Part-Time Husband (Trophy Husbands, #1)

by Adams, Noelle

  Sam is still thinking. “You’d have to offer him something to convince him to do it. He doesn’t like you either, so you’d have to offer him something really good. Something he wants.”

  “I can think of something.”

  The irony is that I immediately know what Trevor will want, what might tempt him to agree to this ridiculous proposal. One of the few things I know about Trevor is that he’s hungry, always ambitious. He’s as committed to his work as I am, and like me it will be his prime motivator. In fact, the argument I’d make to convince him lands fully formed in my mind.

  And it’s perfect.

  Utterly perfect in every way.

  Except I’d have to marry the man.

  “You’re really thinking about it,” Chelsea says, her eyes as big as I’ve ever seen them. “I can’t believe you’re seriously considering it.”

  “You should do it,” Sam says. “If you can stand the man, you should do it. I think the better option would be for you to just quit and work for someone other than Pop, but I know you’re not going to do that. And I understand why. But you’re right. If you’re going to do this, he can’t be a trophy for Pop to put on his shelf. You need to do it in a way that proves you’re not going to let yourself be bullied by him.”

  Sam’s right. She almost always is.

  I’m not going to be bullied.

  If I’m going to do this, it’s going to be my way, and it’s going to prove I’m not a pushover.

  I’m Pop’s equal in every way, and I’m not going to let him forget it.

  “Don’t rush into anything,” Chelsea says, her mouth drooping in concern. “You don’t want to get stuck with an asshole for an entire year just because you’re mad at Pop right now. You could probably find a nice guy, a guy you’ll really like.”

  I understand the logic of her suggestion, but I don’t want to find a nice guy.

  I want a guy who will forever knock Pop off his manipulative high horse.

  I want Trevor Bentley.

  The whole plan has come together in my head, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to shake it now.

  It’s just so bitterly delicious.

  “I have to rush,” I reply to Chelsea. “I have to introduce this guy to Pop by the end of the week. But I’ll think it through for a day or two to make sure it’s what I want to do. If I get stuck with an asshole, it will be because I’ve planned it that way.”

  “She’s going to do it,” Sam tells Chelsea in a stage whisper. “It’s going to be fantastic. I can’t wait to see Pop’s face.”

  My mind is reeling, and my emotions are still in an uproar, but I have a plan now.

  And I can’t wait to see Pop’s face too.

  I DON’T WAIT A DAY or two. I don’t have a day or two. I think about it until the middle of the following day, and by then I’ve made up my mind.

  I spend the rest of Tuesday working out all the details.

  I’ve got a good mind for business, and I’m the world’s best planner, so all the specifics of this particular campaign have fallen into place without any difficulties.

  When I get in my car to drive over to a new office complex a few blocks from Pop’s corporate headquarters in downtown Charleston on Wednesday afternoon, I’m as prepared as it’s possible to be.

  I’m wearing a charcoal-gray pantsuit and designer heels—which is my typical work outfit—and my blond hair is pulled back in a bun at the nape of my neck like usual. I did refresh my makeup, but otherwise I look appropriately professional and not sexy at all.

  If Trevor agrees to this proposal, it’s not going to be because he’s blown away by my beauty or sex appeal. I’m attractive enough, but that’s never been what I have going for me.

  I’m good at making things happen.

  And I’m going to need to use every one of those skills right now.

  Trevor Bentley works out of a leased suite in a downtown office building. I park nearby, walk into the building, and take an elevator up to the third floor.

  It’s a nice place with a sleek, high-end feel to it. Trevor must spend a lot of money on the rent. The receptionist behind the front desk is smiling and poised and perfectly manicured. “Can I help you?”

  “Melissa Greyson. I have an appointment with Trevor at four.”

  The receptionist checks her computer, although I’m absolutely sure she already knows who I am and also knows I’m exactly on time for my appointment.

  “Yes, Ms. Greyson. If you take a seat, Mr. Bentley will be with you in a moment.”

  This is Charleston, West Virginia. It’s a nice place to live, and I’m never going to move away, but it’s not a big urban center. The mountain culture has never adopted stuffy business formality, and almost everyone I interact with in a professional context uses first names and won’t raise an eyebrow if someone shows up to a meeting without a tie.

  This receptionist bugs me. A lot.

  And I’m absolutely convinced that Trevor trained her to act this way.

  I give her a wide smile and sit down without another word, pulling out my phone to check email until I’m called in.

  Trevor is going to make me wait at least five minutes—just because he can.

  I know it for sure.

  He’s that kind of asshole.

  Here’s the deal on Trevor Bentley. Five years ago, during one of the summers I was interning with Pop’s, Trevor interviewed for the position of Director of Marketing at our company. He had a great resume and portfolio—having worked with a big firm in New York for several years—and I immediately identified him as the best candidate. I was sitting in on the interviews, and there was no one even close to his level of sharpness and skill.

  But the problem was that he was as arrogant as hell. And I’m not talking about normal masculine overconfidence. I mean the man acts like he’s God’s gift to the world. Instead of showing Pop the deference he’s used to, Trevor challenged him, argued with him, even condescended to him.

  I was watching from the background, and my mouth actually fell open in a gape a time or two at the blatant cockiness of the man. He couldn’t have been more than thirty, and he was talking to Pop like he was the boss.

  Pop hated him.

  Hated him.

  Hated him so much that he’s still complaining about him today.

  I tried to convince Pop to hire him anyway since Trevor was clearly so good at marketing and advertising, and we need skill like that if we want the company to keep growing, but Pop wouldn’t even consider it.

  He hired someone else—someone nowhere near as good—and I cringe at most of our ad campaigns as a result.

  The history with Trevor actually gets worse though.

  When he didn’t get hired, Trevor decided to start his own marketing firm, and the first contract he signed was with our closest local competitor in the restaurant business. The company isn’t nearly as big as Pop’s, but the restaurants do great business in Charleston and surrounding areas.

  Yep. For three years, Trevor developed brilliant ads for the competition, and every time Pop sees one, he curses under his breath.

  Trevor is Pop’s nemesis. No doubt about it.

  He’s also the smuggest, slickest son of a bitch you’ll ever meet.

  The truth is, I can’t stand him either.

  At 4:06, the receptionist gets up from behind her desk and comes over to me. “Mr. Bentley can see you now.”

  I take my time in sliding my phone into my purse, picking up the leather portfolio I brought with me, standing up, and smoothing down my jacket. The material is a blend that looks sleek and doesn’t wrinkle, but I mostly just want to make the receptionist wait for a minute before I move.

  I do check the button of my blouse just over my breasts. It’s always coming undone for some reason, leaving a gaping hole that shows my bra.

  It’s still buttoned, so that’s a relief.

  Then I smile and follow the receptionist down a short hall to a closed office door.

  She taps
on it, and when a muffled voice calls out, “Come,” she opens the door and gestures me in.

  I give her one more wide smile and thank her profusely before I walk in.

  Trevor’s office is exactly what I’ve always imagined. Expensive, slick, and modern with espresso finish on the wood pieces and grays, blacks, and taupes everywhere else. It’s clearly designed to be impressive rather than comfortable.

  Trevor himself is behind the desk, turned toward the side where his computer station is located. He’s typing quickly, and he doesn’t even glance up at me as he says, “Ms. Greyson, please have a seat. I’m just finishing this up.”

  Right.

  Of course he is.

  I’m going to get to wait a few more minutes.

  I would bet three minutes.

  I’ve dealt with this kind of thing my entire working life, so I’m not fazed by it. I sit down in a black leather slipper chair in front of the desk, put my portfolio on the table beside me, slide my purse to the floor, and pull back out my phone.

  Up comes my email again.

  If he can look busy, then so can I.

  I time it.

  Three minutes.

  Trevor finally turns in his chair so he’s facing me. “I’m sorry about that, Ms. Greyson. How can I help you?”

  Now I feel like clawing at something.

  He’s so unbelievably smug.

  How can I help you?

  You’ll have to believe me when I say how obnoxious his tone is, like he’s stepping down off Mount Olympus to commune with mere mortals.

  That’s Trevor Bentley for you.

  I wait for twenty seconds before I put my phone away. Just because.

  Then I’m smiling at him as widely and fakely as I smiled at his receptionist. “Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Bentley.”

  If the universe had plotted to design a man packaged solely to annoy me, it couldn’t have done better than Trevor Bentley.

  Even his appearance is obnoxious. He is ludicrously good-looking with thick brown hair, darker brown eyes, and the strongly chiseled features of a movie star, complete with the slightest of clefts in his chin. He must work out religiously because his lean body is hard and well developed, and his shoulders...

  Well, his shoulders are good.

  But that’s not all. He must also spend a fortune on his suits. This is Charleston, after all, and most men, if they wear suits at all, don’t get much more expensive than the Men’s Wearhouse or the sales at Jos. A. Bank. I buy most of my clothes at a local department store and only splurge on designer shoes and purses on yearly trips to New York with Chelsea and Sam.

  But Trevor is different.

  I’m not good at identifying designers, but the pin-striped suit he’s wearing today was not bought off the rack. It fits him like it was made for him.

  Maybe it was.

  I swear the man thinks he’s Don Draper, from his shiny shoes to his trimmed hair to his attitude.

  My smile freezes on my face as I take in his appearance and wish with everything inside me that I didn’t find him so attractive.

  But I do. Find him attractive. A wave of carnal appreciation washes over me that is the most exasperating part of the Trevor Bentley package.

  I felt it that first time I saw him, when he was interviewing with Pop’s.

  I’ve felt it every time I’ve seen him around the city in the past five years.

  And I feel it again. Right now.

  I don’t just like the looks of him. My response to Trevor goes a lot deeper. I want to press up against that body. I want to peel off that ridiculous suit. I want to muss that thick hair that lies so perfectly around his handsome face.

  I want...

  I just want.

  It’s all so wrong that I have to ball up the feelings and stuff them back into the darkest corner of my mind, where I put all inappropriate thoughts and emotions. Those feelings aren’t me, and I don’t have to indulge them.

  As the silence lingers a few seconds too long, Trevor arches one eyebrow. (Yes, you guessed it—he knows how to do the one-eyebrow thing, and he makes use of the talent far too often.)

  The flash of annoyance I feel at his smug expression is enough to get me going again. I say in my most poised voice, “I have a proposition for you.”

  No sense in wasting time in small talk. That’s not my way or Trevor’s.

  He leans back in his chair, his eyes lingering on my face. Instead of looking like he’s descending from a pedestal, now he looks more like he’s solving a riddle. “A proposition?”

  “Yes. A good one.”

  “I realize Pop’s needs help with advertising, if those tacky commercials you’ve been running are any indication, but you have to know I’m no longer interested in working for you.”

  My fingers tighten around the portfolio I’ve just picked up again, but I manage not to display my resentment on my face.

  Tacky commercials.

  He just said it outright to my face.

  Yes, I happen to agree with his assessment, but still... Who does that?

  “I’m not offering you a job with Pop’s,” I say, my voice almost prim in its coolness. “I actually have a favor to ask you, and so I’ve got something to offer you in return. Something you’ll want.”

  His lips part just slightly, and I notice because my eyes keep slipping down to his lips.

  So kill me. He’s got the sexiest mouth I’ve ever seen.

  “What do I want?” he asks after a moment’s pause.

  This part is easy. I slide a contract out of my portfolio and hand the stack of papers to him. He reaches to take it and then scans the top sheet with a bullet-point summary of the contract.

  Basically, it’s an agreement for his company to develop a regional advertising campaign for Pop’s for a very large amount of money. I had to pull from other budget lines to find the financing for it, but I know any campaign Trevor puts together will at least double the money expended. He’s that good.

  Both his eyebrows go up as he reads.

  Very slowly his eyes (like dark chocolate) rise again to my face. “You must need a very big favor.”

  “I do.”

  While I don’t know the ins and outs of Trevor’s contracts with other companies, I have a general sense of the level he’s working at. He’s good enough that he could have made a success of it in New York or LA, but for some reason five years ago he moved back to Charleston, where he was raised. Most of the jobs his agency handles are local or statewide. The one I’m offering him has to be bigger than anything else he’s done yet.

  He looks back down at the top sheet. “This is for real?”

  “Yes, it’s for real.”

  “Pop will never go for this. He despises me.” It’s not at all surprising that Trevor knows Pop’s opinion of him. Everyone knows.

  “Yes, he does. But advertising got moved last year, and now it’s under me. I make the decisions. This is real. I’m willing to sign that contract right now.”

  “But it’s not just because I’m so good.”

  “No. It’s not because you’re so good. We need some better advertising, but we’re not desperate. I’m going to have to put up with a lot a grief from my in-house folks and from Pop to make this deal with you, so I need something in return.”

  “A favor?”

  “Yes. A favor.”

  I’ve been killing it so far—sounding cool and professional and exactly on his level. I’ve even managed to keep my expression perfect and not blush the way I sometimes do when I’m emotionally discomposed.

  But now the moment has arrived, and the truth is I’m nervous.

  More than nervous. Scared as hell.

  I’m about to ask this arrogant man to marry me.

  Trevor waits a beat. “Are you planning to tell me what the favor is?”

  It’s time. I have to just say it. “I need you to marry me for a year.”

  Despite my (quite understandable) anxiety, I can’t help but enjoy the
look on his face. For the first time in the five years I’ve known him, I finally manage to rattle Trevor.

  He freezes, staring at me wordlessly.

  I go on before he can express just how ridiculous the idea really is. “I know it sounds insane, but it’s not as insane as it sounds. Pop has told me that he’s going to gut my position at the company if I don’t get married right away.”

  “He won’t really do that.”

  “Yes, he will. Think about it, Trevor. You know him well enough by now. He’s serious. He’ll do it.”

  “Then you can get another job.”

  “Yes. I could. But I don’t want to. I’ve worked for most of my life to do what I’m doing right now, and I’m not going to give it up. Pop’s is my birthright, and I shouldn’t be bullied out of the job I have just because I haven’t found a man yet. And that’s what he’s trying to do.”

  Trevor narrows his eyes slightly and breathes, “That heartless old jackass. After all the work you’ve put into his company.”

  I know it doesn’t make any sense, but his words actually make me feel better. If even Trevor Bentley recognizes how unjust Pop’s actions are toward me, then I know for sure I’m not overreacting.

  Pop isn’t treating me right.

  So fighting back is my only choice.

  “Yes. I agree. He thinks I’ve been dating a man he won’t approve of, and he’s demanding that he meet him and that I marry him. He’s smart enough to know I might try to work around the marrying thing with a business arrangement, so it needs to be an actual marriage where we live together for a year. So I thought...”

  “You thought you’d pick the man he’d hate the most.”

  “Exactly. That’s you.”

  “And you think I’m going to agree to this ludicrous proposition?”

  “Why wouldn’t you? You get that.” I nod toward the contract he still holds. “Just think about what that will do for your business. You’ll get eyes on you nationally. And all you’ll have to do is act like my husband a couple of times a week.”

  “And live with you?”

  “Well, yes, live with me, but I’m flexible on that, so we can arrange it however it suits you. Otherwise, all you’ll have to do is come to Sunday supper every week at Pop’s and maybe go to an occasional social event with me.” We will also have to sleep in the same bed, but I decide to save that little detail for later in the conversation, once Trevor is on board with the general concept. “Think about it as a part-time job.”