Packaged Husband (Trophy Husbands, #3) Page 3

  He’s taking me seriously, and he obviously needs what I can offer. He wants to work with me.

  He might even want to marry me.

  My first instinct was the right one. Owen and I can help each other.

  It clearly doesn’t matter to him that this situation is an unconventional one. It doesn’t matter to him that most people would say we were crazy.

  So it won’t matter to me either.

  This might actually work.

  I’d be free of Pop and have a year to figure out how I can support myself.

  What more could I ask for?

  I told Owen I need to think about it, but the truth is I only need to convince myself it’s not a stupid idea.

  I already know what my final answer will be.

  I’m going to eventually say yes.

  Two

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, I have dinner with my sisters at Sam’s place.

  Her husband, Hunter, is working late, which I’m happy about. I like Hunter a lot, but I’d feel weird about his hanging around making gruff comments and trying not to laugh while I tell my sisters about my interview with Owen.

  Sam has been cooking a lot lately, and she’s made delicious roasted chicken with vegetables. It’s ready as soon as Melissa and I arrive, so we get settled at the table and start to eat before I tell them anything.

  Then Melissa says, “Okay, spill it before we go crazy with curiosity.”

  So I spill it. I tell them everything. With as many details as I can remember.

  I can tell a good story when I want, and I’ve got Sam and Melissa giggling several times as I go through the events of the previous day.

  When I’m finished, both of them study me for a minute without speaking.

  It finally goes on so long that I demand, “Well? Don’t you have anything to say?”

  “I still can’t tell if you actually liked the guy or not,” Sam says.

  “That’s because I don’t know if I like him or not. He was... okay. He wasn’t mean or anything. But...”

  “But what?” Melissa asks.

  For no good reason I feel flustered. Strangely self-conscious. “I don’t know. He just wasn’t what I expected. I couldn’t... Everyone I talked to said the same thing about him. He was sweet and kind of shy. But he didn’t seem that way to me. He was... strange. He stared a lot and didn’t give me cues about what he was thinking. So all my planned strategy didn’t end up working. I just can’t read him, and it’s... it’s... kind of annoying.”

  I’m trying to be honest with my sisters. I nearly always am. They aren’t judgmental, and they love me. And I’ll feel better if I can talk out my impressions of Owen.

  But they give each other a certain look. One that makes me stiffen defensively. “What?”

  Sam glances at Melissa again.

  Melissa’s mouth twitches in a suppressed smile.

  “Are you laughing at me?” I look from one to the other.

  “No. Of course not.” Sam is clearly trying to be mollifying.

  “Well, maybe a little.” Melissa has speared a piece of yellow pepper on her fork, but she puts it down as she responds. “It is kind of funny.”

  “What’s funny?”

  “That you thought you could wrap this guy around your finger, and it didn’t work.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Yes, you did,” Sam interrupts. “You know you did. You thought a sweet and shy guy would be easy to woo, and he wasn’t.” Her eyes are laughing, although her lips are relaxed. “And now you’re in a tizzy because he wants you to be his temporary trophy wife—and you kind of want to do it—but you’re scared that you’re not going to be able to control him.”

  “I never expected to control him!” I genuinely believe this is true, so my indignation is real.

  “You did,” Melissa says. “Admit it. You’ve always been good with guys. You can get them to do anything you want just by batting your eyelashes. And here you thought you’d do the same thing with Owen, and you can’t. So now if you say yes to his proposal, it’s not going to be easy to work it the way you want.”

  “I don’t know if I’m even going to say yes.”

  “Of course you will. It’s what you were thinking as soon as Trevor told you about him. You just chickened out of the trophy-wife idea—quite understandably. But now it’s not going to be what you thought.” Sam glances as Melissa again. “The irony is kind of delicious.”

  “It’s not delicious.” I frown. I try not to pout, but I feel like it at the moment. “It’s annoying. He’s annoying. And now y’all are being annoying too.”

  They both just laugh, and I’ve never been a good pouter, so I end up smiling instead. “Did Trevor tell you anything more about him?”

  “Like what?” Melissa asks.

  “I don’t know. Personal stuff. Like has he been in serious relationships before?”

  “Trevor mentioned he had a couple of long-term relationships but nothing serious in the past several years. I guess he’s been consumed with his work ever since his father died.”

  “Yeah.” I fiddle with the food on my plate. “I can see that. He does give off some workaholic vibes, and he’s obviously willing to do anything to make Masterson’s a success again, even ask a stranger to be his temporary trophy wife.”

  My phone rings just then, and I glance at the screen and then tense up dramatically.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Sam asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, don’t just sit there. Answer it and see what he says.” Melissa makes a hurrying gesture. Patience has never been in her skill set.

  I’m about to connect the call, but I really don’t want to have this conversation while Sam and Melissa are sitting across the table and blatantly listening.

  So I stand up as I hit Accept and say with a smile in my voice, “Hi. This is Chelsea.”

  “Hi.” There’s a pause, during which I walk into Sam’s spare bedroom. “It’s Owen.”

  “Yes. How are you?”

  “Okay.”

  I wait. He’s the one who called me. Surely he’s going to say something else.

  When he doesn’t, I prompt, “Did you have a question or anything?”

  “Yeah.” Another pause. “I wanted to know if you’ve made a decision or not.”

  I give a soft huff of dry amusement. He’s clearly not big on patience either. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

  “And?”

  “I...” I trail off, knowing as I do that I might as well say the answer I knew from the beginning. “I kind of like the idea, if we think we can make it work.”

  “I don’t see why not. We’ll just negotiate all the details beforehand so there aren’t any surprises.” He sounds professional, confident. He might not be good at socializing, but he’s obviously good at business.

  And that’s how he’s thinking about this. Business.

  That’s how I’m going to think about it too.

  “That sounds good to me,” I tell him. “We can put together a contract that works for both of us.”

  “I have a couple of questions first.”

  “Sure. Of course.”

  Nothing.

  I take a deep breath so I can keep the smile in my voice. Seriously. I want to shake this guy, and I’ve only been on the phone with him for less than a minute. “What were your questions?”

  “What about sex?”

  My eyes widen, and my body tightens. “Sex?”

  “Were you... were you thinking we’d...”

  “Oh. Oh. I see. I... Well, I don’t know. We don’t have to. We don’t know each other right now, so we wouldn’t know if we’d even want to.” My cheeks are burning, and it’s so annoying. I’m not usually flustered this way. “We can leave it on the table. As an option. If you want. But we won’t have to.”

  More silence on the other end of the call.

  Damn it. Why won’t this guy converse like a normal person?

  I go on. “I don’t want
it to be an obligation. For either one of us. I mean, that doesn’t seem like a good idea. Does it?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Good. So we can leave it on the table, if we decide we want to, but neither one of us would be obliged. But we can. If we want to.”

  Shit. Now I’m babbling.

  “With each other?”

  I blink. “What?”

  “We can have sex with each other?”

  “Yes. Of course. What else?”

  “What else would be having sex with other people.”

  “Oh. Oh no. I didn’t think we would...” I have to stop and think for a second. “Did you want to have sex with other people?”

  “No!” The word bursts out, and it’s the most expressive thing I’ve ever heard from this man. It surprises me. “Not me.”

  “Oh. Good. Me either. Even if it’s just a one-year marriage of convenience, I’d rather us be faithful.”

  “Me too.”

  “Okay then. It sounds like we’re on the same page. No sex with anyone else. But we can have sex with each other if... if we both want to. No pressure or obligation.”

  Am I really having this conversation?

  Evidently I am.

  “Okay.”

  I wait a beat for more, but of course he doesn’t say anything else. “Okay. Did you have any other questions?”

  “Where we would live?”

  “I don’t really care about that. I have an apartment, but Pop pays for it. It’s not that important to me. If you have a house, we can live there. Or wherever you want.”

  “My house is fine. And I could give you a budget... for clothes or whatever you want to buy. I wouldn’t be cheap with you or anything.”

  He sounds as matter-of-fact as ever, but I find this comment rather adorable. “I wouldn’t need much. I mean, I have plenty of clothes already. I like to shop, but I can restrain myself if necessary. I don’t want to take advantage of you. I know all I’m bringing to this marriage is—”

  “You’re bringing plenty. I need you right now. You can buy what you want.”

  “Oh. Okay. Thank you.” I’m still blushing. What the hell is wrong with me?

  “Okay,” he says.

  “Okay what?”

  “Okay. It all sounds good. So we’re going to do this?”

  “Oh. Uh. Yeah. I want to. Good. Thanks.” Okay, I’ve got to do better than this. I’m supposed to be the one who’s good at conversation. “So how would you like to handle leading into it? Should we date for a while so it looks like a normal marriage?”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  “We could date for like a month or so. Pretend it’s a whirlwind romance and then just marry spontaneously. People will think it’s really romantic. It will help your image, and we’ll have a great story to tell the people you want to do business with.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  I roll my eyes but make sure to keep it from my voice. “All right then. Your friends all think we have a blind date, so why don’t we go with that. We can go out on Saturday evening, if you’re available, and that will be our first date. Then we can pretend that we fell hard for each other and take the relationship from there.”

  “Okay.”

  Damn it. If this guy can’t talk more than this, he’s going to kill me before the end of this fake marriage.

  “Okay. Good then.”

  We both just wait for a minute, not talking.

  “Okay,” I say at last. “We can be in touch. Bye then.”

  “Bye.”

  I disconnect the call and collapse back on the bed, where I’ve been sitting.

  Sam and Melissa find me sprawled out there.

  They laugh at me some more, but it’s not really funny.

  This guy is impossible.

  And evidently I’m going to marry him.

  ON SATURDAY EVENING, Eva comes over to my apartment to help me get ready for my first date with Owen.

  I don’t actually need help getting ready. I just need someone to hash everything out with.

  The farther I am from the phone conversation, the more crazy it seems to me. I must have been out of my mind to agree to marry a stranger.

  Now I’m stuck with him for a year.

  But Melissa did it, and Sam did it, and both of them are happier than they’ve ever been before. I’m obviously never going to fall in love with Owen since most of the time I want to shake more words out of him. But if my sisters can make it through a yearlong marriage of convenience, then so can I.

  I don’t need a happily-ever-after.

  I just need the chance to learn to stand on my own feet and show Pop he can’t control me.

  I put on one of my favorite dresses—a flirty blue one that brings out of the color of my eyes and makes the most of my figure. I don’t know how Owen is planning to dress for our date, but I’m going to look good even if he shows up wearing jeans.

  He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d wear jeans on a date.

  But even if he does, I’m going to look as good as possible. He’s not going to be disappointed in his choice of temporary trophy wife. Not if I can help it.

  We’ve arranged for him to pick me up at seven o’clock, and there’s a knock on the door at seven on the dot. I haven’t got my shoes and jewelry on yet, but I run to get the door anyway.

  When I swing it open and greet him with a warm smile, he just stands there and stares at me.

  Of course.

  He’s wearing a suit, but it’s like the other suit I saw him in. It’s good quality but not tailored in a modern way, and it makes him look about fifteen years older than he is. His hair is just as neat and pressed down as it was on Wednesday.

  He’s got a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Roses and orchids. They’re really quite lovely.

  When he doesn’t say anything, I ask, “Are those for me?”

  “Oh. Yes.” He thrusts them at me.

  “Thank you.” I take the flowers and step out of the doorway to let him in. “They’re gorgeous. I’ll put them in water, and then I need to finish getting ready. I’ll just be a few minutes. But my friend Eva is here. She can keep you company while you wait.”

  He comes in without a word and then stands around as I put the flowers in a vase.

  I make a discreet gesture at Eva, indicating that she should do her best to entertain Owen, and then I go back into my bedroom to finish getting ready.

  I usually take my time with primping, but Owen seems like the kind of guy who might get annoyed with that, and I don’t want poor Eva to suffer with him for long, so I hurry.

  In six minutes, I’m starting to leave my bedroom, but I pause when I hear voices.

  Owen and Eva are talking about her job at the salon. And I mean both of them are talking. Owen is talking.

  He’s not talking a mile a minute or anything, but he sounds friendly and natural. He even laughs as I stand there listening.

  Maybe he’s in a good mood today.

  That bodes well for our date.

  Hopefully it won’t be like pulling teeth to have a conversation with him.

  Owen and Eva are smiling when I come out, and I’m shocked by how much the smile transforms Owen’s face.

  He’s more than cute when he smiles.

  He’s... more.

  His smile fades when he sees me. He stands up, his eyes running up and down my body. They linger on my legs and my neckline, the way they did in his office on Wednesday, but I still don’t see any admiration in his expression.

  I have no idea if he thinks I’m pretty or not. The man might as well be a blank page.

  “You look gorgeous, Chelsea,” Eva says with a smile. “I love that dress.”

  “Thanks.” At least someone knows how to give a compliment.

  Owen doesn’t say anything.

  “Okay.” I go over to pick up the little silver-gray purse I prepared for the evening. “We better get going if we don’t want to be late for our reservation.”

  No res
ponse from Owen, but Eva tells us to have a good time, and we all leave my apartment together.

  Owen owns an expensive German sedan. It’s a very nice car, but it’s kind of stuffy like the rest of him.

  On the way to the restaurant, I ask him about his family and his work.

  As we’re waiting for our food, I ask him about books he’s read and movies he’s seen and sports teams he likes.

  As we eat, I tell him about my family and where I went to school and about the best places I’ve traveled.

  All the conversational work is done by me. He answers when I ask direct questions, but that’s about all he does.

  By the time I’ve finished my salmon and risotto, I’m about to scream.

  If this was a normal first date, I’d be skipping dessert and making a quick getaway, but unfortunately that’s not an option.

  We’ve got to make the world believe we’re falling hard for each other.

  So I suggest we go to a cute little ice cream place for dessert, and he drives us over.

  As a test—or maybe just my contrary streak coming out—I decide not to say anything until he’s willing to step up.

  So we sit in silence on the drive over.

  And we walk in silence into the ice cream shop, which is crowded tonight.

  We stand in line in silence too.

  By the time we get our ice cream and I make a quick move to grab the one empty table, I’m stewing.

  What the hell is wrong with the man?

  Is he not going to say anything at all?

  I eat my chocolate-mint ice cream, trying not to glare at him.

  I’m about a third of the way done when Owen finally asks, “Are you mad at me?”

  I almost slump in relief that he’s said something. I’m not sure how long I could hold out with this kind of awkward silence.

  “No, I’m not mad.”

  “You look mad.”

  I take a slow breath. “Well, honestly, I’m a little annoyed.”

  “Why?”

  Why?

  Why?

  Why?

  “Because you’re not saying anything, and it’s making this a lot harder than it needs to be. We’re supposed to be on a date.”

  Something different is happening on his face. His jaw looks tense, and he gnaws on his lower lip for just a minute. He’s not quite meeting my eyes. “This is how I act on a date.”