A Wedded Arrangement
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.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About A Wedded Arrangement
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Epilogue
Excerpt from Wrong Wedding
About Noelle Adams
About A Wedded Arrangement
WITH THREE MONTHS REMAINING of her marriage of convenience, Savannah is ready to say goodbye to her spoiled rich boy of a husband. He's annoying and argumentative and used to always getting his way. Sure, he's hot. And maybe occasionally a little bit sweet. But she doesn't want to stay married to him.
Not at all.
He needed a wife for a year so he could inherit his grandmother's fortune, and she needed to pay off her family's debts. That's all their marriage has ever been about.
So she really needs to stop falling into bed with him.
One
SAVANNAH EMERSON SOMETIMES wondered if her story looked like a cheesy romantic movie.
Smart-mouthed girl from the wrong side of the tracks meets spoiled rich boy with a hidden heart of gold. Conflict, banter, and misunderstandings ensue until they both change for the better, overcoming their differences and coming together after an overblown gesture of love. A future of wedded bliss awaits them as soon as the credits roll.
Her story was like that. Except for the parts about overcoming differences and falling in love. And the bliss. She hadn’t had much of that for the past nine months.
The marriage thing—that had happened to her. She’d found her very own spoiled rich boy to wed.
She’d despised Lance Carlyle for most of her life. He was the only son of one of the wealthiest families in the very wealthy town of Green Valley, North Carolina, and he’d spent his thirty-four years getting everything he wanted exactly when he wanted it. She’d known he was an entitled jackass since he was eight and she was five and he’d cheated to win the town’s Easter egg hunt, beating her out of a hundred-dollar prize that he had absolutely no use for.
At thirteen, she’d given the Porsche he’d gotten for his sixteenth birthday a shaving-cream-and-toilet-paper special. He’d deserved it after laughing at her indignation when she didn’t win the town’s junior photography contest. (She still occasionally compared the photograph she’d entered with the winning photo, and hers was unquestionably better.)
At seventeen, she’d been working at a local coffee shop, and he’d come in one afternoon while he was home on a college break. He’d complained to the manager about the service, and she’d ended up fired from her job.
She’d gotten out of Green Valley just as soon as she could—earning a college degree and an MFA in filmmaking—but she’d moved back home at twenty-six because her parents needed help when her mother got sick. Lance had never left town. His corporate consulting business was already thriving at that point, and she’d had to struggle not to sneer every time she saw him around town in his ridiculously expensive suits and his disgracefully indulgent Aston Martin. Most of the time they’d pretended the other didn’t exist since they didn’t share anything but a zip code, but occasionally his smirk was simply too infuriating. She’d make a smart remark—never quite under her breath—which would always prompt a response from him.
The man was clever. She had to give him that. He was every bit as quick with his tongue as she was, so she only sometimes got the better of him in an argument. Usually their encounters ended in a resentful draw.
Which was why she was so surprised when he approached her last year with a proposal.
An actual proposal.
Lance wanted nothing to do with his parents, and he’d been living on his own resources since he finished graduate school. His business evidently did very well, but men like him always wanted more. So when his grandmother died and left him as the sole beneficiary of her fortune, he was willing to do anything to get it.
Even marry a woman he disliked.
His grandmother’s will required he be married for a year before he could gain access to the money.
Savannah was the lucky bride. She’d had no delusions about why. She was obviously the most financially desperate woman Lance knew and the only one who would agree to the deal he wanted to make.
Her parents were drowning in medical bills from the extended treatment for her mother’s cancer, and Savannah was already underwater with student loans and credit cards. On the day she married Lance, he gave her a check for $200,000, which paid off all her and her parents’ debt, including the remaining mortgage on their row house.
On the day she and Lance signed their divorce papers—three months from now—she’d get another check for the same amount. She wouldn’t be rich, but she’d be secure. She could buy a place of her own and a car that didn’t have to be tinkered with constantly to keep running. She wouldn’t have to stress about how to pay her bills every month the way she’d done her entire life.
And all it took was marrying Lance Carlyle for one year.
Maybe she was a mercenary gold digger, but she didn’t really think so. She figured a lot of people might have done the same in her situation.
For the past nine months, she’d been living in Lance’s lakeside condo in one of the two exclusive gated communities in Green Valley. He had the entire top floor of the four-story building, and he’d given her the second bedroom, which on its own was almost as large as the inexpensive apartment she’d been renting before she married him.
At seven fifteen on a morning in late September, she was sitting on a stool at the granite island, drinking coffee and scrolling through Instagram on her phone. She paused at a photo of Lance posted by one of his friends.
It was from the night before. He was grinning as he got off his boat at the community marina. His thick, curly hair was blowing in the breeze. His teeth were white, and his skin was golden. His khakis and pale blue polo were casually expensive. He was the embodiment of health. Vigor. Privilege.
Her husband for three more months.
It was easy for Savannah to keep track of Lance’s comings and goings since his social circle consisted mostly of people from Green Valley whom he’d been raised with, and they’d always posted their whole lives on social media. Every morning she could see on her phone exactly what they’d been doing at the marina or country club the evening before.
As if her thoughts had conjured him, he appeared just then, pushing through the front door of the condo. He wore a T-shirt and gym shorts that were sticking to his body from sweat. His cheeks were flushed, and he was panting loudly. He strode into the kitchen area and reached into the refrigerator for a bottle of water.
Savannah glanced up as he entered, sipping her coffee and trying not to admire him.
He wasn’t classically handsome with perfect, symmetrical features. His mouth and forehead were too broad, and he had a deep dimple in his chin. His curly hair was a reddish brown, and he kept it a little too long. He had freckles all over his body, but he also tanned easily, so you could only see the freckles when you were very close to him.
He had the best arms an
d shoulders she’d ever seen on a man. Strong and impressively contoured but not unattractively bulky. The rest of his body was lean and long. Every morning, he jogged to the first-class gym that was part of the community’s amenities. There, he worked out for an hour before running back home. It was no wonder he was in such good shape. Men like him could afford to be.
Savannah tried—very hard—to suppress the surge of attraction she experienced as she ran her eyes up and down his body, but she couldn’t.
He was all tanned skin, rippling muscles, intelligent hazel eyes, and easy, fluid strength.
And part of her wanted it.
The rest of her was annoyed that he hadn’t yet glanced over at her or acknowledged her existence.
He gulped down some water and pushed the damp curls off his forehead. Then he picked up his phone and checked something. “We’ve got the Symphony in the Park tonight,” he said, his eyes focused on the screen of his phone.
Savannah rolled her eyes. “Is that a definite? I was hoping I could skip it. We just went to that boring cocktail party two nights ago, and we have the wedding in Virginia coming up this weekend.”
One of the expectations of their marriage was that she attend functions with him regularly. Since Lance’s business relied on his contacts and connections, he went out to schmooze and network even if he wasn’t interested or in the mood. He was always on the prowl for new clients.
“You got other plans tonight?” His gaze finally focused on her face.
“No, but there has to be a limit. You realize how painful these outings are for me, right? Playing nice to a bunch of people who still look down on me?”
He met her eyes evenly. “Yes. I realize that. But the Symphony in the Park is just once a year. You know how important it is to folks in town. If you go with me tonight, you can skip the golf thing next month.”
Savannah straightened up on her stool. The golf tournament would be a two-day affair at the country club, which sounded like a nightmare to her. “Seriously?”
“Yes. Seriously. I don’t really need you for that.”
“Okay. I’ll go tonight. I should dress up, right?”
“I’m wearing a suit.”
She smothered a groan. One thing the privileged population of Green Valley liked to do was dress up when they got together, even if it was an event in the town park where jeans would be more appropriate. “Fine. I’ll get all fancy and pretend I want to be there. Got to earn the money somehow, I guess.”
She waited for Lance’s inevitable retort and was surprised when it didn’t come. He took a swig of water, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand in a bluntly carnal gesture, and muttered, “Thanks” before he stepped over to open the refrigerator.
She stared at his back, at the way his thin shorts molded to the tight curve of his ass. She’d left herself open to any number of sarcastic insults, and he hadn’t offered her anything but a thank-you.
It wasn’t like him at all.
Pretending to putz around on her phone, she watched him out of the corner of her eye as he pulled out fruit, yogurt, and protein powder and blended up a shake. He didn’t look tense. Lance Carlyle was never tense. He eased through life with the leisurely confidence of a man who was used to the world falling into place around him.
But this morning he was quiet. Almost subdued. He usually deployed his intelligence and quick tongue like weapons—in exactly the same way she did.
She wondered if something was wrong.
In all her experience with him, the thing that got to him most deeply was his family. Maybe he’d had a run-in with his parents. She sent out a little test balloon. “I saw your mom yesterday.”
He glanced over his shoulder as he poured his shake into a tall glass. “Yeah?”
“She was presiding over the ladies at the yoga studio after a class.” She leaned forward. “You talk to her lately?”
“No.”
Savannah had to pretend not to observe him. If he caught her checking him out, he’d think she was interfering in his private life and probably just leave the room. But she discreetly scrutinized his face and decided he wasn’t currently brooding over his parents. Not more than usual anyway. His mobile lips hadn’t tightened, and his brows hadn’t lowered.
So she had no idea what was going on with his mood.
He didn’t continue the conversation with quips or pointed remarks. Instead, he slumped onto one of the stools at the island and sipped his shake. His phone was lying on the countertop in front of him, and he was staring down at it, but he wasn’t reading the screen.
He was just sitting. Stewing.
Something was definitely wrong.
She made it about three minutes before she couldn’t take it anymore. She cleared her throat to get his attention. When he glanced over, she mumbled, “Y’okay?”
As ridiculous as it sounded, she was more embarrassed asking the question than she’d been a couple of months ago when he’d accidentally walked in on her while she was using her vibrator.
He stared at her, his hazel eyes steel gray in the morning light coming through the glass doors that led onto the large terrace. For just a moment, she thought he was going to say something. Answer her question. Tell her what was bothering him.
Then his expression flickered, and he gave her a familiar half smirk. “Of course. Why?”
“I don’t know. You just seem...” She didn’t finish the sentence. She wished she’d never brought up the topic at all. It had given him an advantage, and that was something she avoided at all costs.
“I’m kind of tired, I guess,” he said, taking another swallow of his shake. “And maybe nine months of forced celibacy is finally getting to me.”
Her marriage arrangement with Lance allowed them freedom to do whatever they wanted—with only one exception. They had no claim on the other and no responsibility to provide updates on their schedules or activities. The only thing they couldn’t do was have sex.
Lance hadn’t been entirely happy about that clause since it required a year of abstinence, but it had been a deal breaker for Savannah. She didn’t care who Lance screwed, but she did care about her own reputation and pride. And there was no way in hell she’d be part of a marriage where their town believed he was cheating on her. So she’d insisted. No sex outside their marriage for the year they were together.
She snorted, relieved by the glint in his eyes, proof that they were back to their normal interaction. “It’s good for you. Teach you self-control and restraint. Two things you’re sorely lacking.”
“Oh, I think you’d find I have plenty of control.” It was impossible to mistake the gravel in his voice.
Her skin flushed hot, but she managed to keep her face and voice unrevealing. “Very nice. You must really be suffering from sexual deprivation if you’ve been reduced to such low, clichéd comebacks.”
“I’m definitely suffering. I haven’t gone so long without sex since I was fourteen.”
She almost choked on her coffee. “Fourteen? Fourteen? You had sex for the first time when you were fourteen?”
He arched his eyebrows. “Why are you surprised? You think I was going to wait around dreaming of a romantic soul mate?”
“Of course not. You wouldn’t know a soul mate if she walloped you over the head with a dozen red roses. But fourteen seems really young.” She couldn’t explain why it bothered her. She’d known him at that age, and he’d been smug and spoiled and popular in school and just as confident as he was now.
But he’d also been a kid. One who had hidden behind an old oak tree to cry after his grandfather’s funeral. The thought of him having sex at that age made her stomach churn.
“Jenny Fricker in the pool house,” he said, twitching his eyebrows in that obnoxious way he had. It dragged her immediately out of her brooding.
She slanted him a sideways look so he’d know exactly what she thought of him.
“She was fifteen, and she had the biggest—” He gestured, making it cryst
al clear what part of her body had been big.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Very nice, Carlyle. Very classy.”
He was almost smiling now, and whatever mood had been overshadowing him earlier had completely dissipated. “I’m the classiest.”
“You should hear me bragging to the country-club ladies over gossip and chardonnay. About how my handsome husband is such a gentleman. We all gush over your chivalry.”
“Do you also gush over how you torture your handsome husband by making him go without sex for a year?”
“Hey, you’re the one who agreed to it so you could get your grandma’s hundreds of millions. All that cash wouldn’t mean anything if it came too easily.”
“Is that what you believe? That you have to suffer to deserve anything good?”
They’d been bantering in their typical way, but for some reason the question stalled her. She blinked, trying to figure out why she suddenly thought he was serious.
He finished off his shake. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question.”
Because she was unprepared, she answered him honestly. “No, I don’t think you have to suffer to deserve something good. But I do think that if something comes too easily, we end up holding it cheaply.”
His brows lowered slightly like he was thinking.
It made her nervous for no good reason. She added in a more pointed tone, “Which is why you and your friends have already wasted many lifetimes of money and opportunity. Because all of it came to you too easily.”
To someone else, that comment might have been mean or hurtful, but Lance didn’t even wince. They talked to each other like that all the time. He appeared almost amused as he asked, “What exactly have I wasted?”
“What have you wasted? You’re asking me what you’ve wasted in your life? Let’s start with that ridiculous car.”
Lance owned two cars, but he wasn’t likely to be confused about which one she referred to. The black Aston Martin he’d been driving around for the past two years. His other vehicle was a Mercedes SUV and was also crazy expensive, but not quite as self-indulgent as the James Bond phallic symbol of a sports car. “What about it? It doesn’t just sit in the garage. I drive it all the time.”
A Wedded Arrangement (Convenient Marriages, #3) Page 1