Packaged Husband

by Noelle Adams

  Packaged Husband

  Trophy Husbands, Book Three

  Noelle Adams

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Noelle Adams. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  ________________________________________________

  Can't Help Falling In Love

  Words and Music by George David Weiss, Hugo Peretti and Luigi Creatore

  Copyright (c) 1961 Gladys Music

  Copyright Renewed

  Extended U.S. Renewal and British Reversionary Territories Assigned to Abilene Music LLC, HJP Music, Hugo Peretti Music and Luigi Creatore Music

  Administered in the United States during the Extended Renewal by Steve Peter Music

  All Rights Reserved Used by Permission

  Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About Packaged Husband

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Living with Her Fake Fiancé

  About Noelle Adams

  About Packaged Husband

  ON A WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, Owen Masterson asks me to marry him.

  I've never met the man before.

  All I wanted was a job repackaging his image. He needs to ramp up his cool-factor to attract partnerships with better designers for his family's department store. But he wants me to be his temporary trophy wife instead.

  I need to get out from under my grandfather's control and don't really care how I do it. Honestly, I'll rock the hell out of being a temporary trophy wife.

  So maybe I'll marry him for a year, even though he has no social skills and he's a lot older than me. But I'm not going to fall for him.

  I hope.

  One

  Sunday, 10:43 p.m.

  Dear Mr. Masterson,

  My brother-in-law, Trevor Bentley, told me that you need to repackage your image in order to attract higher-profile designers for partnerships with Masterson’s Department Stores. I am a packaging expert and would love to discuss how I can help you repackage yourself.

  Trevor also mentioned you joked about needing a temporary trophy wife. If there is any truth to that, I’d be happy to discuss that as well.

  I’m attaching a résumé with my qualifications as a personal packager. I look forward to hearing from you.

  Sincerely,

  Chelsea Greyson

  Monday, 6:42 a.m.

  Who the hell is this?

  OM

  Monday, 9:36 a.m.

  My name is Chelsea Greyson. I’m the granddaughter of Pop Greyson (of Pop’s Home Cooking) who I believe you’ve met on several occasions. My sister is Melissa Greyson, who works at the executive level at Pop’s. She said she talked to you a few weeks ago at a Charleston business luncheon. She is married to Trevor Bentley, who I understand is a friend of yours. Trevor said he ran into you on Friday evening at a cookout at Carl Jenson’s house. It was Trevor who told me that you need help in repackaging your image to attract better designers to your department stores.

  I realize this email comes out of the blue, but I believe I can help you if you’re serious about changing your image. I’m reattaching a résumé with my qualifications, and I’d love to discuss this with you further.

  Sincerely,

  Chelsea Greyson

  Monday, 10:03 a.m.

  I looked at your résumé. You don’t have any work history.

  OM

  Monday, 11:27 a.m.

  I do realize I’m lacking a work history, but I don’t think that’s relevant in this situation. My expertise is in knowing what makes people look good and how to come across as stylish and relevant. I understand from Trevor that this is exactly what you need. I’m reattaching my résumé, highlighting the areas in which I can help you. I’m also adding a list of ten references you can contact if you need further information about me and the assistance I can offer you.

  I can help you, Mr. Masterson. I’m familiar with Masterson’s stores, and from the research I’ve done on you, I agree you need to change your image if you want to attract better designers. I have a lot of ideas on how we can make that happen for you if you’re willing to hear me out.

  I’m available to meet with you at your convenience.

  Sincerely,

  Chelsea Greyson

  Monday, 11:46 a.m.

  I have 30 minutes free at 3:30 on Wednesday afternoon. Come then if you want.

  OM

  Monday, 11:53 a.m.

  Thank you for the opportunity. I’ll see you at 3:30 on Wednesday at your office. I look forward to discussing possibilities with you.

  Sincerely,

  Chelsea Greyson

  AFTER TWENTY-FOUR YEARS, being the “pretty one” starts to get old.

  Maybe pretty should be a compliment, but it isn’t always. Sometimes it’s an implied insult. Particularly when it’s the only label people ever apply to you.

  If you’re one of three blond sisters, you’re going to get labeled as something—if only so people can tell you and your sisters apart. My oldest sister, Melissa, is the bossy one. The ultracompetent one. The one who makes things happen without even trying. And my middle sister, Sam, is the smart one.

  That leaves me. Chelsea Greyson. The youngest of my family. The baby. The spoiled princess.

  The pretty one.

  No one knows anything else to call me.

  Both my sisters are attractive, so it’s not like I’m uniquely beautiful. But neither of them puts much effort into their appearance. I dress stylishly and always do my hair, makeup, and nails. I can be counted on to invariably look good, and not many people try to see beyond that.

  Pop definitely doesn’t.

  Pop is my grandfather. He founded a successful regional restaurant chain called Pop’s Home Cooking and made a ton of money. He raised my sisters and me after our parents died when I was eight.

  Other than each other, Pop is all the family we have. But I’ve always been nothing but the “pretty one” to Pop, and that’s all I’ll ever be.

  At the moment, Pop and I are having our weekly lunch, and he’s giving me his look of amused disappointment, as if I’m a miniature poodle who’s forgotten how to do its tricks. I’m used to that look. I get it all the time, and not just from my grandfather.

  Pop has white hair and a long handlebar mustache that bristles with his mood.

  It’s not bristling now because he’s not surprised by me. He’s disappointed, but he’s used to that.

  “I am trying, Pop,” I say, holding on to my smile with effort. “It’s not easy to find a job since I have absolutely no work experience. I’ve never had a job before.”

  “So what? You’ve got a college degree. And you’re my granddaughter.”

  It’s more than evident that the latter qualification is what Pop believes should net me gainful employment. I went to a decent college and got Bs without trying very hard. I’m smart enough for most things, but I’m not as smart as Sam.

  I’m not smart enough to impress Pop.

  But he’s been treated as a king in Charleston, West Virginia, for as long as I’ve been alive, and he believes his reputation should cast its warm glow onto me.

  “I could definitely get some sort of job.” I’m trying not to l
ose my patience since getting angry with Pop only makes his obnoxious tendencies worse. “But it would be the lowest of entry-level positions. I’m okay with that, but you’re not. No one is going to hire me for the kind of job you’re thinking about without any work experience.”

  “I would,” he grumbles. “Why don’t you just work for me?”

  Working at Pop’s—with Melissa and/or Pop as a boss—sounds like a nightmare scenario to me.

  I’m not foolish enough to say so, however.

  “I don’t want to work at Pop’s. It’s nothing personal, but Melissa already works there. I want to do something different.”

  “What about Trevor? Maybe he’d hire you.”

  I take a deep breath and let it out. “I don’t want to work for my brother-in-law, Pop. Besides, he has a small staff, and everyone who works for him is top-notch. He’s not going to want to hire me.”

  Melissa’s husband, Trevor, owns his own marketing firm. Yet another successful person in my social circle. I’m surrounded by them. Even Sam’s husband, Hunter, who was in prison for two years, is moving up fast in the finance department at Pop’s.

  Everyone is good at a career except me.

  “I’ll make some calls,” Pop says, his mustache starting to quiver for the first time.

  “Please don’t make calls, Pop. I want a job that I get myself. Not one you bully someone into hiring me for.”

  “I wouldn’t—”

  “Please, Pop. I’m not going to accept a job that you engineer for me. Anyway, I’ve got an interview tomorrow for a job.”

  “You do? With who? What’s the job?”

  I hesitate since the last thing I want is for Pop to call up Owen Masterson this afternoon and mess up the best job possibility I’ve ever had. “I’d rather not say yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Pop, I’m an adult. Surely I can go about my job search on my own.”

  His mustache quivers at me.

  “It’s something I’d be really good at it. It would just be a temporary contract, but it might lead to other opportunities. I’ll tell you about it when I can. Right now I’ve initiated this and gotten the interview entirely on my own. It’s important to me that I do this on my own.”

  He frowns. “You’re as stubborn as your sisters, girl.”

  “I know that. What else would you expect?”

  I’m hoping this means the topic is over.

  I’ve been trying to find a job for the past few months, and I suppose this weekly inquisition is Pop’s way of helping. He’s been supporting me financially my whole life, and I normally wouldn’t have a problem with this. But Pop’s money always comes with strings—he believes if he supports me, then he has a right to run my life—and I’ve seen my sisters cutting those strings over the past year or two.

  I want to do the same thing.

  But that means getting a job when I’ve never had one before.

  Yes, I’m spoiled. I don’t deny it. You tell a girl just out of college that she doesn’t have to work and she can have a nice apartment and nice clothes and have fun on her grandfather’s bank account. And I’d like to see how many girls would say no to that arrangement.

  It’s only later that the strings start to reveal themselves.

  It’s time now for me to live my life, and I’m doing my best to get started. But until I get a job or another way to support myself, I’m pretty much stuck putting up with Pop’s lectures and interference.

  “I didn’t expect you to be so on board with me getting a job,” I say to him now, picking out an olive and a crumble of feta cheese from my salad and putting them into my mouth. “I thought you’d rather I get married.”

  “Eh.”

  I raise my eyebrows at that. “Eh? Isn’t marriage the best thing for women? The only thing that will really fulfill us?”

  I’m quoting Pop here. I don’t believe it myself. But Pop is as old-fashioned as they come, and he’s always believed his three granddaughters need solid men to take care of us and keep us in order.

  “Yes. But I don’t think you’re ready yet. You’d pick some pretty fool and then be stuck with him all your life. You need to grow up some first. A job’ll be good for you.”

  I don’t have much of a temper. I’m a good-natured person. I like to laugh, and I like to understand people.

  But I’m suddenly so angry that I clench my hand around the stem of my water glass.

  I might be a bit spoiled, but I’m also an adult woman.

  I can get married if I want to get married.

  I don’t need to grow up. I already have.

  “So you don’t want me to get married after all?”

  “Sure I do. But not yet. That would be the worst thing you can do. Get a job first. Work for a couple of years. Then you might find a nice, stable fella who’ll have you for a wife.”

  My hand squeezes dangerously around the stem of my glass.

  Melissa and Sam call me contrary. Maybe I am.

  But I know this much is true.

  Instead of leaving lunch focused on finding a job, I’m tempted to find a husband.

  I’M SO ANGRY AND FRUSTRATED that afternoon that I call up my best friend, Eva, for an emergency shopping trip.

  We go to three of our favorite stores, but I don’t buy anything even though I’m looking for the perfect outfit for my interview with Owen Masterson tomorrow. And I’m more upset than ever after two hours.

  “We can check out Masterson’s after this if you want to keep looking,” Eva says. She’s a short, curvy redhead who works in a salon, and I’ve known her since kindergarten. “Maybe he’d get a kick out of you wearing something from his store.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. All Masterson’s carries are old-people clothes. I think you have to be over sixty to even be allowed in. If he’s looking for a makeover, the first thing to do is not shop at his store.”

  “It’s not that bad. They’re starting to get some better stuff there now.”

  I snort. “If you say so. I haven’t seen much evidence. No wonder the poor guy needs help.”

  “Well, then what do you want to do about the interview outfit tomorrow? We’ve seen at least three dresses that are gorgeous and look perfect on you.”

  “I know. But none of them are exactly what I’m looking for.”

  “We both know the one you’re looking for. We saw it two hours ago. We can just go back and get it.”

  “It’s too expensive.”

  Those aren’t normally words that come out of my mouth. Pop is rich enough for me to buy anything I want, and the one good thing about him is that he never nitpicks particular purchases. He gives me a lecture if the credit card bill is too high at the end of the month, and I make adjustments accordingly.

  Eva knows me well. She slants me a look. “Since when has a dress you wanted been too expensive?”

  “It is now.”

  She’s been browsing a rack of discounted designer tops for herself, but she turns to face me. “What’s going on, Chelsea? What happened at lunch with Pop?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing really. I mean, just normal stuff. He’s disappointed that I can’t find a good job, and he’s disappointed in everything else about me too.”

  “He’s always like that, and you can usually shrug it off. What’s worse today?”

  “I don’t even know. He said I’m not grown-up enough to even have a husband. You know how he’s always been about pressuring us to get married. If he doesn’t even think I’m good enough to do that, where does that leave me? He just... he made me feel bad about myself.”

  Eva puts down her shopping bag and gives me a hug. “Well, don’t let him. You’re an amazing person, and everyone who knows you knows it.”

  “Thanks.” After a minute, I pull away and smile. “It kind of makes me want to find a husband just to spite him.”

  “Oh please. You’re not going to follow your sisters’ examples, are you?”

  “I don’t know. It worked out for t
hem.”

  Both my sisters ended up in unconventional marriage arrangements—triggered by Pop’s pressure and unreasonableness—and they both ended up falling in love with their husbands.

  It is tempting.

  Both of them are so happy.

  I don’t really think I am.

  I know for sure that no man has ever looked at me the way Trevor looks at Melissa and Hunter looks at Sam.

  It’s intimidating. To have that kind of love to live up to. That deep, unflinching adoration.

  I want it. Of course I do.

  But what man is ever going to look at me as anything but the pretty one?

  “All right,” Eva says with a twitch of a smile. “So propose to Owen Masterson like you were originally planning.”

  I almost choke. “I was just joking about that.”

  “Were you really?”

  “Well, maybe not entirely. When Trevor said he has a friend who needs a temporary trophy wife, it just seemed... too perfect to be real. Wouldn’t I be a great trophy wife?”

  I’m teasing. Mostly.

  “You’re certainly gorgeous enough, and you’re great at feeding men’s egos, and you make better small talk than anyone I know. But you’d end up hating it. You’d just trade Pop for another demanding old man.”

  “Yeah. That’s what I decided. That’s why I changed my mind about the idea and am just looking for a job instead. I don’t want a man to control me the way Pop does. I want to stand on my own two feet.”

  “So you should. Although, in all honesty, if you made a business arrangement with Owen Masterson about being his temporary trophy wife, it would be more like a job than a relationship. It would be a fair trade rather than him controlling you. I still get a kick out of that idea.”