Packaged Husband (Trophy Husbands, #3) Page 5

  She listens and laughs and asks questions. I’m feeling encouraged and more like myself twenty minutes later when our conversation starts to wrap up. I promise to send her the video of Owen singing the Elvis song.

  I’m about to say goodbye when the front door to the suite opens without warning and Owen walks in.

  “Oh,” I say, blinking and sitting up straighter. “Here’s Owen coming in. I guess he wasn’t still sleeping after all.”

  “All right. I’ll let you talk to him. Text later.”

  “I will. Talk to you later.”

  I disconnect the call and put my phone down, picking up my mug to take a sip of my now lukewarm coffee.

  I’ve only drunk half the cup, but I’ll have to dump it and make myself another. I only like hot coffee.

  “Hi,” Owen says, putting his key card on the counter and getting a bottle of water from the full-sized refrigerator.

  “I thought you were still in bed.”

  What he’s been doing is very obvious. He’s wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt. He’s also sweating. A lot.

  I gape at him before I pull it together. I usually don’t do that kind of thing, but Owen is hotter than I ever imagined he’d be.

  He’s obviously hot in temperature right now. His face is dripping, and his shirt is plastered to his chest.

  But I mean he’s hot.

  He’s all flushed and physical and masculine, and his workout clothes don’t do anything to hide the strong lines of his body. His shoulders aren’t the only good thing he has going for him. His chest and abs are firm. His arms have some good definition. And his thighs...

  Shit, his thighs.

  That’s all I can say.

  I stare at him, stunned and overwhelmed and bemused.

  This is Owen. He’s supposed to be a fuddy-duddy. Quiet. Cute-ish. Kind of odd, but nice enough.

  He’s not supposed to be this.

  He’s not perfectly molded and manicured like a model or movie star. His stomach isn’t perfectly flat. (I can see it very clearly beneath the damp fabric of his T-shirt.) And he’s got a lot of hair on his arms and legs... and I would bet his chest too. In the morning light streaming through the glass door leading out to the balcony, I can see a few threads of gray in his hair.

  And I like them.

  I like every detail of him.

  Even the smell of him—a mixture of laundry and effort.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  “What’s the matter?” he asks after taking a swig of water. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “Nothing.”

  “Something’s wrong. You’re staring at me like I just sprouted horns.”

  That isn’t at all how I’m staring at him, but it’s just as well he doesn’t know what I’m thinking. “It’s nothing. You just surprised me. I thought you were still in bed.”

  “At nine thirty?”

  “Nine thirty is a perfectly legitimate time in the morning to sleep in.”

  He snorts and comes over to sit beside me on the couch.

  I really don’t need to see him from an even closer perspective. I’m already off-kilter enough.

  “Maybe nine thirty is normal for you to sleep in, but it’s not normal for me.”

  “What time did you wake up?”

  “Around seven thirty.”

  “Have you been working out all this time?”

  “Of course not.” He shakes his head like I’m being ridiculous. “I’m not in my twenties like you. It takes some time in the morning for me to adjust.”

  “Adjust to what?”

  “Adjust to being... awake. Alive. And over forty.” He slants me a look that’s wry. And kind of sexy.

  I laugh at his words and his look. “You’re just barely over forty. Don’t act like you’re an old man.”

  “I know I’m not an old man. But I’m not twenty anymore. You wait until you’re forty. I promise you’ll feel different than you do right now.”

  “Okay, grandpa. Tell me all about how I’ll feel when I reach your great heights of wisdom and maturity.”

  He narrows his eyes and shoots me a look. “You won’t be able to jump out of bed and get right to working out.”

  I snicker. “I don’t do that anyway. Melissa and Trevor work out every morning. And Hunter, Sam’s husband, runs every morning. I’m not a big fan of exercise, but I try to keep in decent shape. So I’ll do something a few days a week in the afternoons or evenings. But that’s about it. Do you work out every morning?”

  “God, no. I usually work out after work. Otherwise, I’d have to get up at some ungodly hour so I could sit for an hour before I started my workout.”

  I’m smiling as I rest my eyes on his face. It looks handsomer than normal. Surely it’s not the sweat that has done it.

  “What?” he asks, his eyebrows lowering.

  “Nothing.”

  “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “What way?”

  “Like you’re thinking about laughing at me.”

  I huff and straighten up.

  The man really is as infuriating as it’s possible for someone to be. And the worst thing is it’s unintentional. He’s not trying to be contrary or misunderstand everything I say or think.

  He really is this clueless.

  Idiot.

  “I wasn’t laughing at you,” I tell him coolly.

  He frowns. “You’re annoyed with me now?”

  “I’m not annoyed.”

  “Yes, you are. You were liking me a minute ago, and now you’re annoyed.”

  “I thought you said I was laughing at you.”

  “Sure, but you wouldn’t laugh at me if you didn’t like me.”

  “Why do you assume that?”

  He shakes his head and wipes his face with the back of his hand again. “Because you’re a nice person. You wouldn’t laugh at someone to be mean. So you only laugh at people you like.”

  The most ludicrous feeling blooms in my chest. Something warm and grateful and really quite stupid.

  He’s waiting for a reply, so I manage to give him one. “I wasn’t laughing at you.”

  “Okay. If you say so.”

  I give his arm a soft punch in retaliation for his ironic tone, and I’m startled to feel how hard his bicep is.

  God, he’s got a better body than I thought.

  As he stands up, he has to smother a groan.

  “You’re not that old, grandpa.”

  “I feel like I’m about a hundred this morning. Too much champagne, I guess.” He’s smiling back at me though.

  I can’t seem to stop grinning. “You had more than I did, so it could be that. All I need is another cup of coffee, and I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m going to take a shower and try to recover.” He pulls down his T-shirt, which is still sticking to his chest and his back. I catch sight of a glint of gold on his left hand, and it startles me.

  He’s wearing a wedding ring.

  He’s married. To me.

  He’s my husband.

  I don’t know exactly why, but it’s a very strange thing to wrap my mind around.

  He must see where my gaze is fixed because he looks down at his own hand. “You having second thoughts already?”

  “Nope. No second thoughts.”

  My tone is light and almost playful, but I’m telling him the absolute truth.

  So far, this marriage has been a very good idea.

  EVERY SUNDAY EVENING for as long as I remember, my family has gotten together at Pop’s for Sunday supper. It’s the only time of the week when Pop cooks anymore.

  It’s our one family tradition.

  A couple of hours after Owen and I land in Charleston, we drive over to Pop’s house for Sunday supper. I’m tired after the weekend, but I’ve put on a cute outfit and my best smile.

  Owen will be meeting Pop for the first time since we came to our arrangement, and I have no idea what to expect.

  When we arriv
e at the house, Melissa and Trevor have just gotten there too, so we all walk in together. Owen looks pleased to see Trevor and smiles at the other man in a friendly, relaxed way.

  They’re friends. Trevor has known Owen a lot longer than I have.

  I wish he’d smile that way at me.

  “You ready for this?” Melissa asks me softly as we enter the front hall.

  I shrug. “I have no idea.”

  “Owen doesn’t look nervous, so that’s good. Trevor says he’s really happy about the marriage.”

  My heart skips a few times at that piece of information. I glance over and realize that Melissa is right. Owen doesn’t look nervous at all. He looks calm and serious and absurdly attractive in his khakis and blue button-down. He gives me a questioning look when he sees me staring.

  Then he extends a hand toward me, and I step over to take it.

  It’s an act. I know it’s an act. We want Pop to believe this marriage is normal. But his grip is warm and comforting anyway.

  I like how it feels to hold hands with him.

  We find Pop in his leather armchair, drinking whiskey as he always does before dinner. He glances up as we enter.

  I see his quick double take when his eyes land on Owen.

  “Who’s this?” he asks brusquely.

  “This is Owen Masterson. The man I’ve been dating for the past month.”

  “What’s he doin’ here?”

  “We went to Vegas this weekend.” I try to sound excited and kind of shy at the same time. “We did something kind of... spontaneous.”

  Pop’s bushy eyebrows go sky-high. “What did you do, girl?”

  “We got married. Owen is my husband now.” I smile and hold my breath and wonder what on earth Pop is going to say now.

  He blinks. Then his eyes move from me to Owen and back again. He’s silent for a long time. Then he finally says in a gruff voice, “You too, huh?”

  “Yes. Me too.”

  The silence goes on so long my belly twists. Pop doesn’t look angry or ornery. He looks slightly confused.

  Almost vulnerable.

  I’ve never seen Pop look that way before, and it really upsets me.

  After a minute, Owen clears his throat. “It’s nice to see you, Mr. Greyson. We’ve actually met before. I don’t know if you’ll remember or not.”

  “I remember.” Pop eyes Owen up and down. “And everyone calls me Pop.”

  “Pop then.” Owen isn’t smiling. I never expected him to. But he looks relaxed and confident, and it makes me feel better. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to ask for your blessing beforehand. I hope I might get it now.”

  It’s exactly the right thing to say, with exactly the right balance of respect and self-assurance. I’m amazed Owen—who was so tongue-tied with me—is pulling the conversation off so perfectly.

  After another several seconds, Pop mutters, “Nice of you to ask.”

  I glance over at Sam for help, since so far things have gone smoothly, and I don’t want to stretch this conversation out long enough for it to fall apart.

  Sam says with a smile in her voice, “We’re all really excited for Chelsea and Owen. She can tell us more about it as we eat. How was church today, Pop?”

  Pop stands up and heads for the kitchen, where the meal he’s prepared is waiting to be served. “Good. Real good sermon. You girls need to go more often. Take your husbands too.”

  I let out a breath and squeeze Owen’s hand.

  That went as well as it could possibly go. With my sisters’ help, we might even make it through the meal in relative peace.

  ALMOST A WEEK LATER, I’m waiting outside a dressing room while Owen tries on a suit.

  Early in the week, I told him we were going shopping today, and I reminded him every day so he wouldn’t forget or try to get out of it.

  If I’m going to do my duty by this marriage, then I’ve got to get him at least a few new clothes. We’re starting with a couple of suits.

  He doesn’t appear all that excited about our shopping trip, and he grumbled when I told him we couldn’t pick something out from Masterson’s, which is evidently the only place he’s ever gotten clothes. But he’s been perfectly compliant as we get to the most upscale clothing store Charleston has to offer and I find him a few things to try on.

  I’m excited to see him in the first outfit I picked out, and I’m wondering why he’s taking so long putting it on.

  The first week of our marriage has been okay.

  Just okay.

  The truth is, I’ve barely seen Owen, and it’s a little disappointing.

  I know we’re not soul mates or something stupid like that. And it’s clear he’s not interested in me physically since he never touches me unless I tell him to. But we’ve gotten along okay when we’ve spent time together, so I don’t know why he wouldn’t want to hang out with me at least a little.

  We’re living in the same house—Owen’s very nice four-bedroom place in one of the nicer neighborhoods with established trees and big yards. And we’re married. And I thought he liked me at least a little.

  But he always leaves for work very early—even when I try to wake up by seven, he’s already gone. He doesn’t get home from work until after six, and then he works out for an hour or so. After he’s showered, he eats dinner on the couch in front of the television. He’s perfectly happy for me to join him, but he’s not a bit talkative.

  I’m sure he’s tired. He works long hours. Of course he’s tired.

  But still...

  I’m not used to being ignored this way.

  It’s troubling.

  Kind of upsetting.

  But I’m not going to complain. This marriage is a business arrangement, and I have absolutely no claim on him in any other way.

  If he doesn’t want to talk to me, then he doesn’t have to.

  But he can’t escape me today, and I’m going to get started on the repackaging by getting him some new clothes.

  “Is everything okay in there?” I ask through the door, after a few more minutes of silence.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have one of the suits on?”

  “Yes.”

  “So open the door and let me see.” Surely the idiot wasn’t going to try on clothes I picked out for him and not even let me see them.

  He’s frowning as he opens the door.

  The jacket is a little too long in the sleeves, but otherwise the suit fits just right. It’s sleek and tailored with thick, expensive fabric and a modern cut.

  It looks great.

  He looks great.

  He looks like he could be James Bond or something.

  I gape at him like an idiot.

  “Is it that bad?” he asks, adjusting the silver-gray tie I picked out to go with it.

  “No! It’s not bad at all. It’s... great.” I swallow, more annoyed with myself than ever. This is still Owen. He hasn’t changed. He’s just put on a good suit.

  Get it together. Now.

  “Is it?” He frowns down at himself.

  “Yes. It’s perfect.”

  “It’s not much different from my regular suits.”

  “It is different. The cut makes all the difference.”

  “Okay. If you say so. But I don’t need this shirt. I’ve got four or five shirts this color.”

  “But they’re not shirts like this. You need this one.”

  His lip curls up in a half snarl.

  “Don’t make that face at me. The only thing I bring to this marriage is my expertise in packaging, so you sure as hell better listen to me.”

  “Okay. Fine.” He’s already unbuttoning the jacket to the suit. “Do I have to try on the other two?”

  “Yes, you have to try them on. They’re not the same suit in different colors!”

  “Why not? If this one works, why can’t I just get more of the same style? I could get two black, one gray, one brown, and I’d be all set. No more shopping.” He’s trying for an innocently cluele
ss look, but I catch a little glint in his eyes.

  He’s teasing me.

  He’s teasing me.

  “Asshole,” I tell him without any heat. I’m trying not to smile. “You’re stuck shopping with me for a little while longer. Now take this one off and put the next one on.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And don’t call me ma’am.” I close the dressing room door.

  “Then don’t be so bossy.”

  I huff loudly enough for him to hear, but fortunately the door is closed and he can’t see that I’m smiling.

  ON OUR WAY HOME, WE drop off his new suits to get the needed adjustments. When we get home, I go to the bathroom and then change into something more comfortable—yoga pants and a little T-shirt. When I come back downstairs, I find that he’s in his normal place in front of the TV.

  He’s turned on sports.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” I tell him. “I need to trim your hair.”

  “What?” He looks and sounds outraged.

  “You heard me.”

  “Why do I need a haircut?”

  “Do you want to up your cool factor or not?”

  “I guess. But not enough to let you cut my hair.”

  “I’m not going to cut it. I’m just going to shape it a little. You’ll hardly notice.”

  “If I won’t notice, then no one else will notice.”

  “Oh yes they will. It will only take a few minutes.” I show him the sharp, very expensive shears I’ve brought down with me.

  He snarls, but he gets up easily enough. “Where do you want me?”

  “Come sit on one of these stools. That will put you at the right height.”

  He sits on a stool in front of the kitchen bar. “Do I need to get my hair wet?”

  “Nah. I’m not cutting off any length. I’m just going to try to give it a little shape.”

  “What’s wrong with my shape?”

  “Your shape is fine.” This fact is more than evident to me since I’m inches from his broad shoulders and straight back. I really want to touch him, but I touch his hair instead. “But your hair could use a little.”

  “I have a normal haircut.”

  “I know that. But you comb it all down flat. It needs a little... movement.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say so.”

  I play with his hair for a bit. It’s thick and soft, and he’s got a lot of it. Then I take the shears and, using the tips, I thin his hair a bit in a few places and then fluff it up to study the effect.