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