expression steadfast. “It has an end.”

  17

  ELISE

  “So this is how it goes,” my friend remarks.

  My brow knits as I stare at Veronica across the counter at The Sweet Life, her flagship candy shop in Montmartre. “How what goes?”

  “The process. The descent into madness.” She grabs her phone, taps on the screen, then holds it to her mouth. “Dear diary, today my friend Elise lost the cheese from her cracker. She came into my shop trying to convince me that marrying the man whose nudie shots have graced her phone for more than a year won’t end in heartbreak.”

  I hold up a finger. “Correction. I came here for a cinnamon stick, to give you the scarf I picked up for you at Annalise and Charlie, since it matches your fantastic complexion, and to tell you about my new plan to win a very potentially lucrative ad deal with a luxury hotel chain. Not to convince you of anything.”

  “Lies we tell ourselves.” She taps her purple spatula against a tray of confections. The spatula matches her apron—white with violet polka dots.

  I bend to catch a whiff of the delicious scent of sugar. It swirls in my nostrils, with afternotes of strawberry and milk chocolate.

  “Want one?” she asks.

  “Chocolate-covered strawberry is hard to resist.”

  She hands me the candied fruit, and I pop it in my mouth. After I chew, I finish the thought. “It’s not a lie. It’s a plan, and a damn good one.”

  “Do you really believe this marriage is just business?”

  “What do you believe it is?”

  “A recipe for you to fall for his hot Viking ass while you play house.”

  I scoff. “Veronica, don’t you know me by now?”

  “Yes. And that’s why I worry about you.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about. It’s all under control. It all makes sense. It’ll be fine.”

  “Famous last words.”

  Drumming my fingers on the counter, I attempt again to deflect. “How about that cinnamon stick?”

  She hands me one, and I lick it, savoring the spicy, sweet heat.

  “And you think you’re a cinnamon stick,” Veronica adds.

  “I assure you, I’m not into licking myself.”

  Laughing, she points at me. “Don’t try to sidestep the topic by making me laugh at your dirty bird side.”

  “You’re a dirty bird too,” I fire back.

  “Be that as it may, my point is this—you think you’re tough and fiery, but you’re really . . .” She pauses, scanning the shelves of confectionery before she grabs a bag of gumdrops, shaking it in her fist. “You’re a lemon gumdrop.”

  “Aren’t they sour?”

  “Exactly. People might think you’re tough, but on the inside you’re sweet and gooey.”

  “That’s not a very pleasant image. Perhaps you don’t deserve this scarf.” I tug it from my bag and hug the ruby-red silk number close to my chest.

  She drops the gumdrops and makes grabby hands. “Don’t keep the accessory from me. But don’t deny you have a soft inside either.”

  “Hardly.”

  She stretches a hand across the counter, grabbing my forearm, imploring me. “You think you’re nails and stone since Eduardo, but you’re still that woman who believes in love. I know you. I know you are.”

  I bristle at the suggestion, raising my chin. “Love is for other people.”

  “I love you like a lemon gumdrop, and I think what you’re doing is noble and also dangerous as hell,” she says, dropping her grip as she moves to rearrange bonbons under the display case.

  “We laid out all the rules,” I say, with a bit of urgency in my voice. I want her to know I can handle this.

  “But don’t you like him?”

  “Of course I like him. That’s why I want to help. We both gain something from this, and I enjoy his company. There are far worse ways to spend the next three months.”

  She arches a brow. “You enjoy his company? Can you be any more clinical?”

  I sigh heavily. “It’s true. I like being with him, and I want to help.”

  “And what happens when you start to like him beyond enjoying his company?” she asks, sketching air quotes.

  “I’ll stop that from happening.”

  “How do you stop it? Do you truly think you can stop yourself from falling?”

  “Yes,” I answer in a split second. I believe it because I have to believe it. Because it’s the only way to live.

  “Look, I’d like to buy into that too, but it’s not my experience. I was falling for Lars the boat captain, and the thing that stopped me was that we don’t live in the same country.”

  “And the thing that will stop Christian and me is an expiration date,” I say, keeping my focus on the practical aspects of this decision.

  “An expiration date isn’t the same thing as the whole damn country of Germany being between you. Lars and I texted after I left Copenhagen. I thought I could put him behind me, but I couldn’t, so we kept in touch. We tried to make plans, but we could never be free at the same time, so I had to let it go.”

  I smile, trying to make light of the complications she’s outlined—complications I’ll have to be wise about. “Have a scarf.”

  I hand her the silky snake of fabric, and she tosses it around her neck. She pouts saucily and juts out a hip in a pose.

  “Lovely.”

  “In any case, my little lemon gumdrop, since you’re going to do this anyway, all I will say is this—keep your eyes wide open. Be aware of all the potholes. There are booby traps literally everywhere. If you want to come out of this with your steel heart—cough, cough—intact, you need to have your guard up in a whole new way.”

  “Guard up. I’m on it.”

  “Oh, and take some lemon gumdrops. You’ll need fortification.” She winks and hands me the bag of candy. Her expression turns serious as she sets it in my palm. “And I’ll be here when the expiration date passes. You know that, right?”

  “I do.”

  “There is no expiration date on our friendship.”

  “It’s non-perishable,” I say with a smile, then I thank her and leave. As I wander up the block to my home, I pop in a gumdrop. It’s tart at first, as promised, but then it’s all soft and sweet.

  As if it’ll melt into you.

  Surely I’m no lemon gumdrop with Christian. I’ll be a fiery cinnamon stick. Even though, as I open the gate to my home, delighting in the blaze of yellow tulips, I wonder if he likes candy that’s a little bit tart at first but then sweetens as you savor it.

  18

  CHRISTIAN

  I walk along the river at the end of the next day, the afternoon sun casting sparks of light along the water, my phone in front of me as I Facetime Oliver. “I can’t believe I lost the bet,” he says from his office on Park Avenue.

  “Did we have a bet?”

  “Yes,” Oliver says indignantly, dragging a hand through his Harry Styles hair. “How could you forget?”

  “What was it?” I bite into the egg crepe that I picked up at my favorite crepe dealer, wracking my brain to figure out what we wagered on.

  “It was ages ago. But I bet a pint you’d be single until the end of time.”

  Laughing, I shake my head. “Sounds like some stupid shit we said at the pub last time you were here, cuz.”

  “That sounds like everything we say at the pub.”

  “True.”

  “Still, I’m kicking myself for losing the bet,” he says, spinning in his chair. “It’s making me laugh—the idea of you being married.”

  “I was married before. You’re aware of that?”

  “I know, but you’re not now.”

  “So is half the population of the once-married people. Half of marriages end.”

  “I’m aware, but the amusement level on this is still quite high,” he says with a smirk, as a twilight boat tour cruises by, kicking up a spray of water.

  “So, me getting married makes you laugh. Thanks.”

  He waves a hand. “No. It’s the bonkers idea that this will somehow be all business for you.”

  “Business and pleasure,” I add, taking another bite.

  “Need I remind you of the time you told me about how you got involved with the client who wanted to enlist you as her boy toy and claimed she was knocked up, practically chasing you back to London? At which point you called me, all worked up, and swore off entanglements of that sort?”

  “She was not pregnant,” I add, since it’s important to point that out.

  “She definitely was not, but back then you said not to mix business with pleasure.”

  “Elise isn’t a client. This isn’t exactly mixing the two. It’s uniting the two for mutual goals,” I say, explaining as clearly as I can how the deal with Elise is vastly different.

  “That’s hilarious, cuz. How you say that as if you believe it.”

  I stop in my tracks and fix him with a serious stare through the screen. “I do believe it.”

  “Fine, fine. Keep telling yourself that. Just do me one favor?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t crush her heart.”

  “I don’t plan on it, but I didn’t realize you cared so deeply about a woman you’ve never even met.”

  He clasps a hand to his chest. “I care deeply about all women. They are lovely and wonderful and we don’t deserve them.”

  "Obviously.”

  “But the point is—I care. Because, somehow I care about you. Also, if you fuck this up, I’ll have to fly to Paris and sort shit out with you and Erik, and your brother has already made a mess of things.”

  I sigh. “I know, I know. Thank you though for helping him untangle it.”

  “That’s why every family needs a good lawyer.”

  “And you’re the best attorney money and familial relations can buy. Now speaking of breaking hearts, did you ever decide to man the hell up and tell your best friend you have a thing for her?”

  He blinks, sitting closer to the screen. “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh come now. Pretty blonde. The outgoing American. Summer. The one you’ve been besties with forever.”

  He shakes his head like what I’ve said doesn’t compute. “She’s just a friend. A very good friend.”

  I wink. “Sure, she is.”

  “Why are we talking about me? I thought we were talking about how you could avoid being an arsehole with your wife.”

  “Listen, it’s going to be fine. I know Elise,” I say, since the one thing I’m sure of is that she’s even less of a fan of forevers than I am. “She has walls like I’ve never seen before. You think I have guardrails? I have nothing compared to her, and there’s no sledgehammer on heaven or on earth that will knock down her walls.”

  “Good—keep it that way. You’re all better off as is.”

  “Look, if anyone’s heart is going to be broken, it will be mine.”

  Oliver laughs. “Somehow, I don’t think that can happen. In any case, I’ll be in Paris for business soon. We’ll grab a pint.”

  “Count on it.”

  As I make my way home to check how Erik is doing, I hope my cousin’s right. I can’t deny there’s a part of me that’s the slightest bit nervous, and a little bit hopeful too, when I think about talking to Elise this evening.

  That’s when we’ll finalize the plans for our wedding.

  Our wedding.

  19

  ELISE

  France won’t do. There’s a four-week wait. England adheres to some of the same rules. But Denmark? Blessed Denmark. You don’t have to wait long at all to tie the knot in Denmark.

  Christian left Paris last weekend, shortly after the bombshell news, and took his brother back to Copenhagen, since Erik couldn’t bear to be in the same city as Jandy. That means I haven’t seen Christian since the night at his place, but we’ve filed the paperwork, and he made a few phone calls to people he knows to push it along.

  Here I am, stepping off the plane at the Copenhagen airport ten days later. I head through the terminal and pass security to find him waiting for me with a huge smile.

  I’m hit with the strangest sensation when I see him—I’ve missed him. I drop my bag, rise up on my tiptoes, and kiss him.

  He hums against my lips as he kisses me back. An airport kiss. A reunion kiss. And it’s so good it feels like it was worth the days apart, even though we didn’t deliberately plan for this to feel like we’re coming back together.

  When we separate, he glances at my luggage. “Can I carry your bag?”

  I packed light for the short trip, and I hand it to him. But I’d let him carry it even if it were heavy.

  When we stride out of the airport, a sleek black town car waits for us. The chauffeur hops out, and says something to Christian in Danish, and hearing Christian respond in his native tongue as they toss my bag into the trunk is like pulling open the blinds on a darkened window. I’ve never heard him speak Danish before.

  Inside the car, the driver turns around and raises his cap, nodding at me. His jowly face breaks into a smile. “Good afternoon, Ms. Durand.”

  “Good afternoon,” I reply in English.

  He returns his focus to the wheel, and I stare at Christian with wide eyes.

  “What?”

  “It’s funny to hear you speak Danish.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s so different from French or English.”

  He laughs. “It’s all consonants and Swedish Chef up-and-down rhythms, right? Funny sounding, isn’t it?”

  I smirk but say nothing. Because he’s right. It’s a funny language. It’s not sensual like French or Italian. It’s clunkier, strangely childish in its intonations, and a bit odd to a woman used to the Romance languages.

  “Admit it,” he says then digs a few knuckles into my side playfully.

  I laugh as he tickles me lightly. “I admit nothing.”

  “You’ll admit everything.” He dives in with both hands as the car swerves out of the terminal. He’s a ferocious tickler, his fingers digging into my waist, and I gasp for breath as laughter sweeps over me. “You think I sound like a Muppet.”

  “I don’t,” I blurt out.

  “You do.”

  “I swear,” I say between harsh breaths as I wiggle.

  “Tell the truth, Durand.” His voice is firm, like an attorney in a film, demanding an answer from a hostile witness.

  “Never.”

  More tickles rain down on me, and he brings his mouth to my ear and whispers something I don’t understand a word of. It’s ridiculous and sounds like “smorgen borgen.”

  I can’t stop laughing, and I grab his forearms to get him to stop, but he’s strong and determined.

  And merciful too, I learn, when he lets up and laughs. He shouts something to the driver, and the man up front joins in, chuckling too.

  “What did you say to him?”

  Christian sets a hand on his belly and seems to do his best to rein in his own laughter. “I told him about a shortcut to my house.”

  I tilt my head to the side. “And that made him laugh?”

  “I told him you were eager to make me an honest man, and that’s why we needed to get there quickly.”

  “You’re terrible,” I chide, and then grab his shirt collar and stare at him sharply. “And what did you say to me a few seconds ago?”

  He dips his face near my neck and maps my throat with feather-light kisses. “I said, Wait till you try the lingonberry pancakes. They’re delicious.”

  I swat his chest. “You are the worst.”

  “I know, but you deserved it for mocking me. You can make it up to me . . .” He slips from English to French. “By sucking my cock after the wedding.”

  His bluntness turns me on, and so does the fact that he made sure his dirty words were only for my ears and not the driver’s. I thread a hand in his hair and yank him close, and we kiss the kind of kiss that’s required after a filthy comment.

  We break apart when the car slows, and we’re in a residential area now. He takes my hand and clasps our fingers together tightly.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stay at a hotel?”

  “Is your brother at your house?”

  He shakes his head. “He had to go to London on business.”

  “I’m completely fine with your house. The hotel seems silly.” Once more, I wonder why he’s concerned about my comfort at his home, then it hits me. I tense, my shoulders tightening. “Would you rather we stay at a hotel?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Since you’ve asked me a few times.”

  “I want you to be comfortable.”

  “Are you worried that letting me into your home implies a certain level of intimacy?”

  He cocks a brow. “What?”

  I don’t mince words. “Is your home one of those places that’s just for you? Not for a woman? Something that feels completely yours, and you don’t want to invite someone in?”

  He scoffs. “You honestly think after you’ve been to my flat in Paris that I wouldn’t want you in my home here?”

  “You’ve asked me a few times if I wanted to stay in a hotel. Yes, I thought that might be the case.”

  “My little mermaid,” he says softly, “I didn’t think you’d want that kind of intimacy. That’s why I offered the hotel.”