Packaged Husband

by Noelle Adams

  My heart is exploding as my body tightens up again. I’m not sure if I can come again, but the whole thing is feeling so good.

  He adjusts his position and takes one of my thighs in his hand, pulling it to the side.

  I let out a little whimper, and my pleasure surges forward unexpectedly. Then I’m coming all around him, making even more silly sounds as I jerk and shake.

  “Oh fuck, Chelsea. Chelsea.” He’s fallen out of rhythm as my inner muscles clamp down around him.

  I’ve come down enough to feel him coming, and it’s better than anything. He tightens up like a fist, his hips rocking hard and fast, and then he lets out a muffled exclamation as he freezes and then lets go.

  I’m holding him, caressing him, as he shakes through his climax. He comes inside me in a series of spurts, and I love that too.

  When his body finally softens, I’m still stroking him, petting him. His head has dropped to the crook of my neck, and he pants against my hot skin.

  It’s a minute or two before he rolls off me, disconnecting us with a wet sound.

  I reach over and take his hand, and he holds mine for a minute, no sound in the room except for our ragged breathing.

  I wait to see if he’ll say anything, and he doesn’t. So I finally get up and go to the bathroom to pee and clean myself up.

  When I return to bed, he’s pulled his underwear back on.

  It feels like he’s watching me in the dark, so I smile at him and scoot over to nestle against his side.

  He wraps one arm around me.

  I wish he would say something, but I’m not going to force a conversation.

  He’s had to deal with enough today. Both of us needed this.

  It was good.

  A conversation can wait until tomorrow morning.

  Right now I’m relaxed. Satisfied. And I still want to be there for Owen.

  We might have just had sex for the first time, but this hasn’t been a good day for him.

  The grandfather he loved has died.

  Five

  THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up earlyish but not uncomfortably so.

  It feels like I’ve slept enough, but there’s not that bright, heavy feeling when I open my eyes that signals it’s late in the morning.

  I’ve rolled back over to my side of the bed at some point in the night. As I shift my body under the covers, I can feel a pang of soreness between my legs and another running down one of my thighs.

  I had sex with Owen last night.

  I turn toward his side of the bed and discover he’s still asleep, lying on his back with both arms resting on top of the covers.

  His hair is a mess, kinked wildly and sticking out in all directions. Unable to resist, I reach over and gently rub my fingertips along the rough bristles on his jaw.

  He makes a soft sound and opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. His eyes are still closed when he murmurs, “Chel-sea.”

  I smile like an idiot as he reaches out toward me. I scoot closer.

  I end up nestled at his side.

  He’s still asleep.

  My stomach is doing all kinds of crazy flip-flops, but it feels warm and cozy tucked up against him like this.

  I wonder how he’s going to act when he wakes up.

  Reminding myself that today is his grandfather’s funeral, I push the thought aside.

  It doesn’t matter how he acts. Today isn’t a normal day.

  I’ll need to wait until we get back home and then see what happens. That’s the only way for me to truly know how Owen feels about last night.

  I’m not stupid. I’m not silly. I can deal with this in a way that’s as smart and reasonable as my sisters would.

  And I’m not going to get into an emotional tizzy about it.

  It was good sex.

  That’s enough. For now.

  Owen needs to get through the funeral first.

  In fact, I’m not even going to bring it up, so he doesn’t get that pressure put on him today.

  With that resolved in my mind, I relax against him, enjoying the feel of his body next to mine, the heat that radiates from him. The texture of him—warm and hard and rough with occasionally little soft places that surprise me, like the slightest bit of soft flesh on his side.

  My hand has moved of its own accord and is squeezing him there over his T-shirt when he starts to shift beside me.

  I stop squeezing him.

  He’s waking up.

  As soon as he does, he releases me, drawing his arm closer to his body. I have no choice but scoot over to give him some room.

  “G’mornin’,” he mumbles, blinking several times before he opens his eyes for real.

  “Hi.”

  “What time is it?”

  I glance at the clock on the bedside table. “Quarter after eight.”

  “Wow. I slept late.”

  “It’s not that late. We have plenty of time.”

  I wait for a few minutes to see what he’ll do, but it soon becomes evident we’re not going to have a cozy little chat in bed this morning. He lies on his back and stares up at the ceiling. He doesn’t say a word.

  Reminding myself I’m not going to put any pressure on him this morning—not on the day he has to bury his grandfather—I roll over to the edge of the bed and get up. “Do you want some coffee?”

  “I can get it.”

  “No need. I’ve got to go to the bathroom anyway.”

  I walk over to the small bar where the mini one-cup coffee brewer is positioned. I take the plastic off one of the cups, go to the bathroom to fill it with water, then return and put a coffee pod in the machine. When I’ve poured the water into the tank and positioned the cup, I turn it on and then go to the bathroom and close the door.

  I pee and wash my hands and face and brush my teeth and comb my hair. When I go back out to the room, the coffee is streaming into the cup.

  I take the full cup over to Owen, who’s lying on the bed and watching me.

  “Thank you,” he says, sitting up as I approach.

  I smile as I hand it to him, telling myself not to be so nervous. Just because we had sex last night, just because he looks so adorably rumpled this morning, just because my heart is doing inappropriate gyrations every time I look at him... that doesn’t mean anything has changed for real.

  I make myself a cup of coffee and stand next to the bar as the machine makes a hissing sound. “These little ones always take forever for the water to heat up.”

  “Yeah.”

  I glance over my shoulder. Owen has swung his legs over the side of the bed. He’s sipping his coffee and watching me.

  I have absolutely no idea what he’s thinking.

  When my coffee is made, I take it and walk over to the bed. I should return to my side of the bed, but I’m drawn toward Owen instead.

  It really feels like that. Like I’m drawn toward him. Like something inside me is pulled toward something inside him. A magnet toward metal.

  When I reach him, my hand goes out and smooths down his thick hair. “Something crazy happened to your hair last night.”

  His eyes are on my face. “It was damp when I went to sleep.”

  I try to push a big kink down into place, but it refuses to go. I’m afraid I might be smiling like a sappy fool, and I force my gaze to remain on his hair so I’m not looking him in the eye.

  I can’t just stand there and pet him. I need to step back and get it together.

  I’ve just made myself when he reaches out and wraps strong fingers around one of my wrists. “Sit down for a minute, Chelsea.”

  I do as he says, those flip-flops in my belly getting more chaotic. “What is it?”

  “We need to... talk.”

  I take a sip of coffee, mostly for something to do. “Okay.”

  He turns slightly on the edge of the mattress so he’s facing me. “Thank you for last night.”

  I blink and hold my cup with both hands. “Oh. You’re... welcome.”

  He p
uts down his coffee on the nightstand and reaches over to put a hand on my bare knee. Then immediately removes it and puts it on his lap instead. “I... I really needed it. Last night. So I want to thank you.”

  “You don’t have to thank me. I wanted to. I... wanted to.”

  He nods. His face is incredibly sober, an odd contrast to his wildly messy hair and dark stubble. “It meant a lot to me. Last night did. You’re... you’ve got a very kind heart.”

  Something is wrong here.

  This isn’t sounding right.

  What the hell does my kind heart have to do with anything?

  I try to think clearly so I’ll know what to say, but my mind is a riotous flurry of feelings and fears. “I... I wanted last night. I... I... I liked it.”

  Well, that was embarrassingly incoherent.

  “Me too.” He takes a long breath that feels intentional. “I needed it. And I appreciate it. And I know it isn’t... I know you weren’t... I know it wasn’t... special or anything.”

  My back stiffens with a jerk. I almost slop my coffee. “It wasn’t special?”

  “Shit.” Owen rubs his face with both hands for a moment. “I’m sorry, Chelsea. I’m terrible at this. It was special. To me. I’m just trying to say that... that I know pity sex when I have it.”

  “Pity sex!” My voice isn’t sharp, but it’s shrill. It feels like someone stuck a knife into my heart.

  “Damn it. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry. I’m just trying to say that I know you were being good to me, that you were trying to make me feel better. It did make me feel better. I needed last night. And I... shit.” He’s rubbing his jaw with one hand again.

  I’ve started to shake, but I’m trying not to. There’s no way I can form a word at the moment.

  He takes another breath, this one ragged. “Okay, this is what I’m trying to say, Chelsea. Thank you so much for last night. I’ll always remember how sweet you were to me. But I understand what last night was. I know it wasn’t... anything more. I’m not going to misunderstand it. I’m not expecting anything to change between us. I just wanted you to know that.”

  He thinks last night was pity sex.

  He thinks it didn’t mean anything more.

  He thinks it didn’t change anything about our relationship.

  It hurts so much I can barely breathe.

  But Owen is waiting for me to respond. He’s scanning my face, like he’s trying to read my mind.

  And I can’t let him read it.

  Maybe on a different morning, I’d try to explain how wrong he is. But he has his grandfather’s funeral today, and the last thing he needs is for me to drag him down into a painful, wrenching conversation about our confusing relationship.

  And the truth is... if he doesn’t think anything changed between us, then maybe it hasn’t.

  Maybe last night didn’t mean what I thought it means.

  Maybe I’ve been silly and immature after all—believing we were sharing something deep and real and intimate.

  Maybe it was all in my mind.

  It takes every ounce of control I have, but I give him a wobbly smile. “Last night meant a lot to me too. You don’t have to worry about anything else.”

  This must be the right thing to say because the tension in his shoulder and his jaw relaxes. He smiles at me. “Okay. Thank you.”

  My smile feels like it’s going to tear my skin off. “It’s all good, Owen. Please don’t thank me again.”

  WE GET HOME LATE THAT night. I’m exhausted, and I feel bruised inside. My heart. My soul. Something other than my body is bruised.

  But I made it through the day. Owen made it through the funeral. And now we’re back at the house, and things might start to get a little easier.

  He’s been quiet the whole trip home, and I’m starting to get worried about him again. He doesn’t seem as tense as he did last night, but he’s withdrawn into himself, and I don’t like it.

  We walk into the house, leaving our luggage on the entryway floor. Owen goes to the refrigerator and pulls out a can of sparkling water, popping it open and leaning against the counter to take a sip.

  “You okay?” I ask, leaning against the counter beside him.

  He nods. He’s looking at me but not smiling. He’s still wearing the dress shirt and trousers from the suit he wore to the funeral, although he took off the jacket and tie before the flight.

  I gently touch his arm. “Do you want to... talk about it or anything?”

  He gives me a little smile. Soft. Poignant. “I’m okay, Chelsea.”

  The way he says my name makes my chest ache. “You sure?”

  “Yes. I’m really okay tonight.” He lifts a hand and gently strokes my cheek with his fingertips. “But thank you. I think I’m just going to go to bed.”

  That sounds like a dismissal. I exhale as I straighten up and go back where I left my big purse and roller case. “Okay. I’m tired too.”

  When he comes over to get his own suitcase, he says, “Good night, Chelsea. I’ll see you in the morning.” Then he leans over and kisses me on the temple, his lips lingering for just a few seconds.

  Well, that’s just great.

  Not only does he not want to have sex with me again, he also gave me a kiss on the head.

  Like I’m a child and he’s sending me off to bed.

  Not exactly what I want from him.

  BOTH OWEN AND I RETURN to work the following morning.

  It’s Thursday, and it feels like forever since my first day of work, but we only missed two days. The day goes better than Monday. It feels more settled, and I’m actually able to wrap my mind around the kinds of things I’ll be doing.

  I remember what Owen told me. Part of my responsibility here is smoothing over communication between Mary and Heather. It doesn’t take me long to see that, although Mary is organized and efficient, she has a vision for Masterson’s that doesn’t match Owen’s. One that’s stuck about thirty years back.

  Someone else should have replaced Mary a long time ago, but Owen isn’t like that.

  I like that Owen isn’t like that, even though his kindness and loyalty aren’t necessarily the best traits for making a profit in today’s business world.

  I’m going to help in every way I can. I’m going make sure Mary likes me and listens to me, and then maybe I can build up some influence.

  It makes me feel good.

  That I might actually do something worthwhile here.

  I think I can do it.

  I work until lunchtime, and then I stop by the grocery store on my way home. I don’t like hauling huge amounts of groceries, so I always go to the store every couple of days. Later in the afternoon, I visit the salon and get my hair and nails done and hang out with Eva and my other friends there. They’re all excited about my whirlwind romance and new husband (only Eva knows the truth), so I have to talk about Owen most of the time.

  I wouldn’t have thought I would have minded. It’s what I signed up for, after all.

  But it feels weird to pretend when it comes to Owen.

  It feels like I’m betraying him somehow.

  I get home around five, and Owen comes home about a half hour later. I’m in the kitchen chopping vegetables for the salad I’m making for dinner.

  “Hi,” he says. He’s wearing one of his old suits today, but he still looks good. Handsome and masculine and adorably old-fashioned.

  “Hey. How was work?”

  “Good.”

  I’ve been focusing on the pepper I’m chopping, but I turn when I hear something in his voice. I peer at him. “You look like something happened.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes, you do. What’s going on?”

  He gives me a twitch of a smile. “Have you heard of Deanna Barton?”

  “Yes. Of course I have! I have a couple of her purses and a pair of shoes.”

  “Ah. She’s coming to meet with me next week.”

  I put down my knife and clasp my hands together. �
��You’re kidding! That’s amazing. She’s amazing. She’s interested in working with you?”

  “I don’t know. But she’s willing to meet.”

  “That’s perfect. We need to start practicing for the visit. When does she arrive?”

  “Thursday afternoon. We’ll have dinner on Thursday and then meetings on Friday.”

  “Can I come to the dinner on Thursday?”

  “Yes. I’m counting on it. I’m not sure a new suit is going to be enough to make her think I’m not an out-of-touch fuddy-duddy.” Despite his words, his expression is wry, almost amused.

  “It’s not just a new suit. It’s a new wife, and we’re going to work on your attitude.”

  “What’s wrong with my attitude?” His mouth and eyes are soft.

  “Nothing is wrong with your attitude. I like your attitude. But we need to convince her that Masterson’s isn’t stuck in the eighties, so we’re going to practice.”

  “How exactly are we going to practice?”

  “Let’s go out to dinner tomorrow night. We’ll dress up and practice some of the things we can talk about when we meet with her.”

  Owen makes a face. “Do we have to go out? I never feel like going out after work.”

  “I know that. But the dinner next Thursday is going to be after work, so we need to practice being charming even when you’re tired.”

  He makes another face.

  “Don’t complain,” I tell him, picking up my knife again. “This is why you married me.”

  He doesn’t answer me, so I glance over at him.

  “Isn’t it?” I ask.

  He sighs. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

  THE NEXT DAY, I DO my internship hours in the afternoon, and at exactly five o’clock, I go to Owen’s office to drag him home.

  He never leaves right at five, but he’s going to today because he needs time to work out and then shower and dress before we go out to dinner tonight.

  He’s in a grumbly mood, but it doesn’t bother me because I know it’s not the way he acts when he’s genuinely upset. So I respond blithely to his delays and complaints and hurry him along until I’ve gotten him into the shower.

  I did some shopping this morning, and I pick out an outfit for him while he’s in there.