Packaged Husband Read online

  “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.

  When I move around to see him from the front, I discover his eyes are on my face. They never waver. He keeps watching me as I work on his hair.

  It makes me feel weird. Kind of nervous and fluttery.

  I wish I knew what he was thinking when he looks at me like that.

  I know how to read men for the most part. I know when they admire me or want to get me into bed or want to hang out with me or think I’m silly and stupid.

  But Owen doesn’t appear to be thinking any of those things.

  I have no idea what he’s thinking.

  I keep giving his hair a few touches until I’m satisfied with it. It’s lying nicely now. Naturally. With just enough freedom to be sexy without coming across as anything Owen would be uncomfortable with.

  “You’re not giving me big hair, are you?” His eyes are still resting on my face with that same expression.

  I snicker. “No. I’m not giving you big hair. I’m done now. You look really good.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” I’m standing very close to him, and one of my hands is threaded through his hair. It would take very little for me to tilt my head down and kiss him.

  I suddenly want to so much that my body flushes hot and a pressure tightens between my legs.

  I’m seriously considering doing it, despite Owen’s standoffishness. I want to a lot, and I suspect we’ll make a pretty good kiss together.

  But Owen clears his throat and ducks his head. “So can I see my hair?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Of course.” I step back to let him up.

  He goes into the half bath near the kitchen and looks in the mirror. He doesn’t say anything.

  “Well?” I prompt.

  “It looks fine.”

  “Fine? Fine? Your hair looks better than fine.”

  “Okay. It looks good. Is that better?”

  “I guess.”

  He comes out and stands in front of me in the hallway. “You’re pretty bossy for a temporary trophy wife.”

  I manage to hold on to an aloof expression, although I really want to laugh. “And you’re pretty whiney for a grandpa. So I guess we deserve each other.”

  “I guess so.”

  He stands and looks down at me for another minute. Then he jerks his head to the side and walks abruptly into the kitchen. He stands there for a minute as if he’s forgotten why he went in there. He finally pulls a beer out of the refrigerator.

  “Back to sports?” I ask him.

  Just perfect. I’m about to be dismissed again, after he’s gotten me all hot and fluttery.

  “I guess so.” He pauses. “Unless you want to watch something else.”

  I arch my eyebrows and try not to look excited. “Are you asking me to join you?”

  “Sure. If you want to. But I’m sure you have something better to do.”

  “I don’t have much of anything to do, except tweak my résumé and cover letter.”

  “Oh yeah? You’re applying for a job?”

  I sigh and go to the refrigerator. I hesitate over the beer but go with a sparkling water instead. I haven’t worked out a lot this week, and I don’t want my clothes to start to get tight. “Yeah. Another one.”

  “So you’re applying to a lot of jobs?”

  He’s still standing in the kitchen, so I turn to face him. “Yes. I’ve been applying for months. I told you I couldn’t find anything.”

  “I didn’t know you were actively looking right now.”

  “I am. I’m always looking. And job searching is like a job in and of itself. I hate it.”

  “You want me to look at your résumé? Not that I’m an expert, but I could—”

  “Sure. That would be great. Let me go get it.”

  I go back to my bedroom upstairs to grab my laptop and a paper copy of my résumé and cover letter template, and then I bring them back downstairs.

  Owen has moved to the couch, but he hasn’t turned the television back on. He reaches out for the papers I hand him.

  I sit down beside him and wait as he reads it.

  “This is good,” he says when he finishes. “It’s really good.”

  “Thanks. Melissa helped me with it. She’s really good at that kind of thing. My problem is that I have no experience to put on it. Spoiled princess isn’t a very good job title.”

  His brows lower ominously. “Don’t call yourself that.”

  “Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “You’re more than that, and you know it.” He’s not trying to be sweet or flattering or even particularly encouraging. His tone is blunt, almost bad-tempered.

  And it makes me believe he means what he says.

  Wishing I didn’t feel that warm swell of appreciation quite so strongly, I manage to say in a light voice, “I guess I could add temporary trophy wife to the résumé. What do you think?”

  He’s still looking down at the sheet of paper, but he smiles at this. “It’s a thought.” He raises his eyes to meet mine. “Do you want a job at Masterson’s?”

  I blink, and then my eyes widen. “What?”

  “Do you want a job at Masterson’s? You’re good at fashion and everything, and God knows we can use more help.”

  I’m so surprised by the offer that I’m almost choking on it. “Owen, I can’t just accept a job from you.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re my husband!”

  “So? No one would even bat an eyelash. Spouses get jobs all the time. Nepotism is alive and well—in Charleston and everywhere else.”

  “I know, but I’d feel weird about it.”

  “I don’t know why. You could take a job for the year, and then if you didn’t still want it after we split, you’d have some good experience.”

  It sounds perfect.

  Absolutely perfect.

  I want it so much I can taste it.

  But I want it so much I’m sure I shouldn’t have it.

  “I... I don’t know. It would feel like... cheating.”

  “Cheating? Why would it be cheating? You’d do the work, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course. I’d work as hard as I possibly can. But I’ve said no every time Pop has tried to get me a job, and I’d feel the same about this. I want to get a job that’s not just an act of pity.”

  “What’s pity? Have you not told me multiple times that I have no style or taste at all?”

  “I’ve never told you that!”

  “You’ve told me in a variety of ways, but the message is very clear. I’ve tried to hire people who are better than me, but we’re still not where I want us to be. You’re good at packaging. You told me so yourself. So why can’t you help us do better?”

  I can help them. I know I can.

  I actually have something to offer here.

  Owen is watching me closely, and after a minute of silence he finally says, “If the idea of nepotism really bothers you, we could call it an internship. You could do all the work and not get paid for it. Surely you can’t think that’s cheating.”

  I’m so excited my arms are crossed over my stomach, hugging myself.

  Surely if I’m not getting paid, I’d be allowed to take the experience that Owen is offering me.

  I would work so hard.

  Harder than anyone.

  He’d never feel like I was mooching. He’
d never be disappointed in me.

  “I can’t tell what you’re thinking, Chelsea. You look like you’re going to explode, but I can’t tell if it’s from annoyance or excitement.”

  “I’m not annoyed!” I burst out. “I really like the idea. I’m just afraid...” I take a ragged breath. “Can I think about it for a day or so?”

  “Sure. Think about it all you want. I promise you we can use your help. I couldn’t give you a job with a lot of responsibility, but you’d be able to help us. I’m not offering you charity. If anything, I’d be taking advantage of you, especially if we don’t pay you.”

  “I don’t want money. Not right now, I mean. I just want to... to do something. Worthwhile. I don’t feel like I ever have.”

  “You have,” he says softly. “People wouldn’t love you as much as they do if you’ve frittered away your life doing nothing.”

  “How do you know people love me?”

  He slants me a teasing look, the seriousness having faded along with the intensity. “Did I or did I not call up about fifteen of your acquaintances to find out about you before our interview so that I’d know whether you’d be a good temporary trophy wife.”

  I giggle. “You did?”

  “I did. So I know people love you. You’ve done something worthwhile with your life already, but if you want to do something more, then do it. Just do it.”

  I swallow hard. “Okay. I will.”

  THAT EVENING, I OPEN the oven door and get a whiff of something really good.

  I’m not much of a cook—to the surprise of no one—but I do enjoy putting food together and entertaining.

  No one is coming over for dinner tonight, but I went to my favorite upscale grocery store this morning—before Owen and I went shopping—so I decided to make the most of what I bought. Earlier I took my favorite crab dip, put it in a small baking dish, covered it with cheese, and baked it alongside a loaf of take-and-bake bread. I’ve also put together a plate of good cheese and prosciutto, along with some cut vegetables in case we want something other than bread to eat with the dip.

  I’m pleased with my preparations—including a dessert—but now I’ve got to get Owen out of hiding to eat it with me.

  I have no idea where he is. I went to use his treadmill a couple of hours ago, and he disappeared after that.

  The only reason I know he’s still at home is because I checked to confirm his car is still in the garage.

  It’s almost seven now. We grabbed a sandwich during our shopping trip, but that was at noon, and surely he’s getting hungry again by now.

  Maybe he really doesn’t want to eat with me.

  I wait a couple of minutes, and he doesn’t miraculously make an appearance, which leaves me only two options. I can eat my prettily prepared food all by myself—something I’m not opposed to but would rather not to do if Owen is planning to eat tonight.

  Or I can go looking for the infuriating man.

  I start with his bedroom, which is the ground-floor master suite. (He likes to have a whole floor and a lot of stairs between my bedroom and his.) The door is open, so I just say his name before I stick my head in.

  He’s not there. Or in the connecting bathroom.

  I go to the back door and look outside, but the wide expanse of lawn and beautifully paved patio is empty except for a few birds and a quickly darting squirrel.

  That leaves only one possibility, unless he’s hiding out in one of the guest bedrooms upstairs. I walk down the front hallway to his home office.

  The door is closed, and it’s usually open.

  He must be in there.

  I stand for a minute in front of the closed door before I knock on it.

  “Yes?”

  I’m assuming this is an invitation to enter, so I open the door partway to see him sitting in front of his computer.

  “Am I interrupting anything?” I ask.

  “No. Of course not.” Despite his words, he’s obviously typing out something, and he completes it before he turns around to look at me.

  He’s wearing the jeans and burnt-orange shirt he wore for our shopping trip, but his eyes are slightly fuzzy, like he’s been concentrating on something hard. As I watch, he pushes his fingers through his (newly trimmed) hair and gives me a questioning look.

  And suddenly I’m aware of him as a man.

  An intelligent, mature, hardworking man. Over forty. He’s got laugh lines on his face and a little bit of gray in his hair. He runs a large company.

  And I feel like a little girl playing dress-up.

  It’s hard to explain why this feeling hits me the way it does. Owen doesn’t look annoyed or impatient by my interruption. But the guys I usually go out with are a lot like me. They’re young. They’re looking for fun. Most of them have jobs, but they’re not jobs like Owen’s. They don’t feel serious.

  Owen feels serious. He feels a lot more serious than me.

  What the hell am I even doing with him? And why did I ever think I was capable of being even a temporary trophy wife to this man?

  “What’s going on, Chelsea?”

  “Nothing. Sorry. I didn’t realize you were working.”

  “Eh. I’m not really.” He waves a dismissive hand at his keyboard. “Just clearing out some email. I hate coming in on Monday morning to tons of unread email.”

  “You could have your assistant help you with it, couldn’t you?”

  “Sure. I’ve thought about it. But it would be more trouble than it’s worth. I get personal stuff in my email as well as work stuff, and even the work stuff Barbara wouldn’t always know what to do with. I forward most of the messages I get anyway to someone who can act on them. I’d end up fielding most of the messages even if I staffed out my inbox. It’s easier for me to just do it myself.”

  “Pop lets his assistant handle all his email.” I’m still feeling rattled, and this is mostly just something I can say without effort.

  “I bet he does.” Owen has a little smile on his face. “But he’s from a generation before email. I’ve had email my entire working life. I’d rather do it myself. I just don’t like it to pile up.”

  I nod to acknowledge his reply and to let him know I’m listening. He feels farther away from me than ever right now.

  “Did you need something?” he asks, using his fingertips to rub at his scalp as if he has a headache.

  “No. No. It’s nothing. You keep working on email.”

  I’ve turned to leave the office, but he stops me by asking, “Did you make up your mind about the internship?”

  “Oh. No. Not that. It’s... nothing. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  I’m all flustered now. For no good reason. I’m not used to feeling this way, so I don’t really know how to handle it.

  My best bet is to get away, so that’s what I do—even though I hear Owen saying, “Chelsea?” as I leave.

  I make it to the kitchen before he catches me.

  He actually catches me. He’s been hurrying, and he grabs my shoulder to turn me around to face him. “Chelsea, what the hell?”

  I like when it calls me Chelsea. I’m not sure why, but I like it better than any pet name he might come up with. It makes me feel like I’m personalized to him. Like he’s taking me seriously.

  But I’d rather him not be in my face like this right now, so I frown at him. “I told you it was nothing. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “I know what you said. But I said at least twice that you’re not interrupting. It’s just email. It’s not like I’m signing the Magna Carta in there. Tell me what you wanted.”

  “I said it’s nothing.” My jaw has gone out because I’m getting frustrated. Why the hell won’t he just let it go?

  “It is something.” He’s stepped into me, so my back is against the kitchen counter. He feels very big and very solid right now. I can feel the heat from his body, although he’s not touching me. “Tell me. Right now.” His voice has gotten lower and softer.

  Here’s something I’
ve learned about Owen in the month and a half I’ve known him. He’s got a bad-tempered grumble he uses when he’s not really serious about his annoyance. But when he’s serious—when he gets angry—he doesn’t get loud.

  He gets soft. Low and soft.

  He’s low and soft right now.

  His mood has an effect on me. I want to surrender to it. To just tell him the truth. But it bothers me that I want to do this. That I want to do what he says.

  So, naturally, I resist. I tighten my lips and give him a steady glare. “I don’t have anything to tell you.”

  He moves even closer. There’s an intensity radiating off him that’s really getting to me. It’s taking my breath. Making me ache between the legs. “Tell me, Chelsea.”

  “No.”

  “Damn it,” he mutters. “Why are you so stubborn?”

  “Why am I so stubborn? You’re the one who keeps demanding that I tell him something when I don’t have anything to say.”

  “Yes, you do. You came into my office to tell me, and then you stopped because of this ridiculous fantasy that I was too busy. I was just doing fucking email.” His voice is so soft I have to tilt my head up to hear him. “Who the hell gives a shit about email?”

  I’ve never heard him curse before—anything stronger than “hell.” I didn’t know he even used that kind of language.

  I like it.

  A lot.

  I’m shuddering now, and one of my hands has gone up of its own accord to hold on to his upper arm. My fingers are wrapped around his firm muscles, and I like the feel of them.

  “Chelsea,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Tell me.”

  I make a weird little sound in the back of my throat because I’m so close to just giving in to him and all his quiet, heated intensity.

  Then I see him sniffing the air, and I remember the bread and crab dip in the oven.

  I push him back so I can get to the oven and open it up, relieved when I see that nothing is burned.

  I grab a hot pad to pull out the food.

  “Did you make something for dinner?” he asks. His voice is its normal decibel again.

  “Yes.”

  “Is that what you came in to tell me?”

  I don’t answer. I put the bread on a cutting board and move it to the kitchen bar next to the crab dip, which is looking hot and bubbly and delicious.