Practice Husband Read online

  Practice Husband

  Trophy Husbands, Book Two

  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 © 2018 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

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Stranded on the Beach

  About Noelle Adams

  One

  THE FIRST CHARACTER in a book I read as a girl that really felt like me was Anne Shirley. Right up to the moment she cracked the slate over Gilbert’s head.

  Anne is thoughtful and creative and prone to daydreaming, just like I’ve been all my life. But I would never make a scene in the middle of class the way she does. I would never be so bold, so caught up in emotion that I forget other people are watching.

  I would never risk that kind of embarrassment or let others see me as out of control.

  Not as a child. And not today.

  I’m Anne Shirley without the temper and passion. I’m Jo March without the wild spirit. I’m Jane Eyre without the courage and defiance.

  In other words, I’m not the kind of woman that books are written about.

  I’m the kind that only reads them.

  That’s me. Sam Greyson. (My real name is Samantha, but no one calls me that.) I’m smart. Introspective. Articulate. Easy to get along with since I usually keep my opinions to myself. I’m twenty-six, and I have two master’s degrees and am working on my third. I know more truths about the world from books than most people know from living much more exciting lives.

  But I’m not a crack-the-slate-over-a-boy’s-head kind of girl.

  I sometimes wish I were.

  Particularly at the moment, because the man sitting across the table from me needs a good walloping.

  My grandfather, whom the entire world knows as Pop, is telling me about how silly and immature my sister Chelsea is, and it’s making me mad.

  There’s no sense in getting angry with Pop though. He started a restaurant fifty years ago named Pop’s Home Cooking, and it grew into a large regional chain that made him a fortune. He’s been treated like a king in Charleston, West Virginia for most of his life, and he doesn’t respond well to arguments or criticism.

  He raised me and my two sisters after our parents died, and he’s basically the only family we have left. I love him, and I understand him better than my sisters do. I usually enjoy having lunch with him every Wednesday since he tells great stories and (usually) has a biting sense of humor.

  But he’s narrow and judgmental, and he likes to get his way. So our lunches don’t always leave me with a sense of peace and tranquility.

  Today is one of the less tranquil days.

  “You need to talk to Chelsea, girl,” Pop says, his gray handlebar mustache bristling the way it always does when he’s feeling something deeply. He wears jeans and a sports jacket every day of the week, no matter the temperature outside.

  I take a deep breath and smile. It’s always best to smile at him, even when you want to snarl. Showing anger only makes things worse. “She’s really doing fine, Pop. She’s only twenty-four.”

  “I was married with a kid at twenty-four.”

  Of course he was. He and my grandmother got married at eighteen and had a child the next year. Then their son grew up, and Pop disinherited him because our father didn’t join Pop in the business. “I know, but people don’t always get married so young anymore. Chelsea will settle down eventually.”

  “She could at least get a job.”

  “I don’t have a job.”

  “But you’re in graduate school. That’s different.”

  I suppose it’s different, but not as different as Pop seems to think. I’m collecting master’s degrees in the humanities because they’re fairly easy (for me) and enjoyable. So far it’s been English literature and art history, and I’m in my last semester of a degree in philosophy. I like taking classes, and a master’s thesis is really just a research essay on steroids.

  If I was serious about an academic career, I’d get a PhD.

  But a PhD is where academic success stops being a sure thing, so I haven’t done it yet.

  The truth is our older sister, Melissa, is the only one of the three of us who has really applied herself and accomplished something impressive in terms of career. She’s earned herself an executive-level position at Pop’s Home Cooking, and she’s only twenty-eight.

  Chelsea and I are still living on Pop’s money.

  He thinks I’m the good one, however, because I don’t do anything bold or adventurous, I don’t defy him, and I never make a scene.

  Pop adds, “And it’s time for you and her to start thinking about getting married.”

  My stomach twists at this. I’ve been hoping that since Melissa married last year, Pop would stop putting the pressure on Chelsea and me for a while.

  No such luck.

  “We’re in no hurry,” I say, keeping my tone and face relaxed. “After all, I’m still in school.”

  “But Chelsea isn’t. Marriage was good for Melissa. It’ll be good for her too. Get her on the right path.”

  A chill runs through my arms, from my shoulders to my fingertips. I don’t like where this is going. “I’m sure Chelsea will be happy to get married as soon as she finds the right guy.”

  “You could find yourself a man too. I don’t know why a nice fella hasn’t snapped you up yet.”

  I know why.

  Pop might think I’m good marriage material, but guys who aren’t my grandfather sure don’t.

  “I’m sure I’ll find the right man eventually too.” I manage to keep the easy smile on my face. “I’m in no hurry. I’ll talk to Chelsea, but I really think she’s doing fine, Pop.” My voice is pleasant and appeasing.

  He grumbles and wipes his mustache with his napkin. “Thanks, girl. Maybe you’ll rub off on her a little. You never get in trouble. You never make a fuss. I can always depend on you.”

  He’s trying to be nice. He’s an ornery, manipulative old bastard, but he’s actually trying to be nice to me right now.

  It feels like a slap in the face.

  He’s right. About everything.

  I never get in trouble.

  I never make a fuss.

  I’m dependable. Predictable. Boring as hell.

  Nothing even close to heroine material.

  Yay me.

  Since he’s feeling positive about me right now, I decide to bring up the topic I’ve been waiting to broach since I sat down. “Since you can always depend on me, Pop, maybe you could do me a favor.”

  Pop is surprised. I know he’s surprised because his mustache bristles briefly. “What favor?”

  “I have a friend who needs a job.”

  “Sure. What’s her name? Just send it to me, and I’ll talk to folks and find her something at Pop’s.”

  I’d be encouraged by this immediate affirmation, but I know Pop too well. “It’s not a she.”

  There goes the mustache again, wobbling dangerously. “A boy? You got a boyfriend, girl, and you didn’t tell me?”

  “He’s a friend. And he’s in a tough situation. He needs a job.”

  “Why?”

  I have to tell him eventually, so I do it now. “He
just got out of prison.”

  My friend Hunter is actually just out on parole, but there’s no sense in bringing up that particular detail quite yet.

  “You’re crazy, girl. I don’t hire ex-cons.”

  “I know you wouldn’t normally, but he’s a friend of mine and—”

  “What are you doing, friends with a man like that?”

  “We’ve been friends since high school. He got off on a wrong path for a while, but he wants to do better for himself now. He needs a job, and I thought maybe—”

  “No. No. No.”

  I hadn’t really had high hopes for this conversation, but it’s hard not to feel disappointed anyway. “He’s a good guy, Pop. He’s got a degree in finance. He started it at Duke, but he dropped out after a couple of years. But he finished his degree online in prison and—”

  “No.”

  “Not even as a favor for me?”

  “I’d do you a favor. And if you had a husband and kids, I’d do them a favor. But some ex-con you knew from high school? No. No, forget it. You’re a good girl. A good girl. This isn’t like you.”

  I don’t pursue the topic. I never fight a battle I’m likely to lose.

  I LEAVE LUNCH DEPRESSED and discouraged. Not only have I failed Hunter, but I also feel like a failure myself. If Pop thinks I’m only a good girl, then I’m not the person I want to be.

  I want to be different. Braver. More adventure. But I have no idea how to get there.

  By the time I get home to my apartment near campus, I’ve come to no conclusions.

  Anne Shirley didn’t set out to make a dramatic statement about her value as a human being. She just got mad as hell and lashed out. With her slate. On Gilbert’s head. It was who she truly was—not a gesture or a pose.

  I can’t be like her, even if I sometimes want to be.

  If I tried to be, I’d just be playing a part.

  I’ve kicked off my shoes and flopped down on my couch, feeling uncharacteristically glum, when my phone chirps with a text.

  It’s Chelsea. You home?

  Yes.

  I’m five minutes away.

  This surprises me because my sister doesn’t usually drop by spontaneously in the middle of the day, but I’m glad of the distraction. After putting away some clutter, I open the front door for Chelsea.

  She’s gorgeous. Stylishly dressed, perfectly made-up, and shining from her strawberry-blond hair to her polished toes. Both she and Melissa are prettier than I am. I have blond hair like them, but mine is a darker blond. Thick and long and prone to frizziness. I never go to the salon, despite Chelsea’s attempts to get me there, so I always just pull my hair into one thick braid that hangs down my back.

  I also don’t wear makeup, mostly because I feel stupid in it. I simply don’t have Chelsea’s knack for being gorgeous, and since I hang out mostly in academic circles, the natural look fits right in.

  “Is everything all right?” I ask as she breezes in with a shopping bag.

  “Of course. But I bought something for you for your big date.”

  “Oh, please, Chelsea. It’s not a big date. It’s just coffee.”

  “Call it what you want. It’s something, and I’m excited about it for you. So I bought you something to wear.”

  “I can’t dress up. It’s coffee at three in the afternoon. It’s not a date. Hunter and I have only ever been friends.”

  “I know. But you always had a thing for him. Don’t try to tell me you didn’t.”

  Hunter was one year ahead of me in school, but I ended up tutoring him in English when I was in tenth grade. He was a football player. Cute and popular and easygoing. He was great at math but struggled in classes where he had to write long papers and read dense books. He’d wanted to stay on the football team and also get good grades for college, so he’d worked really hard in our tutoring sessions, and I got him through the end of the year with an A- in English.

  We were friends after that. We talked about all kinds of things, and he teased me in a fond, playful way. I kept helping him with school. He’d stick up for me whenever someone else made fun of me. He was dating other girls all the time, of course, and he never looked at me as anything even remotely romantic.

  I was friend-zoned immediately. All the way. Forever.

  Chelsea was right. I’d been into him back then. I’d been crazy about him. Every romantic dream I had in high school was tied up in Hunter. It was his face on all the heroes of the books I read.

  I grew up, however. All of us have to eventually.

  And I’m smart now. Far too smart to ever imagine anything more than a friendship with Hunter.

  Besides, he’s just been paroled from prison.

  He’s not boyfriend material. In any way.

  “I did like him,” I admit to Chelsea, “but that was ages ago. It’s really just coffee.”

  “I guess y’all have a lot to catch up on after two years in prison. How long has it been since you’ve even heard from him?” Chelsea’s eyes are sparkling with an almost mischievous curiosity.

  I glance away.

  “Sam? Have you been holding out on me and Melissa?”

  “Not really. It’s nothing big.”

  “Then tell me what the small thing is. You’ve been keeping in touch with him all this time, haven’t you? And you never said a word to us about it.”

  “Not all this time. I hadn’t heard from him for a few years before he went to prison. But then, when I heard about it, I... Well, I was worried about him. So I wrote him a letter in prison. Just... just saying hi and letting him know I was thinking about him. He wrote back, so we’ve been writing to each other ever since.”

  Chelsea leans forward excitedly. “I knew you were hiding something about him. How often have you been writing him?”

  I don’t answer immediately.

  “Tell me,” Chelsea prompts.

  “A couple of times a week.”

  “Oh my God! That often? Have you been to visit him in prison?”

  “No. No, no, no. We’ve just been writing. It’s not romantic or sexy or anything like that. We’re just friends. I think he probably needed someone to talk to, and he always felt like he could talk to me.”

  “Writing long letters to you several times a week sounds like more than a friend to me.”

  “They’re not long letters! They’re just little notes. And I’m telling you he’s never even considered me as anything but a friend. I didn’t want to accept that in high school, but I do now. The last thing I need is to get a crush on an ex-con. I’m not that stupid.”

  Chelsea is still smiling as she slouches a bit on the couch. “He wasn’t in for anything too terrible. What did he do? Steal cars or something?”

  “Yes.” I sigh and feel a different kind of glumness than before. “He never explained exactly what happened, even in his letters. I don’t know what the idiot was thinking. It seems so... stupid and petty.”

  “Especially since his family is richer than Pop. I guess they don’t want anything to do with him anymore.”

  “Yeah. He says they won’t talk to him anymore. He can’t even see his younger brother. The whole thing is just a mess. Hunter was always a good guy, so I feel bad that he made so many mistakes it came to this.”

  “Well, maybe you’re just friends, which I’m not convinced of, but it’s still got to be exciting to see him again after all this time.” Chelsea grins again as she pulls something pink out of her shopping bag. “You can wear this.”

  I stiffen as I see the top she’s holding up. “I can’t wear that!”

  “Why not? It’s a perfectly good top, and you can wear it with jeans so you won’t look dressed up.”

  “I never wear pink.”

  “I know, but it’s perfect with your skin and hair.”

  “But the neckline.”

  Now Chelsea is laughing. “The neckline is very flattering.”

  “It’s too low. I never wear tops that low.”

  “Well, you sho
uld. You’ve got the best boobs of all of us, and you need to show them off more.”

  I try to imagine myself wearing the top—which is a fairly simple knit shirt with three-quarter-length sleeves and a very scooped neckline—and I can’t even begin to visualize how I’d look it in. “My boobs aren’t used to being shown off.”

  “Well, they need to be. Take a risk. Show some cleavage.” She sways the pink top back and forth tantalizingly.

  She’s teasing, but her words hit home.

  I never take any risks. I never do anything that might make me self-conscious or uncomfortable.

  And I don’t like that about myself.

  I roll my eyes and relent, taking the shirt from her hand. “I’ll try it on. But I promise I’m going to look stupid in it.”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll think you look stupid because you’re used to wearing nothing but jeans and hoodies. But I promise you that top is perfect for you.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  CHELSEA IS RIGHT. THE top looks great.

  I do put up an argument about wearing it, but Chelsea insists.

  And the truth is my conversation with Pop has left me feeling dissatisfied with myself, and the new top is a very small way for me to branch out a little.

  It does make me look a lot curvier than usual.

  I kind of like it, even though I end up throwing a light cardigan over the top before I leave my apartment so I can feel a bit more covered up.

  I’m meeting Hunter at a coffee shop just on the edge of my university campus. I get there five minutes early but wait in my car until it’s exactly three before I go in.

  I stand in the doorway, looking around for the clean-cut, handsome, smiling face I remember from six years ago.

  I jerk in surprise when a big bearded stranger is suddenly beside me saying, “Hey.”

  It’s Hunter. It takes me about thirty seconds to realize this fact when his dark blue eyes and broad forehead and slightly ironic smile give him away.

  He’s a lot bigger than I remember. And he has a too-long beard that hides the lower half of his face. But it’s Hunter.

  My old friend.

  I was fifteen when I talked to him for the first time. I was waiting in a classroom after school for our first tutoring session, and he came strolling in with a little smirk. He was so cute and so out of my league I just stared at him, paralyzed, as I tried to think of something smart and funny to say.