I flip her to her knees and push her down to her elbows. She turns around and watches me, and it’s the most erotic, sensual thing to see her look at me like that. Pleasure rattles through my body, and it’s mingled with all these new sensations, deeper emotions, and a fervent wish to make this arrangement last a little bit longer.

  I bend closer, pulling her against me, covering her. She comes again, calling out incoherent words of rapture, and finally, I let go too, my world turning white hot and electric.

  A few minutes later, we’re sated and tangled together. She puts her hands on my chest and looks me in the eye. “Thank you.”

  I laugh. “Why are you thanking me?”

  “For understanding what I need. For giving it to me. Even if I didn’t know what I needed.”

  “I like giving you what you need. You should stop worrying so much about people wondering if you like me. I know the truth. I know you do.”

  “I do.”

  But that’s the trouble. I have to keep it on this level. This I like you level. If I let loose the truth, I might lose her. I need her to feel safe with me, and safety means keeping myself at an arm’s length.

  The problem is I don’t want an arm’s length between us anymore.

  I’ve fallen for the woman I made a deal with.

  That’s why I touched her like a starving man at the club, but this potent need didn’t start tonight. It ignited when she proposed this arrangement. It took root when I saw what she’d be willing to do for me and for Erik. Marrying her in my hometown only sealed the deal, and all the emotions that raced through me that night in Copenhagen, the ones that seemed strange and foreign then, are crystal clear now.

  The falling is complete. It’s here. It’s happened, and now I’m in love with the woman in my arms.

  But this woman needs me to be the kind of man who doesn’t fall so easily. And I need her to save my brother’s hopes and dreams.

  I segue to something else entirely as I press a soft kiss to her neck. “Mmm. You smell good. You should write about other smells you like. If you don’t write about perfume, write about other scents.”

  “Maybe I will,” she says, snuggling closer to me.

  With her soft and malleable in my arms, it doesn’t feel like there are any boundaries.

  But there are. There most definitely are.

  26

  ELISE

  Today . . .

  A Scentsual Woman

  Blog Post

  My lovelies . . .

  We must dispel a long-standing myth about tulips. There are some people who believe they aren’t fragrant. Isn’t that bananas? But we scentsual women know the truth.

  Tulips are beguiling. They draw us in with their color, almost tricking us into thinking they won’t overwhelm our noses. But once we lean in and inhale them, we know the truth. They are fragrant in their own way. The tulip wants you to get a little closer, to understand its soft honey notes, to uncover a hint of apricot. It’s sweeter, softer, more floral, but with a touch of sex appeal.

  That’s the tulip for you. Don’t let its pinwheel of colors seduce you into thinking it’s a one-trick flower. It has so much more to it.

  This morning, I snipped some from my garden, brought them into my sun-drenched kitchen, and filled a pewter pitcher with water. I set the tulips in it and thought of why I sought them out today in the first place.

  That brought a warmth to my heart.

  By the way, it’s so nice to see you again. I’ve missed you all. I hope some of you can see me waving to you.

  Yours in noses,

  A Scentsual Woman

  27

  CHRISTIAN

  In the morning, I find her in the kitchen, wearing a camisole and knickers. She’s putting a plate of breakfast food together. There are no eggs in sight. “It looks great. Even without eggs.”

  “Oh, are you an eggs-or-bust person?”

  “Eggs are everything.”

  She gestures to her purse, perched on her kitchen chair. “There’s a market around the corner. Let me go get you some.”

  I step to her, cup her cheeks, and kiss her forehead. “No.”

  “But I don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind going without. It’s just eggs.”

  “It’s only around the corner.”

  And I fall a little deeper because she wants to make me eggs. I’m so fucked. But if I let her get the eggs, I’ll be fucked royally. Yep, I have to chicken scratch a line in the sand. My new border comes from chickens. “Fruit and bread is perfect,” I tell her.

  Over blueberries, a baguette, and a steaming cup of coffee, she takes out her iPad, a sheepish grin on her face. She taps on the screen then slides it over to me.

  I read, and with each line about tulips, my grin grows. When I finish, I glance at the orange flowers on the table. “Happy?”

  She nods, and there’s almost a childlike glee in her smile. I did this for her. I brought this feeling to her. “Very much so.”

  After we eat, I help her clean up, then I nod to the door. “I should go.”

  I don’t want to go. But I have to.

  “Do you have to?”

  My heart lurches toward her. I half wish she’d make this easier. The expiration date is so fucking far away, and I’m going to have to lie to her about how I feel for more than two months. “Don’t you need to bury yourself in work today?”

  She shakes her head. “No. Do you want to bury yourself in me today instead?”

  Like I’m resisting that.

  I throw in the towel, toss her over my shoulder, and carry her up the stairs, two steps at a time.

  Later that week, I meet her after work at a brasserie. We grab a table on the pavement, under the awning.

  “Does this mean we’re on a new schedule? Since it’s not Friday or Saturday night?” I take a drink of my beer as a ragtag group of street violinists on the corner serenades us.

  “Hmm. It seems we have graduated to a more multi-tiered arrangement.”

  “I knew I could wear you down.”

  Laughing, she raises her wineglass, and gives me flirty eyes over the rim. “Was that your plan when you flashed me your parts way back when?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve been waging a war of attrition ever since you got the Christian Ellison full monty treatment.”

  She takes a drink of her wine. She hums as she sets it down, looking away, seemingly lost in thought. “Do you ever wonder what it would have been like if I’d found my way to The Jane?”

  I take a swallow as I contemplate. “I’ve thought about that scenario many times. And I know the answer.”

  She arches a brow. “Do tell.”

  “We’d have had spectacular, wall-thumping sex that night, and I would’ve never seen you again.”

  “Why?”

  I lean forward. “Because you weren’t ready.”

  She laughs, but it’s an awkward, uncomfortable sound. “I wasn’t ready?”

  I shake my head. “Not for me to unleash my brilliant wit, effervescent charm, or full suite of bedroom services.”

  “And how do you know I wasn’t ready for the full Christian?”

  “Because I had to wear you down a whole year later. That’s how I know.”

  She raises her glass. “Well then, I really ought to drink to your persistence.”

  I wiggle an eyebrow and clink my bottle to her glass in a toast.

  After a drink, she sets down her wine. “But I still think I might have given in sooner, rather than making you wait.”

  I scoff. “Doubtful. You loved every second of making me wait.”

  She grins. “Fine, let’s pretend we met, had spectacular sex, and you courted me for a whole year in Paris. And the entire time I was secretly delighted with your pursuits.”

  “You were?” I like her story. I like it a lot.

  “I was,” she says with a smile, and I catalog this slice of an evening as yet another moment when I want to tell her how she makes me feel. But I don’t. “And that will be our marriage cover story if anyone asks.”

  “It’s a good story.”

  “So’s the real one,” she says, and she’s making this harder by the second.

  When we finish, she says she wants to head to a shopping street not far from where we are in Saint Vincent De Paul.

  “Of course you want to shop.”

  She taps my shoulder. “I want to get something for your mother. What does she like? What is she passionate about?”

  “Besides the prospect of grandchildren?”

  She rolls her eyes. “First, a marriage of convenience. Next, she’ll want grandchildren of convenience.”

  “If she could get them, she would. But truth be told, she likes egg cups.”

  Elise laughs. “That’s where your love of eggs comes from.”

  I hold up my hands, shaking my head. “I have no need for egg cups. I just like the food.”

  Like she has a radar in her, she zigs and zags through the streets till she finds a store that sells, among other things, quirky little egg cups. She picks one that’s blue with a chicken design, and later that evening back at her house, she wraps it up in sky-blue tissue paper with a silver bow. The finished product looks like something you would see in a department store, and my mother is going to love it.

  I wish Elise wasn’t such a perfect temporary wife.

  “You’re the perfect wife,” I tease.

  “Because I don’t make demands?”

  Make demands. Shower me in them. I’ll fulfill them all. “You could make an occasional one. I’d be okay with that,” I say with a wink.

  “In that case, can I come see you play soccer?” she asks, using the American term for the sport I play.

  “You want to watch me play?”

  “I like you sweaty.”

  “I’ll check the schedule and let you know when our next game is.” I loop an arm around her waist. “And then you can get sweaty with me after.”

  “Obviously.”

  28

  CHRISTIAN

  My translation work has slowed, but that’s been deliberate. Once I stepped up to take over the transition of the firm, I couldn’t spend too much time cherry-picking Scandinavian businessmen and women to translate for. I’ve still nabbed the occasional plum gig—the kind I like best, where I’ll translate for a dignitary or a celebrity.

  Mostly, my work is here in the Paris office with Erik.

  As I finish off a spate of contracts, Erik slouches into my office. He looks like hell. His jaw hangs open. “She . . .”

  It’s all he gets out.

  “What is it? She what?”

  “She found me where I was having lunch.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  He sinks down into a chair, his head falling into his hands. I walk around the desk and sit next to him. “What happened?”

  He sighs heavily. “I was eating. All I wanted was to have a sandwich in peace at the café I like.”

  “The one she knows you like? The one she knows you go to?”

  “Yes,” he says in a sad and angry hiss. “She showed up, took the seat across from me, and asked if I’d be willing to talk.”

  “What did you say?” I ask nervously, because this hasn’t been easy in the least for him, and because I worry about the firm.

  He looks up, his blue eyes full of melancholy. “I didn’t say anything, because I felt so fucking awful. I felt like I was still in love with her, and I hated feeling that way.”

  I swallow roughly, hurting for my brother. “I hate that you feel that way.” I take a beat, then ask an important question. “What did she want?”

  “She wanted to talk it out. Have a chat. She loves me, but she’s not in love with me,” he says, sketching air quotes.

  I seethe. “That’s such a cop-out.”

  “That’s not all.”

  “What else?”

  “She told me her sister is ill, and she doesn’t have enough money for the medical treatment, and that’s why she wanted to sell the firm.”

  I scoff. “Lillian is ill? That’s a barking lie.”

  “What if it’s true?”

  I grip his shoulder. “Don’t believe her. She lied to you.”

  He nods, his breath coming out shakily. “She tried to tell me it was the only way and couldn’t I look into my heart to help? And I said I would have helped her if we were together. She could have come to me for help.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said she felt like she was always coming to me for help. That she needs to be able to do things on her own. That’s why she left.”

  He winces, and I squeeze his shoulder again. “She’s messing with you, Erik. You know that, right? This all seems incredibly dodgy.”

  “Does it?”

  “Completely. Don’t let her manipulate you.”

  His shoulders slump. “I don’t know how this went pear-shaped. I don’t know why I didn’t see it coming. I had literally no fucking clue she would take a knife from the butcher block and stab the serrated edge into me. And that’s how it feels now, Chris. That’s how it fucking feels.”

  For a flash, I can hear Elise saying those same words. They sound precisely like how she must have felt when she learned of her husband’s transgression. And in this moment, my anger, fueled by the short straw that two people I care about were handed, intensifies. I hate that they were duped.

  Erik’s voice breaks, but if tears were coming, he tamps them down, drawing a sharp and angry breath. “It’s not right that you and Elise are putting on this whole production for me.”

  “I think I can manage pretending to like Elise a little bit,” I deadpan. If he only knew the half of it—that I’m pretending not to be completely mad about her.

  “Yeah? It’s not so awful?”

  “We’re faking it fine, thank you very much. Enough about me. I want to know how I can help you. Do you still love her?”

  He moans and shakes his head, then nods. “Yes, no. Yes, no. I want to be over her.” He pushes out a strained laugh. “Can you get me a pill? Something, anything to make me not feel a thing for Jandy?”

  I smile faintly. “If there were one, I’d get it. But in the meantime, want to go to the movies and see a stupid Will Ferrell comedy? Those always make you laugh.”

  He smiles, as if he can’t help it. “Talladega Nights?” He places his hands together as if praying. “If there’s a goddess, then some theater will be showing Talladega Nights.”

  “That theater is known as Netflix, I believe.”

  But there’s also a theater in the second arrondissement where we find a Will Ferrell “retrospective” is underway, so I steal him from the office and take him to see Ricky Bobby tear up the racetrack.

  If this isn’t fate looking out for us, I don’t know what it is.

  When Friday arrives, Elise texts me to tell me she’ll be at the field a few minutes before the game starts.

  I write back that I’ll see her when she arrives, and I’ll kick a goal for her. I finish my stretches and look around once more.

  A woman calls out my name. But the voice isn’t the one I want to hear.

  I look over to the edge of the field to see a tall woman with high cheekbones and dirty-blond hair.

  “Christian, can we chat?”

  It’s my brother’s wife.

  29

  ELISE

  My stomach flip-flops, and my hands are cold. I press the elevator button for the sixth floor, wishing I wasn’t so nervous.

  But this chance feels so big.

  The Luxe isn’t only a potential client. It’s a potential client who could vault me to the next level. This is the goal I’ve been reaching for.

  As I wait, my phone dings and a new note from John Thompson pops up on the screen. My nerves twist higher as I open it.

  Time to grab that drink? :)

  I close it. I don’t want to be thinking of my competition when I walk into Nate Harper’s office at his request. I do my best to sweep John from my mind.

  The elevator arrives, and I step inside, shutting off my phone as I head to Nate’s floor. The receptionist escorts me to his office and asks if I want anything.

  “Water would be great.” My throat is a desert.

  I glance around at his office, a handsome space with a leather couch, a black desk with only a framed photo of what looks to be Nate and his wife, and a manila folder on the wood surface. Pictures of his hotel properties from around the world adorn the walls, as well as another shot of the pretty blond woman with her arms around him under a sunset on the beach. They look happy—100 percent, genuinely happy. I can see it in their eyes.

  Nate strides in with a glass of water and hands it to me. “Here you go, Elise,” he says with a smile.

  I take a gulp and set down the glass, then shake his hand.

  “Please take a seat,” he says, and nerves scale my body again as I sit.

  He leans against the desk. “I met with a few agencies, and it came down to you and Thompson Group.”

  My shoulders tense. Then, a horrid idea smashes into me. Should I have met with John Thompson after all? Would that have helped? Did I miss a chance again, even though all my instincts told me to stay the course? But meeting with the competition during the pitch phase isn’t wise. It’s not how it’s done.

  “We will be outsourcing some of the media work to his shop,” Nate says, and I hold my breath. “He really knows some aspects well. But the bulk of the work is yours, and I’m pleased to offer Durand Media the contract to oversee the advertising campaign for our new European resort rollout.”

  I float to the sky, a thousand stars twinkling brightly. “I’m so thrilled. I can’t wait to start.”

  “Can you go to New York next week? To meet with some of my executives there?”

  “I’d love to.”

  This feels like more than winning. It feels like I can trust my gut again. That is the ultimate victory.