Part-Time Husband

by Noelle Adams

Okay. Call me heartless. Call me petty. Call me anything you want.

  But I really enjoy this moment.

  I’ve never seen Pop speechless. Not once in my entire life.

  Not until right now.

  It takes a full minute for the situation to process in Pop’s brain, but when he does he asks, “Did you just say...” He turns to look at Sam, who I’ve always secretly suspected is his favorite of the three of us. “Did she just say—”

  “Yes, she just said what you think she said,” I interrupt. “Trevor is my husband. Now you understand why I didn’t want to tell you that I was dating him. But you said not to wait any longer to get married, and I haven’t. We got married today.”

  He meets my eyes, and it’s then he knows it’s real. He knows what I’ve done and why I’ve done it. His mustache quivers more violently than I’ve ever seen it quiver, but there’s also a little glint in his eyes. Maybe admiration?

  Or maybe I’m imagining it because, despite everything, I still want the old bastard to love and respect me.

  “No,” he says.

  “Yes,” I say, showing him the rings on my fingers. “It’s a done deal. All you said is that I had to get married, so I’ve made my choice. Trevor is my husband. You promised that would be enough for you. You can’t go back on it now.”

  “It can’t be pretend. You can’t just be married in name and still live your own lives.”

  “I’ve already moved into his place. There’s only one bed. No one is pretending.”

  “I’ll be...”

  “Damned,” I finish for him. “Probably. But this is happening either way. Aren’t you going to say hello to your new grandson-in-law?”

  Pop sputters a few times and rubs his mustache, but he finally gets to his feet and stretches a hand out toward Trevor, who takes it without hesitating.

  “What are you thinking, boy?”

  Trevor gives him the one-eyebrow arch. “I’m thinking I married your granddaughter.”

  “How’d she talk you into it?”

  “She didn’t need to.” Trevor is playing it exactly right. Meticulously polite without giving an inch. It’s the only way to hold your own with Pop. Show even a little bit of emotion, and he’ll sink in his teeth.

  “What’d she have to give you to sweeten the pot?”

  That question is understandable but rather offensive. Evidently Pop doesn’t think any man is going to want to marry me without a significant payoff.

  In this case, it’s true, but still...

  Trevor’s eyebrow lifts even higher. “I assure you, sir, any pot that includes marriage to Melissa is already sufficiently sweet.”

  I blink when the words process. Did he really just pay me a compliment?

  Chelsea has been standing behind us, trying to hide her giggles, but I hear her whisper, “That’s so sweet.”

  Trevor slants me a quick look, and his eyes are amused, almost conspiratorial, like we’re teammates in this particular endeavor.

  He’s defending me not because he means it but because it’s part of putting Pop in his place.

  Which is exactly as it should be.

  Trevor doesn’t like me any more than I like him, but he’s on my side when Pop is the opposition.

  I kind of like having someone on my side—particularly someone as sharp and ruthless as Trevor.

  “Well, girl,” Pop says, reaching down to pick up his whiskey glass. “You won this round. I’ll give you that. But a year is a long time. Just remember you dug this particular hole with your own shovel.”

  He’s right. A year is a long time.

  And I’ll be married to Trevor for all of it.

  THREE HOURS LATER, I’m walking into the apartment with Trevor.

  It’s our wedding night, and I’m exhausted from a long day of work, a stressful dinner, and, you know, getting married.

  Dinner went as smoothly as possible, given our situation. We kept the conversation light, and Chelsea and Sam helped a lot to smooth over any conflict that started to emerge.

  I might want to exasperate and frustrate Pop with this marriage, but I don’t want to get into knock-down-drag-out fights with him over dinner.

  I don’t actually like fighting with him. Or with anyone. I’ve always wished I could find my place in the world without scrambling for every inch.

  So I’m exhausted and emotionally drained as I walk into the apartment I’ll be living in for the next year.

  It doesn’t feel like home.

  I’m keeping most of my stuff at my place—I have a pretty nice house on the outskirts of town, but we decided to live in his apartment because the location is so much more convenient for work. Earlier I brought over a lot of my spring and summer clothes, my toiletries, and the items I use every day. But there’s no use for me to move any furniture or unnecessary items over since I’ll just be moving them out again after the year is over.

  Trevor takes his shoes off as soon as he steps into the apartment. This surprises me for some reason. I’ve never thought of him without shoes before.

  When he straightens up and sees me standing motionless, he asks, “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Just tired. I think I might just take a bath and go to bed.”

  He nods. “Sure. You can use the tub in the master bathroom if you want. It’s a lot nicer.”

  There are two bathrooms in the apartment, and we’ve agreed to each take one of them. We might have to share a bed, but we don’t have to share a bathroom. Trevor offered to let me have the nicer master bathroom, but this is his place and the second bathroom is nearly as nice, just with a much smaller tub.

  “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “Why would I mind?” Trevor is loosening his tie, and it’s the sexiest thing.

  Don’t ask me why. It’s just sexy, the way he pulls at the knot, undoes his collar with his long, lean fingers.

  I really shouldn’t be thinking about how sexy he is. He might be my husband, but he’s definitely not available.

  He gives me a questioning look when I don’t answer his question.

  “Oh. I don’t know why you’d mind. I was just checking. Thanks. I might do that.” I’m still holding my purse, and I’m still wearing my heels. I feel strange. Unnatural. Like I’m at one of those super-fancy hotels in Europe and I don’t really belong. “Okay, this is going to feel weird for a while, but we’ll just have to push through it. I’m going to take a bath.”

  “Have at it.”

  The closet in the master bedroom is huge, so there’s plenty of room for my stuff. After turning the water on in the tub, I go to my side of the closet, take off my shoes, jacket, and jewelry and find something to sleep in.

  I wonder if Trevor expects me to sleep in something sexy, but I don’t actually own sexy sleepwear. And I don’t want to give either one of us the wrong idea. I grab a pair of cotton pajama pants and a tank top, which is what I normally wear to bed. I get my bath salts, soap, and a towel from my own bathroom and then carry the armful into Trevor’s bathroom.

  I don’t see Trevor anywhere, so I assume he’s in the living room.

  I close the door with a loud click and feel strangely exposed as I peel off the rest of my clothes.

  I’m naked now, and Trevor is somewhere in this apartment.

  Obviously, he’s not going to barge in on me, but it makes me feel... vulnerable.

  Telling myself not to be silly, I step into the bath.

  The tub is big enough for two people. I can get my shoulders and all of my legs under water at the same time, and it’s the best bath I’ve had in ages.

  I soak for about a half hour but then start to worry that Trevor might need to go to the bathroom or want to take a shower or something. So I get out, dry off quickly, and put on my pajamas.

  When I peek out, Trevor is still nowhere in sight.

  I find him in the living room, stretched out on the couch with his laptop.

  “How was it?” he asks, glancing up when I appear.

&n
bsp; “Very nice. Can’t complain about that tub.”

  “Good.” That’s it. The conversation is evidently over. He’s back to working or putzing on the internet or looking at porn or whatever he’s doing over there.

  And that’s just fine with me. I get a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, find my e-reader, and climb into bed.

  I checked with Trevor when I brought my stuff over, and he likes the left side of the bed, nearest the window, so I take the right side. I always like the side near the bathroom anyway.

  I’ve been reading for an hour in bed when Trevor comes in. I try not to stare at him as he goes into the closet and then walks to the bathroom.

  He closes the door, and a few minutes later I hear the shower come on.

  I time his shower (because that’s what I do). He’s in there for nine and a half minutes. When he comes out a few minutes later, he’s not wearing a shirt.

  I definitely notice this detail.

  His chest... well, it’s nothing to sneer at. He definitely uses that exercise equipment in his spare room because his abs and arms have some very fine definition. He’s got hair on his chest—nothing too thick or gross, but there’s no manscaping going on in his grooming routine. And he’s got more hair—this sexy dark trail—starting low on his belly and leading down beneath the waistband of the dark blue pajama pants.

  All this observation of his body takes the length of time of his walking around the bed to his side. He catches me staring. How could he not? I haven’t been particularly subtle.

  He gives me his smug look as he gets into bed. “I usually sleep in my underwear, you know. I’m wearing pants out of courtesy to you. But if it gets too hot in the room, these things are coming off.”

  I try not to gulp. “I don’t care if you sleep in your underwear.” I’m not being entirely truthful. I’ll be much more comfortable if he keeps the pants on.

  He’s arranging two pillows on top of each other. The covers are down around his belly button, leaving far too much masculine chest exposed to my view.

  Is it entirely necessary for every part of the man’s body to be so appealing? The universe seems intent on torturing me with Trevor’s unrelenting sexiness.

  I stare down at my e-reader, trying to focus on the words on the screen rather than Trevor’s body in bed beside me. There’s at least a foot between us, but he’s way too close and way too shirtless.

  “Is it a good book?” he asks.

  “Oh. Yeah. Sure. It’s okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “It’s good enough. There’s a lot of it I have to skim.”

  “What parts do you skim?”

  I look up, and he’s giving me only a very faint lift of that eyebrow, proof that he’s mostly in earnest. The higher the eyebrow goes, the more ironic his attitude. “There are all these pages of introspection and background and every detail the author researched about the main character’s job. I don’t need to waste my time with all that wordage. Just give me the good stuff.”

  He gave a brief, soft chuckle. “What’s the good stuff to you?”

  “Dialogue and action. I don’t like to be bogged down with all that nonessential stuff.”

  “That sounds about right for you. Dialogue and action. No wasting your time with nonessentials.”

  I check his face, but he doesn’t appear to be mocking me. He does look like he’s laughing at me but not in a mean way. “I would have thought you’d approve of that approach.”

  “I do. Dialogue is one of my favorite things. And speaking of action...”

  I frown. Call me clueless or naïve, but I honestly have no idea what he’s about to say.

  No idea at all.

  What he says is, “You want to have sex?”

  Just like that. As bland as can be. He asks me if I want to have sex.

  I gape at him, trying to wrap my mind around what just came out of his mouth.

  I can’t get my vocal cords to work.

  Did I mention he just asked me if I want to have sex?

  “What?” he says, cocking his head slightly.

  “Did you just ask me if I want to have sex?”

  “I think you heard me since your mouth is hanging open.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Not last I checked.”

  “You just asked me if I want to have sex!”

  “I think we covered that point. Didn’t we agree that if I want to have sex with someone, I tell you.”

  “Yes, but I didn’t think it would be me.”

  “Why not?”

  Why not?

  Why not?

  “You really want to have sex with me?” My voice isn’t as controlled as I’d like it to be, but I’m having another hot flash I definitely don’t want him to see.

  He gives a half shrug. “We’re married. We’re in bed together. We might as well have a little fun.” His tone is as light and cool as it always is—with absolutely no sign that he’s invested in the outcome of this discussion.

  Maybe he really thinks about sex as a minor, recreational activity that can be performed in any context without affecting anything else in his world.

  But that’s not how sex has ever worked for me, and I’m still having trouble articulating my response.

  And he’s lounging there against his pillows, waiting for me to answer.

  “I’m not having sex with you, Trevor,” I finally manage to say. “I don’t even really like you.”

  I’m not trying to be mean. He knows perfectly well how I feel about him. He feels the same way about me. I’m trying to explain that I have to at least like someone to have sex with them.

  “What has that got to do with it?” He turns slightly toward me. “You’d enjoy it.”

  “I would not.”

  “Yes, you would.” His eyes suddenly take on a smoldering heat that makes my breath hitch, that makes every cell of my body scream about how much it wants Trevor to touch it. “Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it.”

  “You—you—ugh! You have no idea what I’ve thought about. I can’t believe how appallingly arrogant you are. I’m telling you straight out that I don’t want to have sex with you.”

  “All right. You can change your mind whenever you want.”

  “I’m not going to change my mind.”

  “We’ll see.” When he sees my face at this, he raises up his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t bite my head off. It was just a suggestion. No need to be so prickly.”

  “Prickly? You’re actually calling me prickly?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “No! I’m behaving the way any woman with a brain would behave when faced with a man as smug and obnoxious as you are. It doesn’t mean I’m prickly. I’m just not going to melt into a puddle of goo because you give me a sexy look. Believe it or not, every woman in the world isn’t waiting with bated breath for you to deign to take them to bed.”

  His eyes aren’t sexy anymore. They’re laughing, although his mouth is perfectly composed. It’s an irresistible expression, and I have the worst time not smiling back.

  I manage to maintain a disapproving frown. “I’m not prickly.”

  “Fine. For the peace of our marital bed, I’ll agree that you’re not prickly.”

  “And even if I was prickly, you deserve to get stuck a few times.”

  He laughs. Not his low-key chuckle, which is all the laughter I’ve ever heard from him in the past. He laughs for real.

  Listening to it, I’m washed with the strangest flood of feeling. Pleasure. Satisfaction. Amusement. Pride.

  I really can’t believe I made Trevor Bentley laugh that way.

  “Okay,” he says at last. “No sex. At least not tonight. Do you mind if I turn on the TV?”

  “That’s fine. The TV doesn’t bother me at all.”

  So I read my book, and he flips between the news and sports. When I put down my book, he clicks off the television.

  Then it’s dark in the room, and I can hear him
breathing. I can feel every adjustment of his body.

  At one point in the dark, I mutter, “I can’t believe you asked if I want to have sex with you.”

  He just laughs again.

  Three

  ON THE MONDAY AFTER we tied the knot, I get up at my usual time, which is five forty-five in the morning.

  I’m a morning person—which has always driven Sam and Chelsea crazy—but it’s not really something I can help. I wake up early and am ready to start my normal routine. I get a cup of coffee and drink it as I look at my planner, sort out my priorities, and confirm my schedule for the day. Then I run for forty-five minutes on Trevor’s treadmill.

  He’s got the exact same model that I have, which I find to be a strange coincidence.

  I’m not obsessive about working out and hate lifting weights with a passion, but I do like to at least stretch my legs first thing in the morning, so I’ll usually run for at least a half hour.

  I run harder than usual this morning, so I’m breathless and sweaty when I leave the room. Wondering if Trevor is up yet, I glance toward the master bedroom and am surprised to see him approaching.

  He’s obviously just woken up. His hair is a mess and his eyes only half-open. A day’s worth of beard darkens his jaw, and it makes him look almost debauched. He’s managed to keep his pajama pants on for the past three nights, but they’re riding very low on his hips at the moment.

  So low I can’t help but look.

  Wrenching my eyes back up to his face, I smile and say brightly, “Good morning!”

  Trevor is clearly not a morning person. He mumbles out a wordless response and keeps going.

  My eyes aren’t remaining disciplined today, and they linger on his back as he walks. I really love those shoulders, and his pants have slipped so low I can see just a hint of his butt crack.

  I force myself to turn away.

  I don’t need to be leering at him like that. We don’t have that kind of relationship.

  Our first weekend together was fine. He disappeared for most of the day on Saturday. I’m not sure where he went. He didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask. Then on Sunday we did our own thing until we went to supper at Pop’s in the evening. We didn’t argue much because we didn’t spend much time together, and I know that’s for the best.