by Noelle Adams
“You’re serious.” His smug eyebrow is arched again, but there’s a new look in his eyes. Almost... appreciative, as if I’m doing something he can’t help but admire. “You want me to be your... part-time husband.”
“Yes. I’m serious. I asked around, and you’re not dating anyone right now as far as I can tell. It’s just a year. It won’t take up much of your time, and it’s going to be the best thing to ever happen to your business. Plus...”
“Plus what?”
I take a deep breath. “I admit that I’m angry with Pop. He’s doing this to me because he’s got archaic ideas about women and he doesn’t think my life is complete without a husband. He’s also implicitly threatening to stop financially supporting my sisters. The old bastard is my family, but I don’t deserve to be treated this way, and I’m not going to let him get away with it. If I’m going to get married, he’s going to have to suffer because of it.” I lean forward, holding his gaze. “Help me make him suffer.”
Trevor’s lips part slightly again, and I see a glimmer of something in his eyes.
I’ve got him. I’ve got him.
He’s going to hedge and make me wait, but I can see what the end of this will be now.
“Remind me not to get on the wrong side of you,” he says with a hint of his smug little smile.
“You’re already on the wrong side of me, but in this one thing I think we can work together.”
“I’m going to have to think about it, and we’ll have to work all the details out in advance.”
I nod. “Of course.”
But I see his final answer in his eyes.
Maybe it’s because he’s contrary and he wants to do exactly what Pop doesn’t want him to do.
Or more likely it’s because he’s incredibly ambitious and his business is the most important thing to him.
I’m not exactly sure what the deciding factor will be for him, but I know his final decision.
He’s going to eventually say yes.
Two
THE FOLLOWING DAY, Trevor calls me at 7:48 in the morning.
I’ve just gotten to my office when I see his number flash on my phone. I sit down at my desk, take a deep breath, and answer it. “Trevor.”
“Melissa.”
I pause for a beat until I realize he’s waiting for me to ask the question. “I suppose this means you’ve thought about my proposition.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I’m... willing to discuss terms.”
I’m so relieved I feel like slumping in my chair, but I don’t want Trevor to know how important this is to me. It might give him too much power in our relationship, and that’s something I can’t let happen. I keep my voice cool as I respond, “Excellent. I’ll be as flexible with terms as possible since you’re the one doing me a favor.”
“I’m getting something out of it too.”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure you can trust Pop to back off about your job if we do this?”
I’m surprised by the question since it implies he’s concerned about me.
When I don’t answer immediately, Trevor adds, “This marriage is a lot of trouble to go through if it’s not going to accomplish what you want. I don’t want you to back out of our agreement once it’s settled because you’re not getting what you want out of it.”
Ah. That makes more sense. He’s concerned about his own position. “I won’t back out regardless, but Pop promised he’d stop pressuring me if I get married, and he always keeps his word.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” This is one thing I have absolutely no doubts about.
“Okay.” He hesitates for just a moment. Then asks in a businesslike tone, “What about sex?”
I have a hot flash, right there in my desk chair on a Thursday morning. The vision of sex and Trevor at the same time slams into me. I can see it. Vividly. Trevor and I in bed together, doing all kinds of tantalizing things.
I manage to sound only slightly hoarse as I ask, “Sex?”
“Sex.”
“What about it?”
“Surely you’ve thought this through already. Are you thinking we’ll be going an entire year without sex?”
He sounds so skeptical that I’m embarrassed. The truth is I haven’t really thought about it. I’ve always done my best to not let Trevor and sex exist in my mind simultaneously.
When I don’t answer, he says, “I assume you don’t want even a part-time husband to cheat on you.”
I have another hot flash. A different kind this time. “N-no. That would be... awkward. I don’t know exactly what to tell you, but I understand you’re not going to want to go a year without sex. Why don’t we agree to this? If you want to sleep with someone, you’ll tell me about it first.”
There’s a much longer pause this time. “You want to approve my sex partners?”
“No! I don’t need to approve of them. I just want to know about it. Otherwise, it will feel like you’re cheating.”
Another several seconds of silence. “And you’ll do the same for me?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean? If you’re going to have sex with someone else, you’ll tell me about it first? Believe it or not, I’m not wild about the idea of being cheated on myself.”
The truth is I’m not planning to have sex at all. I’m not going to have sex with a man while I’m married to someone else even if the marriage isn’t a real one. And I’ve gone a full year without having sex more than once in my life. I’ve gone two. It doesn’t bother me. It’s not the end of the world.
But admitting that to Trevor might give him an unnecessary advantage, so all I say is, “Yes. I’ll tell you too.”
“Fine.” He sounds strange, but since I can’t see his face, I’m not able to work out exactly why. “Then that’s settled. What else?”
TREVOR LIVES IN AN apartment on the top floor of a downtown building. Walking into it on Thursday evening, I try not to show him how impressed I am by the place.
It’s got one huge common room with a top-of-the-line kitchen in one corner, dark, shiny hardwood floors, and an entire wall of windows looking out on the river and downtown Charleston, including the unmistakable gold dome on the state capitol.
“Nice,” I say, pleased when my voice is dry rather than overwhelmed. “How did you manage to snag this place?”
He’s wearing another one of his ridiculous, perfectly fitted suits today, and I’m wearing another department-store pantsuit—this time in a moss green that makes my hazel eyes look less gray. We’ve both just left work, and I’m not really in the mood for verbal dueling, so I hope he’s not going to be too obnoxious today.
“I’m just renting it,” he says, glancing over at me as if determining whether my question is sarcastic or not. “I went to school with the guy who owns it.”
I’m not surprised by that. Trevor’s business is obviously doing well, but he doesn’t come from money the way I do and he’s at the place in his career where he can only have been saving any significant amount for a few years. Charleston real estate prices are nothing compared to big city prices, but there’s no way this place comes cheap.
“That view is to die for,” I say, moving over to gaze out the windows.
He comes to stand beside me, and I can see his expression has relaxed. He’s clearly decided that I’m telling the truth and I genuinely like the place.
He opens the glass door that leads out onto the terrace, and I follow him. It’s much bigger than I expect, turning the corner and offering two separate views and two separate seating areas.
This part of the tour complete, we go back inside and make our way down the hall. The master bedroom is large with another wall of windows and a huge king-sized bed. The master bath is lovely with a tiled shower and a soaking tub. When we reach the second bedroom, I look inside and see Trevor has fitted it out as a stereotypical guy’s room with a lot of exercise equipmen
t, a huge television on the wall, and three vintage arcade game machines.
Surprised by this last detail, I walk in to check them out. Pac-Man. Frogger. And Asteroids.
“They’re vintage,” Trevor says, his eyes narrowed slightly.
I swear he’s waiting to see if I’m going to laugh at him.
I’m amused but also strangely befuddled since I didn’t expect something so frivolous from Trevor.
I give him a vague smile. “Do you play them?”
“Of course. But if you like this place and don’t mind living here, I can move them out and we can—”
“Oh.”
See, since Trevor’s call this morning, we’ve been working out an agreement—one that will be amenable to both of us. Our discussion has been businesslike and as cordial as it’s possible to be with someone as annoying as Trevor.
But I still haven’t mentioned Pop’s requirement that we share a bed.
“Oh?” Up goes that one eyebrow.
“I guess I should have mentioned it before. Pop says it has to be a real marriage, so I have to...”
Trevor’s second eyebrow goes up too. “Consummate the marriage?”
“No! No, no, nothing like that. We just have to share a bed. That’s what he said. Share a bed.”
“So just tell him we’re doing that. He’s not planning to come over here in the middle of the night and verify that it’s happening, is he?”
I might be blushing just a little but not enough for him to notice. Hopefully. “Of course not. But I’m not going to lie to him about it. It would be cheating, and he knows I’ll never do that. It’s important to me that I play fair. I’d understand if that’s going too far for you. We can call the whole thing off.”
Part of me wants that to happen. Then I can say I gave it my best try but the plan was too insane to actually pull off. Then I won’t have to marry Trevor Bentley, even just as part of a business deal for one year.
“It doesn’t bother me,” Trevor says. “But I wouldn’t think you’d be comfortable with it.”
I’m not comfortable with it. At all. But now Trevor has thrown down the gauntlet by claiming he doesn’t care, and if I admit to caring, he’ll have the advantage. I’m not about to give him that. “Well, it’s not at the top of my list of things to do, but it’s not that big a deal. I’m not going to lie to Pop about it. I’m not going to cheat.”
Trevor’s expression changes in an undefinable way. He takes a step closer to me, his eyes scanning my face closely. “So you’re willing to marry a man you don’t like to get one over on Pop, but you’re not willing to cheat?”
I’m feeling rattled now. Slightly shaky. I have no idea why. “Yes. What’s your point?”
“My point is you’re...”
I wait for him to finish. I’m difficult. Tough as nails. Unnatural. Cold as ice. I’ve heard them all and a lot worse.
“You’re something else,” he concludes.
Something else.
I can live with that.
I MARRY TREVOR BENTLEY the following day. My wedding goes like this.
At lunchtime on Friday, I head downstairs to wait in front of the office building where I work until Trevor arrives to pick me up in his fancy, dark blue SUV. He’s on his lunch break too, and we go directly to the courthouse. He’s wearing a black suit with a silver tie. I’m wearing a black pantsuit and my favorite heels. My hair is pulled back in my normal bun at the nape of my neck, and there’s nothing resembling a flower on my person.
Also nothing blue. Or borrowed.
Definitely no sexy garter.
If Trevor and I are doing this, we’ll be stuck together for a year, so we don’t want to extend the timeline with an engagement. That’s why we’re getting married a few days after I proposed.
We have to wait at the courthouse for about twenty-five minutes, and I start to get impatient. I stand up and pace, which is what I do when I’m forced to wait on someone else’s schedule.
After a few minutes, Trevor comes over to where I’ve paused to lean against a wall, and he sticks his hand in the inner pocket of his suit. “Here,” he says. “I should give you this.”
What he hands me is a ring.
I stare at it for a long time. “I said I’d get the wedding rings.”
“I know that. Does this look like a wedding ring?”
It doesn’t. It’s a princess-cut diamond solitaire on a prettily engraved band.
“I don’t need an engagement ring,” I say at last.
“So you’re refusing it?” Trevor sounds as dry as dust. He’s clearly not happy with my response.
“No, but you didn’t have to—”
“I don’t care what I had to do. I’m not going to have a woman I marry go around without an engagement ring.”
I raise my eyes, suddenly understanding and thus feeling my way back to solid ground. Of course that’s why Trevor bought the ring. His ego is so big that he doesn’t want anyone judging him as cheap or less than generous.
The engagement ring is for him. Not for me.
I give him a cool glare. “I was just taken by surprise. You don’t have to be snide about it.”
“Then take the damn ring.”
I take it. I jam it onto the ring finger of my left hand. (It fits perfectly.) Then I give him another glare. “There. Satisfied?”
“Yes. Next time a man offers you a ring, don’t leave him hanging.”
“I’ll leave a man hanging anytime I want. Just because a man offers me something, doesn’t mean I’m obliged to take it. I don’t care if he’s offering me a date or a ring or his dick. I’m allowed to say no.”
“I never once implied you weren’t allowed to say no whenever you want. It’s an engagement ring, and you’re the one who asked me to marry you.”
We’re having this argument in public, in a waiting area filled with other people. At Trevor’s cold words, a woman nearby turns her head to stare at us.
I lower my voice to respond. “And you were allowed to say no. You didn’t. So now you have to put up with me.”
“You think I don’t know that?” He’s moved even closer to me, and his voice is just slightly rough, which sends shivers up and down my spine. There’s never been a man as sexy as Trevor right now with an irresistible intensity smoldering beneath his slick surface. “I know I have to put up with you. But that means you have to put up with me too.”
I’m excited now. Way too excited. It’s pulsing in my veins, throbbing with my heartbeat. Maybe I want to scratch his eyes out. Or maybe I want to haul him down to the floor and screw him hard and dirty.
It’s really difficult to tell the difference at the moment.
Just then a voice calls out, “Bentley-Greyson.”
That’s us. Bentley-Greyson.
Not that I’m hyphenating my name or any such thing for a one-year marriage. I’ll always be a Greyson.
But at the moment, I’m about to get married to the infuriating man in front of me.
“Still want to do this?” he murmurs.
I twist the engagement ring on my finger. It really is lovely. Trevor has great taste. And it will look perfect with the gold wedding bands I picked out. “I do. What about you?”
“I do too.” He waves at the woman who called out to us and puts his hand on my back, just between my shoulder blades. “So let’s do this.”
The ceremony takes seven minutes, and that includes small talk before and after.
When we leave the courthouse, we’re husband and wife. He drives me back to my office and says he’ll see me after work.
I wave to him as he pulls away from the curb. Then I go back up to my office with two rings on my finger, and I get ready for my two-o’clock meeting.
Now I’m married to Trevor Bentley.
THE REAL FUN HAPPENS that evening.
No, not the wedding night. We might be sharing a bed, but there’s nothing of the carnal variety waiting for us there.
The fun is going over to Pop’
s for dinner and introducing Trevor to him as my husband.
I’ve told my sisters and no one else about my nuptials. Pop has no idea.
Dinner is scheduled for seven, and Trevor and I arrive at Pop’s big, showy house in the mountains outside Charleston at six thirty, so we’ll have time for a drink before we eat.
I’m tense as we walk into the house, and Chelsea meets us in the entry hall. She’s gorgeous in a rose-pink dress, and she’s grinning when she sees us.
“So you did it?” she asks.
I show her my left hand. “We did it.”
She grabs my hand to examine the rings, gushing over the engagement ring in a way that’s sure to inflate Trevor’s already too-large ego. “Pop has no idea. He thinks we just all decided to get together for dinner. He’s going to be so mad.”
I glance over at Trevor and see that he’s got a little smirk on his face. Of course he does. He’s probably looking forward to a little gloating to Pop.
And who can blame him?
“Well, let’s get this over with,” I say, taking Trevor’s arm and steering him toward the living room. Pop is always in a big leather armchair, drinking whiskey before dinner, and that’s where we find him.
He doesn’t notice us immediately.
He’s reading a book—he loves spy novels and military adventures—and he doesn’t look up when we enter.
I pull Trevor farther into the room, and I don’t let go of his arm.
After a minute, Trevor gives me a questioning look. He’s obviously wondering if we should say something to get Pop’s attention.
“Just wait,” I murmur.
That’s when Pop looks up from his book.
He blinks three times. Then looks down at his whiskey and back up at Trevor. He turns to Sam, who is reading on the couch beside him. “What is that cocky jackass doing in my house? Someone get him out of here.”
I step closer, taking Trevor with me. “This cocky jackass is now my husband, so he’s not going anywhere.”
