Part-Time Lover (Part-Time Lover #1)(37)

Then, I knew nothing of romantic love, or of sex appeal, of course. Now I do, and I want to share the story of my wedding day with you.

I slipped into a white scoop-neck dress, clipped my hair up on both sides in silver barrettes, and headed down the stairs of the inn in Provence, surrounded by family.

Once outside, my father walked me down the aisle—a flagstone path in a garden. This was a small, intimate wedding amongst the lavender bushes and vineyards. My groom’s brother, his only family, stood by his side.

And I wore what you, my readers, my scentsual women, chose for me in the vote last week.

Marchesa Parfum d’Extase.

You picked it for me for my wedding day, and you chose well. It’s delicate and fresh with soft iris notes and hints of violet leaves, then a trail of night jasmine in its wake.

Now, a month later, as my husband is off traveling and I glance at the calendar, counting the days until I’ll see him again, I open the elegant crystal bottle and I’m transported instantly to that day, surrounded by lavender and promises of always.

Thank you for the gift.



Yours in noses,

A Scentsual Woman





22





Elise





Present day



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.”