Packaged Husband (Trophy Husbands, #3)

by Noelle Adams

  He jerks when he sees me. “Shit. What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to help you get ready.”

  “I don’t need help.” He glances down at himself, clearly self-conscious about his state of undress.

  He doesn’t have any reason to be self-conscious. His body is great, and I love the look of it. I didn’t see his chest in the hotel room in Florida, but it’s got very nice definition and a lot of hair, as I predicted.

  Man.

  He’s all man.

  Nothing buffed or manicured or artificially shined up.

  I don’t know why I should find his body sexier because of it, but I do.

  Dragging my gaze away from the lower parts of him, I say with a bland smile, “You do need help. This is my job, remember?”

  “Surely I can get dressed by myself.”

  “I got you a new outfit.”

  He frowns. “I was going to wear one of those suits.”

  “You don’t need to wear a suit tonight. I got you something else.”

  His gaze moves from my face to the clothes on the bed beside me. Then he shrugs. “Okay. They look fine.”

  On the bed, he’d think they look fine.

  He’s not going to think they’re fine once he gets them on.

  He frowns again. “You’re just going to sit there while I get dressed?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  He shakes his head and chuckles as he reaches down for the shirt. It’s long-sleeve crew in a gorgeous deep gray color. It’s made of a blend that’s not as thick and familiar as the cotton he usually wears.

  He’s frowning deeply as he pulls it over his head. “It’s too small.”

  “It’s not too small.”

  The shirt fits him snugly but not too tightly. It looks fantastic, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the shape of his pecs.

  “It’s skintight,” he grumbles, trying to stretch out the material.

  “It is not skintight. Don’t be ridiculous. It just fits a little better than shirts you usually wear.”

  “You can’t be serious.” He walks over to the mirror and glowers at his reflection. “I feel like an idiot.”

  “Well, you don’t look like an idiot. Put the pants on, and you’ll see.”

  “I don’t need a new pair of pants. I’ve got tons of them.”

  “You don’t have pants like these.”

  He’s mumbling under his breath as he pulls the pants on.

  I try not to watch him, but I really can’t help it. There’s something so intimate about watching him get dressed.

  The trousers are black with a modern cut.

  “Damn it.” He zips them up and buttons the waistband. “These are too tight too.”

  “They are not too tight. They fit perfectly. You look fantastic.”

  He looks like a different person. Like a gorgeous, stylish stranger.

  It’s unnerving.

  I stare at him speechlessly.

  “It’s terrible, isn’t it?” he says, evidently seeing something on my face. He goes back over to the mirror. “Damn it. I look like Trevor.”

  The outfit is something Trevor might wear.

  I give a huff of amusement. “Trevor has great taste.” When I see he’s about to argue, I continue, “Look, you don’t have to wear it if you don’t want. It’s your choice. But I thought you wanted my help.”

  His expression changes. “I do.”

  “Okay then. You look great. You feel strange because it’s different from what you normally wear, but you don’t look strange. No one who sees you is going to think anything except that you’re a great-looking man who has a wife who picks out great clothes.” I give my tone a lilt at the end to break the tension.

  He smiles for the first time. “All right. Fine. I’ll give it a try.” He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, which makes the shirt look exactly right.

  Plus it shows off his forearms, and I really like to see them.

  “Are you going to wear that?” he asks, his eyes running up and down my body as I stand up.

  I’m wearing the dress I wore to work that day. I was planning to change clothes, but this outfit is cute and trendy and will work just fine with his outfit. If I delay much longer, Owen might change his mind about his clothes. “Yeah. I think so, as long as you think I look okay.”

  “You always look perfect.”

  He’s not trying to flatter me. His tone is matter-of-fact, almost offhand. It just makes the compliment mean even more.

  “All right then. Let’s go see how cool we can be.”

  OWEN IS NEVER GOING to really be cool. It’s simply not his personality. He’s too serious, too earnest. Despite his sense of humor, he can’t do detached irony.

  All through dinner, we go through a variety of scenarios, making up conversation and brainstorming about strategies.

  And in the end I have to conclude that the best we can do is let him be mostly himself.

  He’s never going to pull off charming and charismatic. He can’t even fake it. I can do the charming part, and he can be quiet and smart and thoughtful. As long as I can keep him relaxed, he’ll be fine.

  I tell him this as we leave the restaurant and walk the block down to where we parked the car.

  “I’ve tried to be myself before. It doesn’t work.” His brows are pulled together, and he’s rubbing his jaw.

  “It will work. The problem before is you didn’t project the kind of trendy, up-to-date persona they were looking for. You will now. And I can do the heavy lifting with any conversation about fashion or trends. You don’t have to do all that. You’re smart and thoughtful, and you’re a good businessman. That’s going to be enough.”

  He stops in the middle of the sidewalk. “You think so?”

  I turn to face him, raising a hand to his shoulder. “I know so. Just wait and see.”

  “Will you be there for the meetings on Friday?”

  “I can be, if you want me to be. I’m pretty clueless about business stuff though. I’m not sure how much help I’ll be.”

  “It will make me feel better.” His voice is soft and slightly hoarse.

  My heart does a few silly palpitations. “Okay then. I’ll be there.”

  “Good. Thank you.”

  We smile at each other, and for a moment I think he might kiss me.

  I want him to kiss me.

  I want it so much I find myself swaying toward him.

  But he blinks a few times and then rubs his jaw. It makes a raspy sound from his end-of-the-day bristles. “I’m ready to get out of these clothes.”

  I try not to think about getting him out of those clothes since that’s obviously not what he’s talking about. “They can’t be that uncomfortable.”

  “I prefer my regular clothes.”

  “Well, you can usually wear your regular clothes. Just keep these for special occasions, when you need to look really hot.”

  He chuckles. “Hot is not a word that’s ever applied to me.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. Why would I be kidding?”

  “Because you’re incredibly hot.” I stretch up to kiss him on the corner of his mouth, the way I did early that week in the kitchen before he kissed me for the first time.

  I feel him tense up as I pull away.

  If I’d hoped he would respond the way he had on Monday night, I’m doomed to disappointment.

  This time he doesn’t kiss me back.

  Six

  TWO EVENINGS LATER, we’re gathered around the big dinner table at Pop’s house for Sunday supper. Me and Owen, Sam and Hunter, Melissa and Trevor, and Pop.

  Supper is going about normal.

  Pop made fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, and biscuits. The food is delicious, and conversation ranges between companionable and tense, depending on Pop.

  He seems to be in an okay mood for most of supper, but then he starts asking about my internship and things get awkward.

&nbs
p; He’s his normal self. Half-paternal and half-obnoxious. I shouldn’t expect anything else, but it bothers me when he keeps asking about my job duties and then implying I’m not going to be able to do them.

  He never actually says that, of course. That’s not Pop’s way. But he makes it clear just the same.

  “It’s just been a week,” I say with a mostly natural smile, hoping to bring the topic to a close before it blows up. “It’s gone well so far, and I’m enjoying it.”

  There. That sounds like a conclusion. Hopefully someone will start a new topic now.

  Sam tries. I see her expression and know what’s in her mind. She actually opens her mouth to begin.

  But Pop says, “It sure is a lot of responsibility for a girl who’s never had any before.”

  My back stiffens, but I’m not sure why I’m defensive. Because he’s right.

  Pop is right.

  I’ve never had any responsibility before. I’ve never had a job. No one has ever entrusted me with anything important.

  Or anything unimportant either.

  Pop is just telling the truth.

  “She’s not a girl.”

  I blink at the voice beside me. Owen. He’s been sitting there staring down at his food. From the beginning, I’ve prepared him for Sunday suppers, telling him what works and what doesn’t, how the best strategy is to keep smiling and move on to lighter topics, how challenging Pop—even when he deserves it—just makes everything worse.

  He’s done what I’ve advised for the four Sunday suppers we’ve had. I certainly don’t expect him to do this now.

  Clearly Pop is startled too. His mustache bristles. “Pardon me, son?”

  Owen meets Pop’s eyes. “She’s not a girl. She’s a grown woman. She should be treated like one.”

  My eyes feel three times too large for their sockets. What the hell is even happening here?

  Owen doesn’t sound angry or tense or even annoyed. He sounds serious and blunt and matter-of-fact.

  I meet Sam’s eyes and then Melissa’s. They’re just as surprised and rattled as I am.

  “What’s your point?” Pop snaps.

  “My point is that Chelsea is a competent adult who shouldn’t be treated as a spoiled child.”

  “Owen, please,” I murmur softly, putting a hand on his arm. “It’s not a big deal. You can—”

  “I can what? Sit here and do nothing while he talks about you that way?” Owen’s hazel eyes shift to me, and his eyebrows lift slightly. “You think I’m going to do that?”

  I’m halfway between terrified and gratified, and it’s the strangest feeling. Our family life has always been held together with the thinnest of threads. My sisters and I have always known that the slightest pull in the wrong direction will snap them for good, causing us to completely fall apart.

  I’m so afraid Owen might be yanking on those threads. I don’t want them to break.

  But I can’t help but be touched by what he’s doing, saying. The way he’s standing up for me.

  It means something.

  It means a lot.

  Owen turns back to Pop. “Chelsea is doing a great job, even after just half a week. She’s smarter and stronger than any of you have ever given her credit for.”

  Now he’s talking about my sisters too. I see it register on their faces.

  “Owen.” I’ve still got my fingers wrapped around his bicep through his shirt. “You don’t have to—”

  “We’ve known and loved Chelsea a lot longer than you have,” Pop says before I can get the sentence out. “And it’s funny that you’re pretending to do better by her when the position she has was created only because she’s your wife.”

  Owen still doesn’t look angry even though Pop’s tone is sharp and biting. “Yes, she’s my wife. Your argument is pointless. You think I’d risk my family’s business by giving her responsibilities like this if I thought she couldn’t do it? You think I’d sabotage Masterson’s just because she’s my wife?”

  Pop’s face changes in a strange way. I can’t really understand it. But he doesn’t look angry anymore. “I see,” he mutters.

  Owen rubs his jaw with one hand, in that way he does when he’s thinking, trying to figure something out.

  Melissa takes advantage of the pause in conversation. “We all know how great Chelsea is, and I’m so glad she’s getting the chance to work for Masterson’s.”

  “And you’ve got Deanna Barton coming for meetings later this week?” Trevor asks, following up on his wife’s attempt to move us past this moment.

  Owen replies to Trevor’s change of subject, and the tension at the table breaks.

  I’M RELIEVED WHEN DESSERT is over and we’re finally able to get up.

  I’m in the kitchen rinsing dishes and loading them in the dishwasher when Owen comes in with several used glasses. He puts them on the counter next to the sink and turns me around to face him.

  “Are you mad at me?” he asks, very softly.

  “Of course I’m not mad!”

  “You look upset.” He tilts my head up with one hand so I’m meeting his eyes.

  “I’m not upset. I mean, not really. And not with you. It’s just...” I make a helpless gesture with my hand. “My family. You know.”

  “I know. I know families are complicated. But I’m not going to say nothing while they all treat you like a silly, spoiled child.”

  I shake my head. “My sisters don’t—”

  “Yes, they do. Not as much as Pop, but they do.” He’s scowling now. “What the hell is wrong with everyone?”

  I chuckle, although I also feel like crying. Too many conflicting emotions are all rising inside me at the same time. “Owen, you’ve only known me for a couple of months. You don’t seem to understand that for most of my life, I’ve been exactly the way they’ve treated me. That’s who I’ve been. You’ve only known me when I’ve been trying... trying to do better.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but his expression is softer than it was.

  “My sisters have been nothing but good to me. Their love has been... has been the most important thing in my life since my parents died. I’m not going to let anyone imply they don’t love me enough.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” he murmurs, his voice slightly hoarse. “I promise I didn’t.”

  “Okay.” Stupidly, a tear slips out of my eye as I continue, “And Pop...”

  “I’m not okay with how Pop treats you.”

  I nod and swallow hard. “I’m not okay with it either. Thank you for sticking up for me. I just don’t want us all to get into a big ugly fight.”

  “I know you don’t.”

  “I know things are never going to be really good. I just want them to stay as okay as they can be. I know he’s never going to love me the way... the way your grandfather loved you.”

  So I lose it after all. More tears are falling, and I start to shake.

  Owen pulls me into his arms so I can cry against his shoulder.

  Fortunately, the storm of emotion only lasts a minute. I feel better as I turn my head toward the doorway of the kitchen to make sure we’re still alone.

  We are.

  Owen hasn’t yet let me go.

  Nothing has ever felt as good and safe and comforting as the tightness of his arms around me, the warmth of his body against mine.

  My face is still turned in the direction of the door, so I notice as Hunter strides into the kitchen with a handful of dessert plates.

  He jerks to a stop when he notices us. Then he takes an intentional step backward.

  I giggle and pull out of Owen’s embrace. “It’s okay, Hunter. You can come in.”

  “Sorry,” he says gruffly as he moves forward again. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “We were just working on the dishes,” I say.

  Hunter’s blue eyes glint with amusement, and his mouth twitches beneath his dark beard. “Is that what we’re callin’ it these days?”

  AFTER WE FINISH THE dishes and s
ay goodbye to my sisters and brothers-in-law, Owen and I head for the door.

  I see Pop sitting alone in the front room with a glass of whiskey, and something about him strikes me as sad.

  I pause. Then murmur to Owen, “Do you mind pulling the car up? I want to say bye to Pop.”

  He nods soberly, his eyes scanning my face. “Okay.”

  As he goes outside, I walk over and sit down in the chair next to Pop. “Hey, Pop. Owen and I are getting ready to leave.”

  He blinks as if I’ve pulled him out of deep thought. “Sure thing.”

  “You okay?”

  “Course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  There’s no sense in expecting Pop to ever admit to being sad or wrong or weak. He will never do it. So I don’t pursue the topic. “Thanks for dinner.”

  “Glad you and Masterson could come.” He pauses, slanting me a strange little look. “You settled in that?”

  “In that?”

  “With him.”

  I feel a weird ache in my chest because the truth is I’m just Owen’s temporary trophy wife. But I can’t admit that to Pop. “Yes. I am. He’s a good man.”

  His mustache shudders strangely. “Be careful, girl.” He clears his throat. “Chelsea.”

  I’m so shocked by the way he corrects himself that it’s a minute before I process what he says. “Be careful about what?”

  “About him.”

  “What about him? He’s a good man.”

  “He seems a decent sort. Hardworking. Too cheeky for my liking. But be careful anyway. If you pay attention, people will always tell you who they really are.”

  It feels like Pop is being serious, so I take him seriously. “I don’t know what you mean, Pop.”

  “At supper. What he said. He wouldn’t risk his company, even for his wife. You heard him say it, didn’t you?”

  I freeze for just a minute. I did hear him say it. I hadn’t thought about what it means until just now. “He didn’t mean—”

  “Maybe not. But people will usually tell you who they are if you listen. He’s a decent sort, but that company is most important to him. Isn’t it?”

  It’s like I’ve been socked in the gut.

  If I could believe Pop is just being nasty right now, I’d shrug it off and move on. But Pop feels different, more vulnerable, a little bit sad. He’s not being nasty. He’s trying to help.