Purchased Husband (Trophy Husbands Book 4) Read online

  purchased husband

  Trophy Husbands, Book Four

  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 © 2020 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 Purchased Husband

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Remake

  About Noelle Adams

  About Purchased Husband

  ON A WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, I ask Damian Winters to marry me. To be clear, it's not a proposal. It's a business transaction. I have a sticky family situation, and the simplest way to deal with it is to pay him to be my husband for six months.

  Damian used to work as an escort so he knows how to keep things professional. We don't have to be friends. We don't even have to get along. I need someone fill a husband role, and he'll do just fine.

  It doesn't matter if he's the hottest man I've ever met. Work takes up all my time and energy, so I don't have room in my life for complications. I'm not going to fall into bed with him. And I'm definitely not going to fall in love.

  I hope.

  One

  THERE COMES A DAY IN a girl’s life when she realizes her prince is likely to be a no-show. It feels like crap when the revelation hits, but it can turn out to be a good thing. A girl can still have everything she wants and needs. Once she’s no longer waiting around for someone else to save her from her life, she can go out and get it for herself.

  That day came for me earlier than most. The mean girls in my middle school had spent weeks laughing about how no one was going to ask a loser like me to the fall dance. I didn’t want to believe them, but they were right. No one wanted to go with me. Since I wasn’t about to give the mean girls a victory, I paid a neighbor boy from a different school all the money I’d saved up (forty-three dollars) to be my escort.

  I still remember that evening with a smile—the look on those girls’ faces when I showed up with a moderately cute boy on my arm. Right now I need the same strategy to work again.

  I am Melody Clarke. Twenty-nine years old. Only child of a single mother. Lauded by tech magazines a couple of years ago as the next big thing. And in need of a husband.

  Not a real one. All I need is an empty suit for six months to avoid some possible family conflict. With no convenient potentials available, I’ve had to resort to my middle school tactics. Fortunately, the perfect company for hiring fake husbands exists in Atlanta, and I have enough money to afford one.

  My contact at Companions for Hire is Aurora Kensington. I’m on the phone with her now as I sit in a rental car in the parking lot of the restaurant where I’m supposed to meet my mom in ten minutes.

  “Damian is all set to meet you tomorrow afternoon,” Aurora says with the pleasant professionalism that has made this whole process easy for me. “He’s pulled back on jobs for us lately because he’s focusing on his graduate degree, but he’s one of the best we have, and he thought this job sounded like a good one. I think he’s just what you’re looking for. All the clients who’ve worked with him have been very happy.”

  “That sounds good.” I’m scrolling through email as I talk since multitasking is my normal mode of operation. “Like I said, I don’t really care if he’s hot or charming or impressive. I just need someone to fill the role in the simplest way possible.”

  “He can do that. He’s been with us a long time, and he knows what he’s doing. But I do think you’ll like him. Everyone does.”

  I have my doubts about that claim, but I don’t bother to argue. I like Aurora, and there’s no reason to get into a discussion with her about the fact that I rarely like the people that everyone else does.

  I’m not into popular people. I wasn’t in school when I was the target of endless teasing, and I’m not now. If someone is too slick, too charming, too admired, too much, I’ll always be suspicious of what’s really going on beneath the surface. I’ve seen photos of Damian, and I can tell already that he’s too much for me.

  The truth is I’ve always preferred outcasts and losers. Maybe because that’s how I’ve always felt.

  “I’m sure he’s great,” I tell Aurora noncommittally. “Thanks for setting it up.”

  “If you end up not liking him, we’ve got plenty more companions you could use instead.”

  “I’m sure Damian will be fine. I’m not planning to be picky about this. As long as he’s easy to work with, I’m good.”

  “He will be. He’s always professional. Just tell him what you need and he’ll do it.”

  For just a moment, I wonder how far Damian would go for his clients. Companions for Hire offers companions for a huge range of needs and situations—dates, travel escorts, fake boyfriends or girlfriends, expert tour guides, you name it—but they’re up-front about sex being off the table. In fact, if you ask about it, they’ll immediately end the conversation. It’s one of the reasons I chose to work with them. I’m not looking for sex, and this way there will be none of the awkwardness of a regular escort agency.

  But I can’t believe sex doesn’t happen. From what Aurora told me, some of these companions are experts at providing romantic experiences. My guess would be that sex occurs from time to time even if Companions for Hire never hears about it.

  If sex was what I wanted, I could get it in other ways. Right now I just need a fake husband, and I’ve got an appointment to meet him tomorrow afternoon.

  First, however, I need to get through lunch with my mother. Which means I’ll have to lie to her for the first time in years.

  I WAS SEVEN YEARS OLD when I discovered I’m an excellent liar.

  It was a Saturday morning in a drugstore with my mother. She was waiting to pick up a prescription from the pharmacy, and I was roaming the candy aisle. It all looked so good. My mother only occasionally bought me candy, so it was a genuine treat. I wanted some that morning. Other kids got it all the time, and it wasn’t fair that I didn’t. No one was around.

  So I took it.

  I grabbed a big chocolate bar and a string of gumballs I’d seen the other kids eat. I was carrying a little purple purse, so I just stuffed them in and zipped it up.

  I was breathless and on edge as I returned to where my mother was waiting for her prescription.

  “What’s going on?” she asked when she saw me.

  It hit me then. What I’d done. I’d stolen something that didn’t belong to me, and it might have been exciting, but it was also bad. I was bad. My mom worked two jobs back then to support us, and she’d always taught me right from wrong.

  I wanted that candy, but I also didn’t want to be the kind of person who stole it.

  I could have done one of two things then. I could have confessed and put the candy back and lived with my mother knowing what I’d almost done. Or I could lie and pretend the whole thing never happened.

  I lied.

  Because I wanted it to be true so much, I acted like it was. “Nothing,” I told her, eyes wide and mouth relaxed. “This is boring. When is your medicine going to be ready?” My voice even stretched into a bit of a whine in the last few words.

  She was convinced.

  It’s not that I wanted to lie to her. I hated myself as I was doing it. Rather, I couldn’t stand the idea of her believing I was bad.

  The experience haunted me for months afterward, no matter how much I tried to push it from my mind. I threw away the candy and never ate it. I avoided that aisle in the drugstore for a full year because it brought up guilty feelings. And eventually it faded into an uncomfortable blur in my memory.

  I was a good liar. I had figured that much out. If you can make yourself believe in something that’s not true, you can also convince the people around you. But I’d never be able to use my talent to help myself because of my overdeveloped conscience.

  All through school and college and grad school, I made sure to be truthful with my mother. Anything else felt too icky. It had taken me too long to get over that first incident. She’s all the family I have (since my dad bailed on us before I was born), and I love her more than anyone else in the world.

  It’s twenty-two years after that Saturday morning in the drugstore when I purposefully lie to my mother again.

  My reasons are different. I want her to be happy, and after an incredibly hard life, she finally has the chance. It will only take this one lie to smooth over the potential conflict that might take her happiness away, so I do it.

  I lie.

  She stares at me afterward, her eyes blank for a moment. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. I’m engaged. I’m going to get married.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were dating someone?”

  I shrug. I’ve planned this out, and the excuse is entirely in keeping with my habits. “You know how bad I am at relationships. I’ve never been able to make anything work. So I figured this one wouldn’t either. It just felt safer to... keep it private.”

&nbs
p; She’s smiling now, her brown eyes warming. She looks a lot like me. Medium size. Medium brown hair. Medium level of attractiveness. But she’s been happy lately, and the happiness is evident in the new softness of her demeanor. “I wish you wouldn’t keep to yourself so much. It’s really okay to let other people in.”

  “I know.” I’m still meeting her eyes. This is working, and I’m not going to blow it now. “I do the best I can. You know how private I am.” We’ve had this conversation before, so we both know what to expect from it.

  “But this is important. You’re in love. You’ve found someone you want to spend your life with. You didn’t want to tell me before now?”

  I feel guilty. Of course I do. Both for the lie I’m telling her and for the slight hurt in her expression. “I did want to tell you. But I was worried about...”

  “Jinxing it?”

  “Something like that. I’m sorry.”

  We’re having lunch at a little sandwich shop near my mom’s small two-bedroom apartment in Charleston, West Virginia. It’s where my mom has lived since my father walked out on her, and it’s where I grew up. I tried to buy her a house last year when all the money came in, but she wouldn’t accept it. She’s getting married next month, and then she’ll move in to her new husband’s large house just outside the city.

  It will be the first time she’s moved in twenty-nine years.

  Now she reaches over the table to pat my hand. “It’s okay. I understand why you wanted to keep quiet about it. I just hope you know you don’t have to.”

  “I do know. And I’m not sure you’re one to talk. I didn’t know you were dating Pop until you announced your engagement.”

  Her fiancé is known by all the world as Pop. He’s a cantankerous man in his sixties whom my mother met through their church. I really have no idea what she sees in him. He always wears jeans and corduroy jackets, and he boasts an over-the-top handlebar mustache he’s obviously proud of. But he does own a successful regional restaurant chain named Pop’s Home Cooking that has made him a rich man.

  Whatever the reason, my mom obviously loves him, and she’s more thrilled about marrying him than I’ve ever seen her in my whole life. I’m not going to spoil this for her, which is why I’ve gone to great lengths to arrange a husband for myself.

  Pop has three granddaughters around my age. The first time I met them, I was afraid they’d be spoiled and shallow and we’d have nothing in common, but I was pleasantly surprised. They were all smart and friendly and genuinely welcoming to me. But it soon became clear to me that Pop was old-fashioned and domineering and had a habit of pressuring the women in his life to find husbands.

  Not that they said as much. But they tried to subtly warn me what to expect. As soon as I realized what they were implying, I had an immediate vision of what might happen in the future. Pop would try to pressure me. I’d resist because I’ve spent my life going my own way and not caring about who doesn’t like it. So I’d rebel. Pop would get mad. And my poor mother would be caught in the middle.

  The thing is, I know she would take my side. She always has and she always will. And that would lead to problems in her relationship. It might even destroy it.

  She’s worked so hard for so many years without anyone in the world to rely on for help except me. Now that she finally has someone and has the promise of a happy, easy life, I’m not going to take that away from her or let anything spoil her future.

  So I said the first thing that came into my mind in that conversation with Pop’s granddaughters. I told them I was already engaged, so Pop wouldn’t be an issue.

  They were all so relieved. I could see it in their faces.

  Trapped in the lie and with no way to get out of it without ruining my mother’s happiness, I decided the easiest thing would be to just go with it.

  No, of course I didn’t have a fiancé. Or a boyfriend. Or any guy in my life except my business partner, Steve, whom I’d never dream of putting in that awkward position. But I’d found a date for my middle school dance by using my own ingenuity and resources, and I could do the same thing now.

  So that’s how I got here, lying to my mother about being engaged as we eat chicken salad sandwiches and drink sweet tea.

  “I know you didn’t know about Pop,” my mom says, glancing down shyly at her mostly finished plate of food. “It all happened so quickly. I didn’t... trust it.”

  “That’s how it is with me too. I was afraid to trust it’s real. But it is. We’re engaged.”

  She’s all smiles now. She believes me. Her parents were poor. She got pregnant when she was only seventeen. My father treated her like garbage. And she had to work herself to the bone to make sure she could give me every opportunity I might need in my life. I don’t think she was miserable for my growing-up years, but she was never like this. Never this happy. I’ll do anything to keep her this way.

  Even hire a man to be my husband for six months.

  “I’m so glad, Mel. So tell me about him. What’s his name?”

  I swallow and keep my expression relaxed as I answer, “His name is Damian.”

  WHEN I WALK INTO AN Atlanta coffee shop the following day and spot the best-looking man I’ve ever seen, I figure he’s got to be Damian.

  Aurora from Companions for Hire showed me pictures of him when we discussed my needs. Tall and well built with broad shoulders, long legs, and lean hips. Dark hair. Striking blue-green eyes. The perfectly chiseled features of a model for upscale cologne or luxury cars. The pictures were great but also rather unreal. I could aesthetically see the man is handsome, but he didn’t really do it for me.

  And that’s fine. I’m not looking for a guy who does it for me. I just want a man who will suit my practical needs. The truth is, until this moment, I was taking some comfort in the fact that the man is attractive but not likely to attract me.

  I was wrong. Holy hell, was I wrong.

  He looks like a real person as he’s sitting there at a corner table. Despite the fact that the place is crowded on a Sunday afternoon, he’s somehow managed to snag the best seat. He’s dressed simply in jeans and a black crewneck, and he’s focused on his phone. He’s relaxed. Reading. He lifts a hand to rub the back of his neck, and the move highlights the well-defined muscles in his arm.

  And my whole body wakes up. My eyes. My mouth. My lungs. The blood in my veins. The female parts between my legs that really shouldn’t be this awake in the middle of a coffee shop.

  Shit.

  What the hell?

  I wouldn’t have picked this guy if I’d known he could make a girl feel like this from nothing more than an initial glance across a crowded room. I thought he was too perfect to be sexy to me.

  I’m standing here like a dope, clutching the strap to my leather bag, when he glances up and sees me. I’m not sure how he knows I’m the person he’s supposed to meet. Yes, I’m staring at him dazedly, but a guy this hot must get that regularly.

  He knows it’s me though. He stands up with a smile.

  It takes a couple of seconds for my body to obey my mind, but I manage to walk over to his table.

  “Melody Clarke?” he says in a pleasantly husky baritone.

  “Yep. That’s me.” I gesture away the hand he’s extended. I’m not a handshaker, and I’m definitely not going to risk touching this guy. I give him a little wave instead as I take the chair opposite his. “You’re Damian Winters?”

  “Yes.” He’s sitting down again too. Some men think it’s rude that I won’t shake their hand, but his eyebrows are arched, and one corner of his mouth gives a little twitch like he might be amused. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “You too.” I feel breathless and flushed, which isn’t at all like me. I’m well-known for being straightforward and unflappable. So I jump past preliminaries and get right down to business. “Aurora told me all about you. She said you would suit my needs perfectly.”

  “I hope so. I’m more than willing to give it a try.” His eyes are scanning my face and occasionally drop down to my body. I can’t tell from his expression what he thinks of my appearance.

  Everything about me is medium. It always has been. I didn’t dress up for this meeting, so I’m wearing black yoga pants, a fitted T-shirt, and a gray zip-up hoodie, which is the kind of outfit I pretty much live in. My brown hair (medium length) is pulled back in a low ponytail. I’m not wearing any makeup.