Packaged Husband

by Noelle Adams

  “Why?”

  Why?

  Why?

  Why?

  “Because you’re not saying anything, and it’s making this a lot harder than it needs to be. We’re supposed to be on a date.”

  Something different is happening on his face. His jaw looks tense, and he gnaws on his lower lip for just a minute. He’s not quite meeting my eyes. “This is how I act on a date.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I’m not good at this. I’m not good... with women.”

  I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to be good with me. We’ve got a deal, right? You’ve got me, no matter what you do. So why can’t you just be yourself.”

  “This is myself.”

  “No, it’s not. I heard you talking to Eva. You were perfectly fine. You even smiled and laughed. I know this isn’t yourself.”

  “It’s myself with women like you.”

  I’m relieved to be having this conversation, but I stiffen up at that. “What do you mean, like me? What’s wrong with me?”

  His eyes narrow, but at least he’s looking at me now. “You’re too pretty,” he blurts out.

  I blink. “What?”

  “You’re too pretty.”

  “I’m—”

  “Too pretty.”

  I giggle self-consciously. “That’s crazy.”

  “No, it’s not. You’re too pretty. It makes me nervous.”

  I’m flushing and trying not to be so gratified by this very ungraceful compliment. “Well, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about that. I can’t go around with a bag on my head.”

  “A bag wouldn’t help.”

  “Why not?”

  For the first time, there’s a glint in his eyes. Maybe amusement. “I’d still be able to see your body.”

  I laugh for real. “Oh my God, Owen! I guess I appreciate the compliment, but you’ve got to get over being nervous. Why are you nervous in the first place? You know you don’t have to impress me or act a certain way to get what you want from me. I’m going to marry you no matter what, unless you suddenly turn into an asshole. There’s nothing for you to be nervous about.”

  “I know that. But I told you before. I’m not good at this. Why do you think I need help?” He has relaxed some now, and it’s a big relief.

  He finally feels like a real person to me, and I want to be a real person to him too. “Okay. I get it. I’m glad that’s all it was. I was afraid you didn’t like me.”

  “I like you fine.”

  “Okay. Good. So try to act like it. We’re supposed to be falling hard for each other, and no one is going to believe it if you sit there and act like you’re at the dentist.”

  He gives me a twitch of a smile. “I don’t act this way at the dentist.”

  “Just with me?”

  “Just with you.”

  The words shouldn’t make me feel special, but they do.

  I smile at him. “Okay. Well, let’s try again. What are some of your favorite things?”

  “My favorite things?”

  “Yes. Your favorite things. What do you really like? Tell me some things. Little things that make you happy.”

  He thinks for a minute. “I like good coffee.”

  “Good. Me too. What else?”

  “I like rib eye steaks. I like murder mysteries. Books and movies.”

  “I like sushi. And romantic comedies.”

  “You would.”

  I’m blushing now because of the look in his eyes. I can’t even explain what it is, but it’s making me excited. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you look like you’d like romantic comedies. It wasn’t an insult.”

  “Okay. Good. What else do you like?”

  “I like Prague. And Florence, Italy. And the Forest of Dean in England.”

  “Oh. I’ve never been to any of those places. I like New York and Paris.”

  His mouth is twitching again.

  “Don’t say it. I’m not that predictable. What else do you like?”

  “I like the feel of leather and the smell of good cigars.”

  “Do you smoke them?”

  “Only occasionally. But I like the smell.”

  “What else?”

  “When I was a kid, my grandfather would take me to the Masterson’s downtown—the first store he opened—and we’d walk around before the doors opened on Saturday mornings. He’d tell me about everything he was doing in the store. I loved that.”

  “You did? Why?”

  “I don’t know.” He’s been meeting my eyes, but his gaze drops now to his mostly empty cup of ice cream. “It was this feeling of... familiarity, ownership. Like this was ours. Our store. Our responsibility. I still do that sometimes on Saturday mornings. Just walk around the store.”

  “Really?” I’m smiling like a fool now. “I really like that. Melissa feels that way about Pop’s, but I never have. I guess I’ve never felt like anything was mine like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even have a... a real home. One that’s mine.”

  “Why don’t you get one?”

  “I want to. That’s why I’m doing this whole thing.”

  “Marrying me to get a home?” His dark eyebrows lift.

  “Not your home,” I say in a rush. “I promise I’m not going to start thinking your place is my home. I’m just tired of always feeling like an appendage. Of not being my own person.”

  “You could get a job and support yourself.”

  “I know.” I put down my spoon and slump back against the chair. “I’m trying. I’ve been looking for months now, but it’s hard because I’ve never worked a day in my life. I really am a spoiled princess, and that doesn’t make for a good résumé. I could get some sort of job, but I’d still have to live with one of my friends or one of my sisters, and I... I’d still feel like an appendage.”

  He’s listening to me now. I can tell. He’s rubbing his jaw. “So how does this marriage help you?”

  “It gives me a year. And I won’t feel like an appendage with you because we have a fair deal. I’m helping you, and you’re helping me. It’s an equal trade-off.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah. I get it.”

  “Plus it’s really going to piss off Pop.”

  He smiles for real. The first time with me. “I’ve only met Pop a couple of times, but pissing him off sounds like motivation enough for me.”

  So I decide I like Owen a lot more than I initially thought.

  WE’RE GETTING READY to leave when I notice an acquaintance of mine come into the shop with a guy I don’t know.

  I’m not exactly friends with Shelley, but we went to school together, and I see her around town fairly often.

  “I know the woman who just walked in,” I tell Owen, who’s gotten quiet again.

  He turns to look. Fortunately Shelley is looking in a different direction so she doesn’t see him staring at her.

  “We should act like this is a real date,” I tell him. “It will be good practice.”

  “Okay.” He looks at me and then down at his empty ice cream cup. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Put your arm around me as we leave. And try to act like you want to be hanging out with me.”

  He blinks. “Okay.”

  I’m shaking my head as I stand up. He stands stiffly until I go over to him, and then he puts an arm around me like I’m his aged grandmother.

  Unable to hold back a chuckle, I adjust his arm so his hand is resting on the curve of my hip. “Haven’t you put an arm around a woman before?”

  “Sure. But not because she told me to.”

  I’m giggling like crazy now. He’s looking perplexed, and it’s adorable. “I wouldn’t have to tell you if you didn’t act like I might burn you. I’m really very touchable, you know.”

  His eyes hold mine for just a moment, and something changes in his expression that makes my
breath hitch. “I believe you.”

  “So touch me,” I manage to say.

  “I am touching you.”

  “Okay. Good. So now you can walk.”

  He does walk, and he’s still looking at me, and for no good reason it’s getting me going.

  I mean, really getting me going. My cheeks are flushed, and my heart is racing. I’m breathing shallowly.

  And I’m tingling. All over.

  I look away from Owen before I end up doing something stupid and embarrassing myself in front of this man who’s clearly not affected by my closeness at all.

  When I look over at Shelley, I see she’s watching us.

  She smiles and waves and gives Owen one of those looks of teasing curiosity I’m very used to. “Chelsea! How good to see you!”

  I return her greeting and keep myself glued to Owen’s side as we walk over. I’m prepared to simply say a couple of friendly words and leave without introductions, but Shelley introduces the guy she’s with so I have to do the same.

  “This is Owen Masterson,” I say, beaming up at him like I’m besotted.

  He blinks down at me, and it’s a little too long before he turns toward Shelley. “Hi, Shelley,” he says, keeping his arm around me and giving a little wave with his other.

  I assume it’s because he’s not in a position to comfortably shake hands, but it works for me. It comes off as dismissively polite, which is exactly the right attitude for Shelley.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Owen,” Shelley says, turning her obnoxious smile to him. “Are you the Owen Masterson of Masterson’s department stores?”

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  “Oh. Wow. How did you meet little Chelsea?”

  I’m having trouble not snapping my teeth now, but I’m good at this kind of thing. “We were set up on a blind date. Worked out pretty well. I’ll see you around, Shelley.”

  And then I start for the door, dragging Owen with me.

  “Well, now the whole world is going to know we’re dating,” I say as we step out onto the sidewalk.

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Yes. That’s good. I went to school with Shelley. I just don’t like her at all.”

  “She’s jealous of you.”

  I stop and look at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think I mean? She’s jealous of you. She probably had to look at you all through school. And you were always prettier and more popular than she was.”

  “What makes you think I was pretty and popular?”

  “Of course you were. You’ve been the star of every room you ever walked into, and it probably always bothered her.”

  “I was always nice to her.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Jealousy doesn’t work that way.”

  “Maybe.” I feel kind of depressed for no good reason. “All right. Well, it’s just as well we saw her. She’s a terrible gossip, so everyone is going to know by tomorrow. If anyone asks you about us, remember to act like you’re crazy about me.”

  He’s giving me that look I don’t really understand. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good. I’ll do my best too.”

  I GO OUT WITH OWEN for the next three Saturday nights, and those dates go better. At least we’re basically getting along, even though things still feel weird and artificial.

  On the fourth Saturday after our first date, we fly to Vegas to get married.

  We’ve talked about options, and this is what we’ve decided on as the easiest thing that still comes across as fun and spontaneous.

  It’s not the kind of wedding I’d choose for myself, but this isn’t my real wedding.

  Better to get it over with. And at least this way we’ll have a story to tell.

  When we get to town, we scout out wedding chapels, and we end up picking the funniest, tackiest place we can find.

  Elvis themed.

  We ham it up so we can get good pictures. Or rather, I ham it up, and I pressure Owen into doing things he never would have done otherwise. I even make him sing me “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” It takes about five minutes of pressuring him, but I don’t give up, telling him it will be a perfect way to come across as both human and entertaining to potential business partners, so he gets in front of a microphone and sings the song.

  He knows all the words, and he’s got a decent voice.

  He does the whole thing with a perfectly straight face.

  I’m giggling helplessly at the end of it, barely able to hold my phone steady so I can film him.

  So we’re married as we leave the chapel, both of us wearing gold wedding bands and me also wearing a pretty emerald-cut diamond solitaire on a matching band that he bought for me.

  “I can’t believe you made me do that,” he grumbles as we walk back toward the hotel, which is a few blocks away.

  “I can’t believe you actually did it.”

  “You told me it would be good.”

  “It will be. I promise you. People are going to love this when I show it to them. It will solidify that you’re really not a fuddy-duddy.”

  “I am a fuddy-duddy.”

  “But everyone doesn’t have to know that. I’m telling you, this is perfect.”

  “Okay. You’re the expert.”

  He’s wearing a suit again today. I’ve actually never seen him in anything else. It’s just as boring and unstylish as ever, but for some reason he looks better-looking than normal tonight.

  His hair is rumpled, and he has a slight five-o’clock shadow. The lines around his eyes and mouth are more pronounced than normal, and his body looks both hot and relaxed.

  His expression is slightly rueful, slightly amused.

  I like him this way.

  I wonder how it will feel to press up against his body. I wonder how those hands would feel on my body. Those thin, mobile lips on my mouth. And on other parts of my body.

  He might be a fuddy-duddy, but he got in front of a camera and sang an Elvis song because I asked him to.

  There are depths to him I never would have expected.

  We’re married now.

  And we agreed we could have sex if we wanted.

  I wouldn’t mind trying it out.

  I wouldn’t mind at all.

  As we ride up the elevator, I think through how I should approach the topic. I could just try kissing him, but he’s still kind of stiff and awkward around me sometimes, and he might not respond well to being kissed out of the blue.

  Should I just ask him if he wants to have sex?

  Surely a guy wouldn’t mind being asked that. I’m not the best catch in the world, but I’m attractive enough. And single, straight, available men are usually willing to give sex a try when offered.

  At least in my experience.

  I’m mulling it over as we get to our room.

  It’s not actually a room. It’s a suite. And my heart sinks a bit when I realize it’s a two-bedroom suite.

  It’s a very nice suite in a very nice hotel.

  But going to bed together won’t be natural if we each have our own room.

  Maybe I should just ask.

  So are you interested in having a real wedding night?

  We mentioned sex was on the table, and I wouldn’t mind giving it a try.

  Do you want to have sex?

  How the hell am I supposed to ask him?

  “What’s wrong?” Owen asks. He’s toed off his shoes and is standing in the middle of the living area of the suite, pulling his tie loose.

  “Nothing.”

  “Something is.” He’s frowning. “I’m not going to jump you, you know.”

  “What?”

  “If that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not going to jump you. Proposition you. I’m not looking for sex tonight if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  My back stiffens with a jerk. “I’m not worried.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say so. Why would I be worried about that?”

/>   “I got two bedrooms so you wouldn’t be uncomfortable.”

  I’m glaring at him now, but I can’t help it. Even when he’s being nice, he still ends up annoying me. “I’m not uncomfortable.”

  “Okay then.” He raises skeptical eyebrows that prove he doesn’t believe me. “I’m hot and sweaty, so I’m going to take a shower.”

  “You do that. I’m going to order room service.”

  “Get anything you want. Champagne or whatever.”

  “I will.”

  “I don’t care about what it costs.”

  “Good to know. I’ll get their best stuff then.” I’m still feeling feisty. If he can be clueless and annoying, then I can make him pay for good champagne.

  “Do it. I’m taking a shower.”

  He goes into the smaller bedroom and closes the door.

  I stand and glare at the door for a minute, but it’s a futile effort since he can’t see me, and it doesn’t make me feel better.

  It’s no big deal anyway.

  It’s not like I’m dying to go to bed with him.

  He’s not even good-looking.

  Not really.

  Not much.

  And he’s probably terrible in bed anyway.

  He’d go at it with his unflinching focus and sobriety.

  I wouldn’t find that sexy.

  I wouldn’t.

  Once this is clear in my mind, I call down to room service and order champagne and shrimp and pasta and a rib eye for Owen and chocolate cake and chocolate-dipped strawberries.

  One way or another, I’m going to have a good evening.

  It’s my wedding night after all.

  Three

  I END UP HAVING A DECENT wedding night.

  When our room service comes, we find an old movie on TV and watch it while we eat. By the time the movie is over, it’s late, and we’ve finished all the food and the whole bottle of champagne, so we end up going to bed.

  Not together.

  I still wouldn’t mind it, but I’m not going to put Owen on the spot by asking. Not when he’s said very clearly he has no plans to have sex with me tonight.

  It’s fine. All that food and alcohol have made me sleepy anyway, and I only stay awake for a few minutes.

  Our plane doesn’t leave until two the following afternoon, so I sleep in until around nine. When I come out of my bedroom in my pajamas, I don’t see Owen. I call out, but no one answers. The door to his bedroom is still closed.