Instead of lingering in the hall to catch another glimpse of Trevor, I head to my bathroom.
Forty-five minutes later, I’ve showered and dressed, and I hear Trevor on the treadmill in the second bedroom.
I would time him (because that’s what I do), but I missed when he started.
I’m sitting at the kitchen island, eating cereal and working on my planner again, when he appears, toweling off his face and arms. He must have run harder than I did because the front and back of his shirt is soaked with sweat.
He grabs a bottle of vitamin beverage from the refrigerator and leans against the counter, drinking it and looking at me.
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.
After a minute, he asks, “What are you doing?”
“Working on my planner.”
“What does that mean? You’ve already got appointments scheduled, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I’m not doing appointments. I’d planned my top three, but now I’m rethinking them.”
“Your top three?” His eyebrow is arched just slightly.
“Every day, I think about the top three things I need to accomplish. I work them out in the morning, and then I make sure I do them by the end of the day. It helps me not waste time with the piddly, nonessential stuff and get the big things done.”
He walks over to stand beside me and tries to read my planner over my shoulder.
I slide it away. “Excuse me. Hasn’t anyone ever taught you manners? You don’t just up and read someone else’s planner.”
He’s obviously woken up by now, and his eyes hold that little glint of wry amusement. “I’m sorry. Do you have secrets in there?”
“Of course not. But it’s my planner. It’s not for your entertainment.”
“So you’re not going to show me your top three for today?”
Rolling my eyes, I push my planner toward him on the counter to let him read.
“What is ‘deal with fallout’?” he asks.
I hesitate.
“About the contract with me?”
No one has ever said this man isn’t sharp.
“Yes. My in-house marketing folks are grumbling, and I want to get it all out and over with so the resentment doesn’t linger.”
“What’s their problem? Companies hire out for big ad campaigns all the time. Everyone does it.”
“I know. But we’ve never done it before.”
“Which is why you’re stuck with no digital creative and a couple of half-ass commercials that run during senior citizen primetime.”
If Trevor had said that to me a week ago, I would have been mad as hell, but the funny thing is I’m not even offended now. His tone is matter-of-fact. He’s not trying to be mean. He’s just telling the truth.
And I know he’s right.
“Yeah. I know. I only got marketing moved under me six months ago, and it’s been an uphill battle. I know we need to do it, but people have gotten their feelings hurt and now I have to deal with it.” I make a face. “Catering to injured feelings isn’t really in my wheelhouse.”
He chuckles as he reaches for a banana from the bunch on the counter, peeling it slowly as he says, “I’ve had to do this before, and it’s not as hard as you might think. Let them air their grievances, but keep your eye on the clock. Don’t let it go on for more than five minutes. Keep nodding sympathetically and saying that you understand. Don’t get in a debate with them. Don’t counter any specific point they make. Wrap it up by saying you understand why they’re unhappy but this is the way it is. You’re a team, and they still have a lot to contribute.”
His tone is that knowing one that implies he’s an expert, but what he’s saying actually resonates with me, so I jot down a few notes.
“Are you writing down what I just said?” he asks.
“Yeah. There was some good stuff there, and I don’t want to forget.”
He seems to enjoy this admission, but since he’s helping me, I don’t call him out for his smug expression.
“You know, if they keep holding a grudge about it, you might have to make staffing changes.”
I sigh as I close my planner. “I know.” Giving him a faint smile, I add, “The campaign you do for us better be out-of-this-world brilliant, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“It will be.”
Ah, yes. Even a brief moment of bonding can’t mask his arrogance for long.
He’s finished his banana and is now tearing into a protein bar. “That comment didn’t earn me a sharp rebuke for my obnoxiousness?”
“I figured it goes without saying.”
“Oh, by the way, do you want me to keep you informed of my schedule?”
The question and the quick change of subject confuse me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean things like when I’ll be home, when I’ll be out of town, that kind of thing. Do you want to know?”
I sit for a minute and consider this question.
“Are you going to answer?” he prompts.
“I’m thinking. Hold your horses.” After a few more seconds of considering, I finally conclude, “Yeah. I guess so. Not every detail, but it will help to know when you’ll be around.”
“That’s what I was thinking too. So you’ll let me know your schedule too?”
“Sure.”
“Good. I’ll be late this evening. I’ve got a new client coming into town, and we’ll be having dinner.”
“Oh yeah? Who’s the client?”
He gives me a quick look, as if verifying that I really want to know. “Mike Regan of Regan Carpets.”
The name rings a bell and conjures up the image of a middle-aged country boy wearing a long cape and a ridiculous crown. “The Carpet King?”
“Yeah. The Carpet King.”
“Wow. That’s going to be a project. Are you doing a rebranding?”
He shakes his head. “It’s too late for that. Everyone will forever think about him as the Carpet King. So the best we can do is make it tongue-in-cheek, making it clear we’re in on the joke.”
“Yeah. That makes sense. That’s smart.”
“Believe it or not, I know what I’m doing.”
I flash him a quick look. “I know you do. I gave you a huge campaign, remember? There’s no way I’d sabotage Pop’s just to get you to marry me. I know how good you are.” I pause. “I told Pop he should hire you, back when you interviewed with us.”
That surprises him. His eyes widen slightly, and he lowers his last piece of protein bar from his mouth. “You did?”
“Yes. I did.”
“I thought you were annoyed with me too.”
“I was. But not annoyed enough not to see how good you are. I knew we should have hired you, but Pop wouldn’t listen to me back then. He barely listens to me now.”
“I don’t know how you put up with that. You can run circles around everyone there, and they still treat you like...”
“An intruder,” I finish for him, feeling a familiar weight of bleak resignation and a flicker of pleasure at Trevor’s validation. “And, what’s more, a female intruder who’s too big for her britches. I’ve actually been told that to my face.”
“That you’re too big for your britches?”
I nod. “Several times.”
“I don’t know how you do it. I would have jumped ship years ago.” He throws away the wrapper to his protein bar and finishes off his drink. “I’m surprised you’ve stuck it out.”
I get up to rinse out my bowl, feeling strangely self-conscious. “Pop is family.”
I don’t actually know if that means anything to Trevor, but it’s the final answer for me. It’s getting late anyway. I’m usually in my office by now. “I’ll see you tonight then.”
“Late.”
“Late.”
His expression isn’t his normal lofty one, but I’m not sure what I’m seeing on his face. I kind of like it. It feels like we’re connected. He says softly, “Come here a minute.”
<
br /> I’m not in the habit of doing what a guy says just because he says it, but I respond automatically, without even thinking. He doesn’t sound bossy. He sounds... nice.
One side of his mouth lifts slightly as he reaches out toward me. I suck in a startled breath when his long, lean fingers gently touch my blouse, just at the level of my breast.
Then I realize what he’s doing.
Fastening that damned button that always comes undone.
“No need to flash the whole city,” he murmurs.
My cheeks are warm as I mumble out a thanks and make my way out the door.
AT TEN THAT EVENING, when I go to bed, Trevor still isn’t home.
He’s evidently having a very long dinner with the Carpet King.
I read for twenty minutes but can’t really focus on my book, so I give up and turn off the light. I’m still awake fifteen minutes later when I hear Trevor coming in the apartment.
I can’t see the front door from the bedroom, so I don’t know what he does when he arrives. But it’s several minutes before he comes into the bedroom. There’s plenty of light from the hallway, and he pauses when he walks in. I can’t see his face, but his silhouette is pointed toward me and it feels like he’s looking at me.
I’m lying on my side, facing the doorway. I stay still and peer at him through a slit in my eyelids.
I’m not sure why, but I do.
He must think I’m asleep because he doesn’t say anything. He goes into the closet and then into the shower. I hear the water running.
Tonight he’s in there for eight minutes.
He comes out wearing only his pajama pants. The lean lines of his body, outlined against the light from the hallway, are strong, graceful, sculpted.
“Did you get your top three done today?” he asks.
I jerk in surprise. “What if I was asleep?”
“I knew you weren’t asleep.”
“How did you know?”
“You looked stiff.”
I sit up. “I was not stiff. I was just lying there. I could have been asleep.”
“You were lying there looking stiff. I’ve seen you sleep for three nights now. I know what you look like when you sleep.”
There’s something intimate about the words that triggers a shiver down my spine. I can’t come up with a good argument against this claim, so I let it go and lie back down.
He disappears out of the room for a minute and comes back with a bottle of water. Then he climbs into bed beside me.
“You can turn on the TV if you want,” I tell him, turning over onto my back.
“Nah. I’m kind of tired.”
“How did it go with the Carpet King?”
“Good. He’s on board with everything. He’s going to have fun with it.” After a brief pause, he says, “You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?”
“About your top three?”
“Oh yeah. I got them done.”
“How did it go with your marketing folks?”
“Not bad. Pretty good really. At least as good as I can expect. I took your advice, and I think it worked. They were prepared to debate me, and I didn’t give them a chance. They’re not happy, but I think they’ll do their jobs.”
“Good.” He stretches under the covers, letting out a long, slow exhale. There’s something carnal about the sound of it.
It gives me naughty ideas.
“So do you want to have sex tonight?” he asks.
I make a choking sound.
“Was that a yes?”
“No, it wasn’t a yes! The answer is still no. I told you before.”
“I know. But I figure I’ll ask regularly to make it easy for you to change your mind.”
“You are the smuggest creature I’ve ever encountered in this world. You just assume I’m going to want to have sex with you eventually?”
“Won’t you?”
“No, I won’t! How cocky can—” I break off when he chuckles and rephrase. “How arrogant can you be?”
He just laughs again.
I turn onto my side with my back to him, but I’m smiling in the dark.
ON WEDNESDAY OF THE following week, Trevor works late again. Both of us regularly work long hours and get home around seven, and we’ve gotten into the habit of eating dinner together. Nothing special—just takeout or something one or the other of us can fix quickly.
He’s still the same obnoxious guy, but it’s kind of nice to have someone to eat with every night. Someone who understands my work, who listens and can give advice.
Maybe I’m wrong, but I’d swear he enjoys it too.
But he has dinner with another client tonight, so I eat alone and then take a long bath.
Have I mentioned how nice his tub is?
It’s very nice.
I’m feeling warm and relaxed when I finally get out. I usually don’t walk around the apartment unless I’m covered up, but since Trevor isn’t here I just wrap a towel around me. My hair is piled up messily on my head, and I’m carrying my bath salts and soap.
I open the bathroom door and nearly run smack into Trevor.
I give a little squeal and immediately look to make sure my towel is in place. “I didn’t know you were home.”
“I just got back.”
“I was in the bath.”
“I know that.” He’s looking very sexy in that end-of-the-day way he has. Five-o’clock shadow. Slightly loosened tie and collar. Half-lowered eyelids.
God, the man is hot.
“I could smell you as soon as I walked in the door,” he adds, the slightly rough words doing nothing for my flustered state of mind.
“You smelled me?” I’m thinking all kinds of things at the moment, and none of them are suitable to share with the man in front of me.
He reaches over, and I swallow over a quick intake of breath. I think he’s going to touch me. I want him to touch me.
He touches my bath salts instead. “This stuff you put in your bath. I smelled it as soon as I walked in, so I knew you were in the bath.”
“Oh.”
It’s perfectly logical. And kind of a disappointment.
His hand moves from the bath salts, and his fingertips slowly trail up my towel to the bare skin at my collarbone. It’s barely a touch, but it makes my skin flush and a pulsing begin between my legs.
“What did you think?” he asks, his voice a little thicker than normal.
“What did I think about what?” I have no idea what he’s talking about. My brain isn’t exactly functioning at the moment.
“What did you think I smelled?”
“I... I didn’t know.”
“I see.”
It feels like he sees.
It feels like he sees all of me.
I’m staring at his plum-colored tie because it’s safer than meeting his eyes right now. I don’t want him to know how I’m feeling, how his touch, his presence is affecting me.
“Melissa?”
“What?”
“Are you planning to move out of the doorway? I need to use the bathroom.”
And that’s like a load of bricks on my breathlessness. I’m able to meet his gaze now with a cool expression as I step out of the doorway.
I’m on my way out of the room when he says, “We can return to this particular conversation a little later in bed if you want.”
Damn it.
The asshole knows exactly what I was feeling just now.
Fortunately I’m not feeling it anymore.
“I don’t think so.”
“You sure?”
I turn my head and see him smirking at me, as if he thinks he’s already won.
He hasn’t won.
“Yes, I’m sure. The problem is that any kind of conversation with you involves your infuriating personality, and that just doesn’t work for me.”
“I think it does.”
“You think wrong. And I thought you had to go to the bathroom.”
&n
bsp; “I do. We’ll resume this conversation at a later date.”
I roll my eyes, but he’s already closed the bathroom door.
Damn it.
How does he make me want to slap him and screw him at the exact same time?
It’s some kind of peculiar talent of his, and he’s the only man in the world who possesses it.
I force the rush of confusion and excitement out of my mind since it’s the only safe thing to do.
He’s in bed watching TV when I slip under the covers a half hour later.
He looks at me with a little smile.
“I’m not interested in returning to that conversation,” I tell him.
“Oh well. Maybe later.”
I roll onto my side with my back to him, but it still feels like he’s silently laughing.
“Stop smirking,” I tell him.
“You’re not even looking at me.”
“I can feel you smirking.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“No, I’m not. My senses are razor-sharp when it comes to your smugness.”
He waits a beat. “Is this better?”
I’m still not looking at him. “A little. Keep working on it.”
“I’ll do my best, but it’s a biological impulse.”
“What’s a biological impulse? Smirking? How does that work?”
“It’s an alpha male thing. Male creatures are designed biologically to prove their worth to females.”
“And so you smirk?”
“So I smirk.”
Okay, at this point, I’m trying my best, but it’s utterly impossible not to giggle. He’s impossible.
He hears me laugh.
So now he’s pleased with himself.
I’m still not looking at him, but I know it for sure.
THAT WEEKEND, TREVOR and I have Sunday supper at Pop’s like normal. Dinner on Sundays is the only time in the week that Pop cooks anymore, and it’s been the one constant in our family routine. We’ve always called it Sunday supper. This is the third Sunday I’ve been married to Trevor, and the first two Sunday suppers weren’t too bad.
This one is terrible.
Trevor isn’t terrible. In fact, I’m incredibly glad that Trevor is with me because he smoothly deflects a lot of tension and occasionally puts Pop in his place.
Part-Time Husband (Trophy Husbands, #1) Page 5