Part-Time Husband Page 7

  I feel another ripple of pleasure at his words—for a different reason this time.

  I like that he’s said this.

  I like that he feels like Charleston is home for him too.

  Despite his ridiculously expensive suits and his arrogant attitude, he’s like me in that way.

  Trevor has finished his food, and he takes the last sip of his wine before propping his arm up on the counter and resting his head on his hand. His eyes are focused on me now. “Nothing to say to that?”

  “Charleston feels like home to me too.”

  “I know it does.” His tone sounds oddly intimate, and it makes me shiver.

  “It is harder in some ways. Staying in the town you grew up in. It’s harder to... prove yourself, reshape yourself, become who you really want to be, when everyone knows who you always were before.”

  “That’s for sure. I could be anyone I wanted to be in New York, but here people are always...”

  “They’re always what?” This feels important, and I really want to know.

  “They’re always making me something I’m not.”

  I push my mostly empty plate away and study Trevor’s face. His eyes are strangely distant, and his jaw is slightly clenched.

  He’s feeling this deeply. It matters to him. That people see him the way he views himself. I assume this is at least partly where his arrogance comes from—an attempt to make other people see him in a certain way.

  I feel a weird sort of connection to him that I haven’t felt before, like I’m starting to understand him.

  “I feel like...” I trail off as soon as I realize what I’m about to say, how private it is.

  When I don’t finish, Trevor murmurs, “How do you feel, Melissa?”

  I don’t know why I tell him, but I do. “I feel like I’m always having to fight for a place in the world too.”

  His face changes. I see it. I wonder if he’s experiencing a moment of connection like I am.

  I clear my throat and add, “I really think some people don’t have to do that. They feel... at home in their lives and in their worlds. I’ve never felt like that. I feel like I’m always on the verge of it being snatched away and it’s my job to hold it together.”

  My hand is lying on the counter, and he reaches over to cover it with one of his. “Yeah.”

  The weight of his hand is warm, comforting, incredibly unnerving. “Sometimes I try to think back to before my parents died, and I feel like I was more secure back then. But when they died, it was like the floor of the world crumbled under my feet. It just fell out from under me. And I had to work so hard to feel secure again.” I sigh. “I think I’ve been working at it ever since.”

  My words linger in the air, and suddenly I wonder with a wave of cold fear why I ever said something so intimate to Trevor. To Trevor.

  I pull my hand away and drop my eyes.

  He tilts up my chin with one hand, making me look at him again. He’s smiling just slightly. A soft, familiar smirk. “You’re spooked now.”

  I suck in a breath. “I am not spooked.”

  “Yes, you are. You think you admitted too much just now, and you’ve given me too much ground.”

  “I haven’t given you any ground. You admitted stuff to me too.”

  He chuckles, and I’m convinced it’s the most delicious sound in the world. “I know I did. But you’re the only one of us who’s spooked about it.”

  I scowl at him, although I feel the infuriating urge to giggle. “You must be in a better mood now since you’re obnoxious again. I’m so glad I could help lift your mood.”

  His smirk transforms to something else, something that takes my breath away. “You did.”

  Shit.

  Now I’m actually leaning toward him, responding to that compelling expression in his eyes.

  What the hell am I doing?

  I want to touch him so much.

  “You want to have sex?” he asks. His voice is light, slightly ironic.

  Yes, of course I want to have sex with him. I can’t remember wanting anything more.

  I almost—almost—say it.

  I catch myself just in time and slide off my stool. “Of course not. How many times are you planning to ask me that?”

  “I told you I’d ask you occasionally so it would be easier for you to change your mind.” He’s grinning now and doesn’t look at all disappointed by my rejection.

  “And I told you I wasn’t going to change my mind.”

  “But you want to.”

  “Shut up.”

  He just laughs again.

  ON SATURDAY THAT WEEK, I go with Trevor to a party at a friend of his.

  It’s a casual thing—just a cookout on the patio with a bunch of people who’ve known each other a long time, hanging around, laughing, and eating—but I’m his wife, so it makes sense that I go with him.

  I’m surprised to find Chelsea is there too. She’s evidently on a date with one of the other guests, and neither one of us knew the other was coming.

  We get a laugh out of that, and we sit near each other so we can chat in the down times. I take a look at the guy she’s with, but within thirty seconds I can tell he’s not a keeper.

  There’s nothing wrong with him. He seems nice and serious and hardworking, and he’s clearly blown away by Chelsea’s beauty and spirit.

  But he’s not a match for her. She’ll walk all over the poor guy.

  He might get a second date if he steps up later tonight, but he’s not likely to get a third.

  With that settled in my mind, I enjoy the rest of the night. Trevor acts like our marriage is a normal one, so I make sure not to do or say anything to counter that assumption. I don’t blame him for not wanting to explain why we ended up getting hitched.

  Neither one of us comes out of that explanation looking very good.

  So I act like a real wife and laugh at his jokes and don’t call him out for all his smug comments. He’s actually less obnoxious than normal. Definitely less obnoxious than he acts with me. He’s almost—almost—tolerable.

  It’s a new side of him, and I find it interesting. I pay attention and end up learning a lot about Trevor that I didn’t know before.

  Here are some of the things I learn at the cookout.

  His parents are still alive and still living in Charleston. He’s never mentioned them to me, so I didn’t know this before.

  His father used to be a mechanic, and his mother used to clean people’s houses.

  He’s an only child.

  He won a scholarship to a private high school.

  He played baseball and football in school, and he was also the captain of the debate team.

  When he was sixteen, he broke into the gym of a rival school and painted his team’s mascot as a mural all over one of the walls. This stunt evidently made him a legend, and people still talk about it.

  He worked his way through college by waiting tables at a chain restaurant.

  And he was some sort of a player as a teenager. All the girls swooned over him, but he could never settle on just one.

  Honestly, that last fact isn’t a surprise to me, but the rest of the information isn’t exactly what I would expect.

  I’m not sure what I expected.

  We hang out with the others for almost three hours, and we don’t leave until everyone else starts to trickle out too.

  We walk outside with Chelsea and her date, and I give her a hug before we part ways. Trevor and I get into his SUV, and he waits as the other car pulls out.

  It’s dark outside by now, but the illumination of the dashboard lights his face enough to see. I check his expression and see him gazing fixedly out into the night.

  “That went pretty well,” I say. “Don’t you think?”

  He looks over, and it’s very clear that his mind takes a few moments to catch up to what I just said. “Oh. Yeah. It was good. Thanks for coming with me.”

  “I enjoyed it. Everyone was nice and laid-back except fo
r that Bill guy. What’s his problem?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He doesn’t seem to like you.”

  “I didn’t even talk to him tonight.”

  “I know, but I saw him shooting you looks. What did you do to piss him off?”

  He leans back in his seat and gives a soft huff of amusement. “I went to the prom with the girl he wanted.”

  “Did you steal her from him?”

  “No. She just liked me better. Are you really taking his side?”

  “I’m not taking his side. I was just making sure I had the whole story. If you didn’t set out to take her away from him, then he’s clearly holding a grudge for no reason.”

  “I don’t think there’s reason.” His head is still tilted back against the headrest, but his eyes are on my face. “I never really liked him. His family owns the car dealership where my dad worked, and my mom cleaned his family’s house for a while. He always thought he was better than me. I think that must have added insult to injury with the prom situation.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I guess so. He sounds like an asshole.”

  He smiles at me. “That’s what I’ve always thought.”

  I feel a little shiver of excitement, as if that smile on his lips holds some sort of promise.

  Then I remember who I am and who I’m with and straighten up. “I can’t believe Chelsea was here too.”

  He finally puts the car into reverse, gets out between the cars in front and behind him, and backs all the way down the long driveway onto the road. “Yeah, this doesn’t really seem like her scene.”

  “She gets along with everyone, but I don’t know where she might have met Paul. He seems like a nice guy, but I don’t think that’s going to go anywhere.”

  “No. Definitely not.”

  There’s the slightest edge to his tone, but I catch it and it makes me frown. “Why do you sound so condescending about it?”

  “Condescending?” Up goes that annoying eyebrow. It’s stayed in place for most of the evening until right now.

  “Yes. Condescending. Chelsea can hook up with Paul if she wants to.”

  “Of course she can, but she won’t. He’s way too down-to-earth for her.”

  Now the edge to his tone is even more obvious, and it’s starting to annoy me. I wait, watching his face and suspecting there’s something more coming.

  There is. He adds in a dry murmur, “What a piece of fluff she is.”

  He’s said it. Given words to the attitude I saw lurking behind his expression just now.

  “Fluff? You’re calling my sister fluff?”

  “Yes.” He turns from the road to meet my eyes, visibly surprised, as if he isn’t prepared for my reaction. “Of course she is. I like her just fine, but she’s definitely... fluffy.”

  “That’s not fair. Just because she’s pretty and dresses nice, you can’t assume she’s—”

  “It’s got nothing to do with her appearance. You’re pretty. You dress nice. And I know damn well you’re not fluffy.”

  I kind of like how he so matter-of-factly admits he thinks I’m pretty. He’s obviously not trying to flatter me. He’s using the claim to build his argument. At a different time, I’d appreciate it more, but right now I’m too annoyed with him to dwell on it more than a few seconds.

  He continues, “Chelsea is nice enough. I told you I like her just fine. But she doesn’t work. She lives on your grandfather’s money without even thinking about doing something to support herself.”

  “Sam lives on my grandfather’s money too. Do you think she’s fluffy too?”

  “No. At least she’s in graduate school and doing something worthwhile. But it’s not about living off your Pop. It’s family money, and Chelsea can’t be judged for having a rich grandfather. But she doesn’t do anything worthwhile with her time. What does she do all day? Go shopping? Get her hair done? Hang out with her friends?”

  I wish I could tell him he’s wrong about Chelsea, but he’s not. That’s exactly how Chelsea fills most of her days, and I’ve more than once tried to encourage her to do something more constructive myself.

  But that doesn’t mean I’m all right with Trevor judging her with that patronizing disapproval.

  She’s my sister.

  “She’s still young,” I begin.

  “She’s what? Twenty-three? Twenty-four?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “A lot of people are married with kids at that age. Most people have jobs or are at least preparing for a career. Twenty-four is not a teenager.”

  “I know it’s not a teenager. You don’t know Chelsea at all—at all—so you have no right to judge her by superficial qualities. How would you feel if people judged you that way?”

  “They do.” His voice is soft and rough and throws me completely off guard. “They do judge me, and they have all my life.”

  I’m so rattled by his abrupt shift in tone that I lose track of our argument. “How do people judge you?”

  “Are you serious? We lived in a trailer until I was twelve. My mom cleaned toilets for a lot of my friends. No one in my family ever went to college until I did. I’ve had to fight for every single thing I’ve ever achieved. No one I grew up with ever believed I could make anything out of myself.”

  I stare at him, strangely emotional. “Well, you proved them wrong.”

  His face twists slightly. “I guess. But five years ago, I walked into that interview with Pop, and he still saw someone who was forever beneath him.”

  I open my mouth in an automatic objection, but it never gets said. Because he’s right. Of course he’s right.

  Pop was so offended by Trevor back then because he fundamentally believed that Trevor was putting on airs above his station.

  “You know I’m right,” Trevor murmurs.

  “Maybe. But Pop doesn’t matter. All those people who judged you before don’t matter. They’re just wrong. Almost everyone at that cookout thinks you’re great, and they seem to have always thought so. The people who know and care about you can see how well you’ve done for yourself, and those are the opinions that matter.”

  He gives me a look that’s hard to read in the dim light. It looks surprised, strangely soft, almost awed.

  Or maybe I’m reading it wrong because all he says is, “So the next time you get upset about Pop, can I remind you that his opinion doesn’t matter?”

  “That’s different.”

  “Of course it is.”

  We’re silent for a few minutes, and we’ve already reached the parking deck under our building before I can think of anything else to say.

  When we walk into the apartment, I finally return to an earlier topic. “Chelsea’s not a piece of fluff, Trevor.”

  He’s toeing off his shoes in the entry hall. “Okay.”

  “Don’t give me that skeptical look. I’m telling you she’s not. I know her better than you do, and you’re wrong about her. She’s got the biggest heart you’ve ever seen. She’ll help anyone who needs it. She can make people laugh and smile and feel better, just by her being around. She’ll figure out what she wants to do with her life eventually, but even now she’s not a piece of fluff.”

  “I said okay.”

  “I know what you said, but you didn’t mean it. You’re only saying it to get me to drop the subject.”

  Trevor is walking into the master bedroom, so I follow him. He laughs as he slides off his watch and sets it on the dresser where he keeps it. “When have I ever said anything just to mollify you?”

  “Mollify? I didn’t say mollify. I’m not someone who can be mollified.”

  “Believe me. I know that. There’s no smoothing down your prickles.” He’s facing me now, and his mood has changed. His tone is sharper, and his eyes are narrowed. He might have been strangely vulnerable in the car, but he’s not anymore. He’s as annoyed with me as I am with him, and he’s ready to fight.

  “I’ve told you before not to call me prickly. That’s a word that men use abou
t women who don’t cave to them, who don’t swoon before their manliness.”

  “Damn it, Melissa. I don’t expect you to cave or swoon. I’d just like to occasionally be able to have a conversation without you acting like I’m attacking you.”

  “If that’s what you really want, then the first step is for you to not always make snide comments. Believe or not, I’m always going to assume that snide comments are you attacking me first. And you would too if you were stuck living with someone who makes snide comments as often as he breathes.”

  “You’re the one who wanted to be stuck with me, snide comments and all,” he grits out. “Don’t you forget it.”

  “I haven’t forgotten it.”

  “Good.”

  “Good.”

  We’re staring at each other now, standing less than a foot apart in our bedroom, both of us breathing heavily. My hands are clenched at my sides. Excitement is pounding in my veins, and I’m in that hot daze between anger and exhilaration.

  I don’t know it for sure, but it seems like Trevor is feeling the exact same thing.

  Then I get confirmation because he asks thickly, “Do you want to have sex?”

  “Yes.” I’m answering him with the truth before I can think it through.

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I do. How many times do I have to say it?”

  “You don’t have to say it again.”

  Then he’s kissing me hard.

  It’s like some sort of dam has broken and a river’s been unleashed. The past three weeks of wanting him, living with him, knowing him, have all culminated in this moment.

  And there’s no way I can be held back now.

  He’s grabbed my face between his hands to hold it still, and he teases at my lips with his tongue until I let him in. Then his tongue slides against mine, and I tighten my fingers in his shoulders, trying to hold on as pleasure sweeps over me.

  This is what I want.

  This is exactly what I need.

  All that coiled passion lurking behind Trevor’s cool surface finally set free.

  It fills me, overwhelms me, crashes against me as I start clawing at his shirt. He’s moved both his hands down to my bottom, and he’s cupping me there. It feels new.

  Possessive.