by Noelle Adams
At some point, I must have reached out for Owen because my hands are now clenched in the lapels of his suit, but I don’t remember doing it. “I want that too.”
“Good.” Very gently he brushes a strand of hair back from my face. “But you can’t work a full-time job as an unpaid intern. I wouldn’t let anyone do it, and I’m not going to let you do it either.” He turns to look down at my computer. “That can wait until Monday. Close it out and leave.”
I take a ragged breath. “Okay. Fine.”
“Why don’t you go do something fun? Go shopping or to the salon or something. You’ve been working too hard.”
I have been working hard, but I’ve wanted to do it. I don’t think it’s too hard. I don’t want to go shopping or to the salon. But he’s the boss here, and he’s trying to be nice to me. So I smile. “Okay. I will.”
“Don’t think about ignoring me and getting back to work after I walk away. I’m going to stand here while you turn off your computer and get your stuff together.”
I give him a soft grumbling look and sit down to close out my document. When I’ve turned off the computer and gotten my purse, Owen walks me through the office suite and to the elevator.
He presses the Down button. “So what are you going to do now?”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve been ordered to do something fun, so I guess that’s what I’ll do.”
“Good.” He steps into me so our fronts are brushing against each other. “So what’s it going to be?”
“Eva’s at the salon this afternoon, so I guess I’ll stop by. She might be able to fit me in for a blowout. If not, I’ll just get my nails done.”
He smiles, his expression softening for the first time since he walked over to my desk. “Good.” He leans down to kiss me gently as the elevator slides open. “I’ll be home around six.”
“Okay.”
When I turn to face the elevator, I see that it’s filled with five people we work with, all of whom just saw Owen kiss me.
It shouldn’t matter. They know we’re married, and they assume it’s because we’re in love.
But it still feels strange.
I feel strange.
Jittery and excited and confused and fond and reluctant. All at the same time.
Not just because my coworkers just saw me kissing the boss. My husband.
I’ve been feeling this way more and more often.
I’m happy. Happier than I can ever remember being since my parents died.
But there’s also a churning emotion beneath the happiness—one I don’t really understand.
Like, despite how well my life is going right now, something isn’t quite right.
AN HOUR LATER, I’M sitting in a salon chair while Eva foils my hair.
She had someone miss an appointment, so she could fit me in for highlights, something that almost never happens on the spur of the moment.
She’s eyeing me in the mirror as she paints processor on a thin strand of my hair. “He’s right though. You shouldn’t work such long hours. You’re not getting paid, and you’re only supposed to work twenty.”
“I know. It was just feeling like I was getting stuff done. I don’t care about getting paid.”
“But you can see why he cares.”
“Yeah.” I’m trying not to frown but not succeeding. “I can see.”
“He’s just trying to be a good guy and a good boss and a good husband.”
“I know.”
“So why does it bother you?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t.”
Eva gives me a close look but evidently comes to the conclusion that I’m telling her the truth. “Well, try to figure it out. Because it’s not going to help anything for you to sit and brood over him sending you home when he had every right to do it.”
“I know.” Then I realize what she just said. “And I’m not brooding.”
“Oh, okay.” She’s got that teasing, knowing smile I’m very familiar with. “You’re not brooding. Got it.”
“I’m not a brooding person.”
“Not normally, no. But maybe you’ve changed a little lately.”
“You think so?”
Eva laughs. “What kind of question is that, Chelsea? Of course you’ve changed. You’re not a new person or anything, but you’ve found work that you’re good at and you really enjoy. That changes a person, doesn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
“And you’ve got a husband now. That changes a person too.”
“I... guess.” I’m feeling that churning, conflicted feeling again. It makes me want to shift in my seat.
“You guess?”
“Yes. I guess.”
She’s grinning as she’s neatly folding a foil.
“Don’t look that way,” I tell her with another frown.
“What way?”
“You know what way. That obnoxious, I-know-better-than-you smirk.”
Her smile turns into a giggle. “Maybe I do know better than you. Or at least I know better than you’ll admit.”
“What are you talking about?” I kind of know, but I still ask the question.
“Owen.”
“What about Owen?”
“Maybe your feelings for him have changed.”
“Of course they’ve changed. I’ve known him for three months now. I didn’t know him at first, but I do now.”
“And?”
I gulp. “And I like him.”
“Uh-huh.”
“A lot.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I think he likes me.”
“Uh, yeah. That’s pretty obvious.”
I’m flushing slightly, and it’s the most annoying thing. “But we’re still not a normal couple.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m still just his temporary trophy wife!”
Eva rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “You really expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t know what you believe.” I pause. “What do you believe?”
“I believe you want to be more than a temporary trophy wife.”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything. Our eyes meet in the mirror.
“Think about it, Chelsea. You got married a couple of months ago for... slightly dubious reasons. Understandable but dubious. And now you’ve got this job you love and this man you... want to keep and a life that’s making you happier than I’ve ever seen you. How are you going to feel when the year is over and you’re going to have to give it all up?”
And there it was. The source of that heavy, churning knot of anxiety.
Because I know the answer to Eva’s question.
If I have to give this all up at the end of the year, I’m going to be devastated.
But the truth is I’m not sure that everything I have right now is all mine to keep.
“So what am I supposed to do about it?” I ask at last.
Eva must have read the expression on my face because her voice is very gentle as she replies, “You know the answer to that.”
“Talk to him,” I mutter.
“I’m afraid that’s the only answer to any sort of problem like this.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Believe me. I know.”
THAT EVENING, OWEN picks up dinner on his way home, and we eat in front of the television. Both of us are tired, quiet. I end up stretched out on the couch with my head in Owen’s lap. He rubs at the tension at the back of my neck and my scalp.
It feels so good. Quietly intimate.
I take a bath before bed, so Owen is already under the covers when I come downstairs in my pajamas.
He’s half-asleep when I crawl into bed beside him.
It’s been a long day. A long week. A long month. Both of us have worked hard. He mumbles wordlessly as he pulls my back against his front so he can spoon me.
We have sex a lot but not every night, and this is obviously not going to be a sex night.
B
oth of us are too tired, and I’m still feeling restless and churning.
We lie in the dark for a few minutes, and I try to relax my mind enough to sleep.
I wish I didn’t love the feel of his warm body behind mine so much. It would be so much easier and simpler if I didn’t care this much.
“Are you upset that I sent you home this afternoon?” Owen asks the question out of the blue.
“No.”
“Are you upset about something else?”
“N-no.”
His hand fumbles for a moment until he finds my hand. He twines his fingers with mine. “What’s the matter, Chelsea?”
“I don’t know.”
I hear and feel him let out a breath. “Okay.”
He’s still holding my hand as he spoons me. I don’t want to let it go. After a few more minutes, I say into the dark, “Do you ever feel like you’re living a life that doesn’t quite... fit?”
He tenses for just a second before he relaxes. “All the time.”
“How do you make it fit?”
“I... don’t know. I guess if there’s something you want to change, you try to change it.”
“Yeah.”
He waits for a beat before he asks, “Is there something about your life you want to change, Chelsea?”
“No. I don’t think so. That’s what’s so confusing. I just want to be able to fit it.”
He lifts his head so he can press a soft kiss against the side of my neck. “I think you do fit it, Chelsea.”
My body tightens at the murmured words. “You think so?”
“Yes. I think so.”
The churning in my belly finally fades as I relax into his arms. The last thing I whisper is, “I hope so,” as I fall asleep.
ON MONDAY, I DON’T go into work until ten so Owen won’t complain about my working too hard. I’m determined to finish my project today, and I assume I’ll have plenty of time.
But I end up getting interrupted by getting pulled into two different meetings and then having a working lunch with Mary and Heather. So at four in the afternoon, I’m still trying to finish my project.
Owen stopped by an hour ago and told me to go home since I’d already worked an hour longer than my allotted four hours a day. But I’m close to the end now, so I smiled and told him I’d be leaving soon.
Then I go back to work.
I’m about fifteen minutes away from finishing now, and I can almost taste the accomplishment. I’m so absorbed I don’t hear at first when someone says my name from the doorway.
Then he says it again. “Chelsea.”
I blink and look up blurrily, taking a moment to recognize Owen standing several feet away, looking sharp and sexy in one of his new suits and a five-o’clock shadow.
As soon as my eyes focus, I can tell that something is wrong. His face is completely passive, but there’s something off about his stance, the set of his shoulders.
I know for sure something is wrong when he says, “Can I talk to you in my office for a minute?”
His tone is very low and very soft, the way it only is when he’s angry.
Silly, clueless me. I have absolutely no idea why he’d be angry.
It never occurs to me that he’s angry with me.
“Sure,” I say, saving my work and standing up. I glance over to Heather’s assistant and say, “I’ll be back in just a minute” before I follow Owen down the hall.
I’m worried. Trying to rack my brain for something that might have happened to make him angry.
Something that someone else did.
That’s how clueless I am.
When I step into Owen’s office, he closes the door behind me with a soft click.
“Owen, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”
Then he turns to face me, and I see what’s radiating off him, what’s making his jaw clench, his eyes blaze, his shoulders tense.
He’s angry with me.
With me.
“I told you an hour ago to go home,” he murmurs thickly.
I blink, having trouble recovering from my surprise so I can answer. “I know you did. I was almost done.”
“That’s what you said an hour ago, when I told you to leave.”
“I’ll be leaving in fifteen or twenty minutes.” The shock is wearing off now, and I’m starting to get defensive. Defensive and a little bit hurt. “What the hell is your problem?”
“My problem is that I told you to leave—in front of several other people—and you didn’t do it.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I was on a roll and didn’t want to stop. I didn’t realize I was supposed to snap to attention every time you said a word.”
He groans and rubs his jaw with one hand. “Damn it, Chelsea.” He’s speaking so softly now that I have to take a step closer to him so that I can hear it. “I’m not trying to be an asshole, but I’m the boss here. I’m actually, literally the boss. When I tell you something here—at work—you have to do it. It’s never going to work otherwise.”
I open my mouth to give a quick retort, but then I close it again.
Because of course he’s right.
He is the boss.
And the fact that he’s also my husband evidently doesn’t matter right now.
“Okay,” I say in a clipped tone. “Sorry. I will.”
I turn to leave, praying the tears burning in my eyes won’t fall until I get out of the building.
He’s at the door before I reach it. He’s blocking my retreat, his face twisting with feeling. “Damn it, Chelsea. Please don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying.” I swipe away a couple of tears. “I do this when I get angry or upset. I can’t help it. But I’m not crying. Don’t treat me like I’m crying.”
“Okay. I won’t. But if you’re angry with me now, then we need to talk about it.”
Despite my claim, I am close to crying. I don’t even know why. “There’s nothing to talk about. You’re the boss, and you gave me an order. I didn’t obey it, and I was wrong. So I’m doing it now.”
“Shit,” he breathes, rubbing his jaw again and still blocking the door with his body. “This is why you’re not supposed to work with people you’re married to.”
It is.
I see it very clearly.
The conflicted relationships we’re dealing with right now are hopelessly tangled.
But that isn’t what’s upset me the most. That isn’t why I’m close to tears.
“Chelsea, talk to me,” he says hoarsely.
I drop my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to will the tumult of emotion back down so I can speak lucidly. “I’m sorry I didn’t leave when you told me to. I should have. I wasn’t thinking about how it would look to other people, and I’m sorry about that. It’s just that...”
“It’s just what?” he prompts when I trail off.
“This is the first time in my life when I’ve felt like I’m actually good at something. When I’ve felt like I can do a real job and do it well. Contribute more than great hair and great nails.”
“I know that, Chelsea. You are contributing. I’ve told you that over and over again. But you’re still an unpaid intern, and I’m not going to take advantage of you.”
“You’re not taking advantage of me. I want to do this work. I want to do even more of it.”
“I’m not going to let you work more than twenty hours a week as an intern. It would be ethically wrong. It would be wrong if I let anyone do it, so I can’t let you do it either.”
I nod, my eyes still focused on the floor because it’s so hard for me to feel this vulnerable. “All right. I... I get that. So maybe you can... maybe you can make it a real job then. A full-time job. So I can really do the work.”
He leans against the door, closing his eyes and groaning for a moment. “I can’t, Chelsea.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I’d love to be able to give you a real job, but I can’t. You’re my wife. If it’s this hard for us to manage with you just be
ing an intern, how the hell could we possibly do it if you were a paid employee?”
He’s right. Of course he’s right.
He’s always right, and I’m always stupid and unreasonable and immature.
It’s the story of my life.
“Okay.” Another tear slips out, and it’s so annoying that I can’t hold them back when I really want to. “I understand.”
“Do you?” He reaches out with one hand to cup my face, making me look back up at him.
I ease my head away from his palm. “Yes. I do.”
“You’re still mad at me.”
“I’m not mad. I promise I’m not. I’m just... upset.”
“I know you are, sweetheart. I’m really sorry.”
He’s never called me sweetheart before. He’s never called me anything but Chelsea.
And for some reason I’d rather him stick with my name right now. His voice is soft and slightly hoarse and incredibly gentle. Like he could be talking to a bawling child.
Like he’s the adult in this relationship.
He reaches out to take one of my hands in his. His hand is big and warm and strong, and mine feels too little, too cold.
I pull my hand away.
“Chelsea, please don’t act his way.”
“What way?”
“Like I’ve hurt you. I’m just trying to do what’s best.”
“I know you are. I told you. I’m not angry with you. I understand how hard this is.”
He lets out a rough sigh. “Let me think about it for a little while. I’ll see if I can figure something out to make this work better for us.” He strokes my cheek with his fingertips. “I’ll figure out a way to take care of this.”
Of course he will.
He’ll take care of everything.
This company and the work that goes on here is his responsibility. Not mine.
And this marriage... isn’t real.
I nod mutely. “Okay.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pulling me into a hug.
It should make me feel better—it does make me feel better, despite myself—but I can’t let myself indulge it. This already hurts too much, and I can’t let it get any worse. So after a few seconds, I pull away. “I’ll leave now.”
