My heart skipped out sometime after midnight and ran away from me, flinging itself at Christian. Now here I am, popping champagne gummy bears into my mouth.
I don’t even like gummy bears. I like cinnamon sticks and clarity. I like walls and safety.
And I like Christian. More than all those other things. I like him more than buying gifts. My shoulders sag. “I might, possibly, just a little bit, have fallen for the man I married,” I say in a low confession, waiting for the reprimand.
Veronica squeals and punches the air, up, down, over and over, like it’s a new workout routine.
I scoff. “Why are you excited? It’s awful. My chest aches. I feel like I have a stomach bug all the time. And my brain is operating at hazy levels, like the weather report inside my head says smog for miles.”
She smiles wickedly. “Because I was right. Being right is such a wonderful moment that it must be celebrated.”
“Fine, you were right. I’m not a cinnamon stick,” I grumble.
She points at me, so pleased with herself, as she speaks in a sing-song voice. “You’re a lemon gumdrop, Elise.”
I shove another champagne bear in my mouth. “I’m going to turn into a drunk gummy bear.”
She rubs her hands together. “What are you going to do?”
“Keep faking it?” I offer.
“Why?”
“Because that’s what this is. Now I have to fake things in a whole new way. I have to pretend I don’t want to throw myself at him and wrap my arms around him every time I see him. I have to act like I don’t want to smother him in kisses and tell him he’s the one.” I cringe at the words tumbling from my lips. “What’s wrong with me? Falling in love is awful. It turns your brain to mush.”
She grabs a large silver bowl and stirs the sugar mix in it with a wooden spoon. “Or you could say, ‘I want to make hot Viking babies with you.’”
“You know he’s only half Viking, right?”
She waves her free hand dismissively. “The babies would be one quarter Viking, one quarter Brit, one quarter French, one quarter American, and one hundred percent awesome.” She squeals as she stirs. “And you’d be so cute pregnant. An adorable little creature waddling around in your cute glasses and hot skirts.”
I shoot her an admonishing stare. “You’re not helping.”
“Oh, sorry. Did you want me to say ‘I told you so’ again? Would that help?” She adopts a too-perfect smile.
“No.”
Setting down the spoon, she gives me a stern stare, but softens her voice. “Then what do you need? Elise, you married him. You were and are attracted to him. You learned he’s brilliant and wonderful, and you have feelings for him. Do you think he reciprocates?”
An image of Christian over me, his crystal-blue eyes gazing into mine, blasts before me. An involuntary fleet of tingles spreads down my body. Then, as I think about how he talks to me, how he treats me, my heart turns warm, like it’s radiating in my chest. “Just because he makes me feel all soft inside, and just because he likes to spend time with me, doesn’t mean there’s anything deeper.”
“Or does it? Maybe it means you can date your husband.”
I furrow my brow. “Date my husband?”
“Yes. Date him. Keep going. Screw the expiration date. Just keep on keeping on with him even when the deal expires.”
I suppose that’s a possibility. We could always finish the job, so to speak, but keep working overtime. Of course, that assumes he wants to, and I’ve no idea if he does.
My phone rings, and I grab it from my purse. Nate called earlier, asking me to move my flight up to tomorrow, so I did. Maybe it’s him again. But I don’t recognize the number. In case it’s a prospective new client, I answer quickly. “Hello, this is Elise.”
“Elise, this is Diana. I’m in town, and I have something that I believe is yours.”
The other wife’s voice shoots me to another time, as my past shoves itself into my present.
32CHRISTIAN
When Oliver flies to Paris, I meet him after his appointments and we make our way to the river. He’s taking off for New York tomorrow. As we cross the avenue, a woman asks us where the nearest pharmacy is.
Oliver stares blankly at her, while I gesture in the direction, answering in French. “Prenez à droite, ce sera au coin de la rue,” telling her to take a right since it’s around the corner.
“Merci,” she calls out.
I smack my cousin’s arm. “You should learn French.”
Oliver huffs and gives me an annoyed look. “Did you ask me to join you for a drink so you could give me Important Life Advice on language skills.”
“Of course. My advice is excellent.”
“You need a job.”
“I have a job. I’m busy constantly,” I say, since tomorrow I’m working for a Danish investor who’s in Paris to meet with some potential French business partners.
“Yet, you found time to tell me what to do. Or did you ask me to join you for a stroll along the river so you could ask moi for advice?”
“Impressive how you’d assume I need your advice rather than your fine company for a drink, you wanker. We’re supposed to be getting a beer.”
He laughs. “I never forget beer.”
But as we head to the pub, I soldier myself for the advice I actually need. “What would you say if I told you that you were right about mixing business with pleasure?”
He laughs as we turn the corner. “Of course I’m right. I’m an excellent judge of many things.”
“So, this woman I’m married to . . .”
“Wait. Nooooo. No, you didn’t.” He stares at me with wide eyes. Points accusingly. “You did. You fell for her.”
“Want to remind me that you warned me about this?”
“If I were to, I’d remind you quite specifically that you said, ‘We aren’t mixing business with pleasure. We’re uniting for two mutual goals.’”
“That sounds like something I’d say.”
Oliver claps me on the back. “So you did it. You mixed business with pleasure. And I presume you’re about to give men a bad name and crush her heart?”
“No. Remember when I said she’d break mine?”
He stops. His voice drops lower, etched with concern. “Has she?”
