by Noelle Adams
I can’t help but giggle. “It would serve you right for being demanding.”
I put a bread knife next to the loaf and then reach into the refrigerator for the serving plate on which I arrange the cheese, prosciutto, and vegetables.
“There’s more?” He tears apart the slice of bread he cut off.
“I didn’t know if dip and bread would be a full meal, so I added to it. It’s nothing special.”
“It seems pretty damn special to me. I was in there starving, and you had all this stuff going on.”
I was planning to set the dining room table nicely, but I decide it doesn’t matter. I open a bottle of pinot grigio and pour out two glasses before I take the stool next to him.
“If you were starving, why were you sitting in your office instead of coming out here?”
“I didn’t know you were fixing anything. You like to cook?”
“I don’t actually like to cook. I like to prepare things that are already mostly done. I like to... put things together.”
He’s staring down at the plate I arranged. “Everything looks really nice. Where did you get these fancy plates?”
“I brought them with me.” I’m smiling as I eat a bite of bread and dip. “I like to collect pretty serving dishes. I seriously have one pot and two pans but a few dozen serving dishes.”
“Well, this is as good a meal as I’ve had in a long time.” He’s eating quickly, and he’s obviously enjoying the food. He can’t be putting it on.
It makes me ridiculously happy. “Seriously, Owen, you spent like five hundred dollars on room service last weekend, and you’re saying this is the best meal you’ve had?”
“Definitely.”
“Well, you paid for that room service, so it’s only right that I make the meal tonight.”
He’s been closing his eyes as he chews a bite of cheese and bread, but he opens them a slit. “You don’t need to pay me back for that. It was our wedding night.”
“I know. I didn’t mean I needed to pay you back. Just that I enjoy fixing things, and I don’t mind sharing. I know you’re not much of a dinner person, but—”
“Why do you say that?”
“Why do you think? You barely even eat dinner. Just have a sandwich or something in front of the TV.”
He has another bite of dip ready, but he lowers it, his eyes fixed on my face. “Not because I don’t like dinner. Just because I’m too lazy to do anything else.”
“Oh. I like dinner.” I’m looking down at the half-eaten crab dip, but I glance up to check his expression when he doesn’t respond.
His eyebrows have lowered.
“What?” I ask.
“Anytime you want to fix something, I’ll very gratefully eat it. I just didn’t want you to think I expect you to—I’m not expecting you to cook and clean for me or anything like that. I’m used to taking care of myself.”
“I’m not much of a caretaker, so if you were hoping I’d be taking care of you, you’d be woefully disappointed.” I’m smiling again now. I feel better. About everything.
“I’m not disappointed. If you want to fix something for dinner, I’ll be very happy. But if you don’t, I’ll just grab something on my own. I’ll never just assume...” He trails off without finishing the sentence, something he doesn’t normally do.
I reach over to touch his forearm. “Thanks, Owen. I appreciate that. Sometimes I’ll fix something.”
He smiles at me. Fully. And I’m momentarily distracted from my food.
I do manage to keep it together, and we have a very pleasant time finishing the meal.
And I mean finishing it. Owen leaves nothing for leftovers.
“I’ve got a little dessert,” I say as he takes the last piece of bread to mop of the remaining dip. “It’s not much.”
“That’s good because I’m not sure how much more I can eat.”
I get up to take out the small plate of fresh fruit with a sweet cream dip in a matching tiny bowl.
“Oh, yum,” Owen says, grabbing a strawberry.
Dessert is just as much of a success as dinner was, and I’m full and pleased with the world at the end of it.
Owen does the dishes—after I discreetly ask him to be gentle with my delicate serving plates. I load the everyday pieces into the dishwasher and top off each of our glasses of wine.
“Thank you,” Owen says, giving me a look that’s warmer than usual.
Maybe he’s simply as full and content as I am.
“You’re welcome.”
“Are all your meals that good?”
“I don’t know. I guess you’ll have to wait and see.” I give him a teasing look over my shoulder and start to leave the kitchen with my glass of wine.
He grabs the back of my shirt and pulls me back toward him, turning me around to face him.
I’m surprised by the move, and I gaze up at him. I’m flushed and breathing too fast and afraid I might look too besotted.
He stares down at me for a long time, but he doesn’t kiss me.
The man is evidently determined to frustrate me at every turn.
Would it be so hard to give me a little kiss? To drag me into his bed?
Is that really too much to ask of my husband of just one week?
“If you want to ask me something, just ask me.” There’s a lot of texture in his voice, and it’s soft.
I gasp audibly. Did he read my mind? Does he know I want to ask him for sex? “What... what do you mean?”
“I mean you came into my office earlier to ask me if I wanted dinner, and you didn’t do it. I don’t like that.”
Oh. Okay. That clears things up.
Some of my hot, flushed excitement diminishes. I narrow my eyes at him. “So I’m supposed to only do things you like?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m saying you should do anything you want. You can interrupt me. You can make ridiculous demands. You can request that I sing you sappy Elvis songs if you want. I might not agree, but you should be free to ask me. Don’t stop yourself by imagining what I’m going to say.”
I nod because he’s being serious. And he’s incredibly sweet beneath the gruffness. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
He let go of the handful of my shirt he grabbed earlier, but his hand is still just barely brushing against my side. I really like how it feels there. I want to feel it even more.
I clear my throat. Since he’s obviously not going to kiss me—and no matter what he says, I’m never going to be comfortable blurting out a request for a kiss—I need to move us past this moment before I do something embarrassing.
I give him a teasing smile. “So will you please serenade me with another rendition of ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’?”
He snorts in amusement. “No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“You’re no fun.”
“Definitely not.” He’s trying—and failing—not to smile. “If you were looking for fun, you picked the wrong husband.”
“I didn’t pick the wrong husband. I picked exactly right.”
That comes out a little more blatant than I intended, but my tone is light enough to pull it off.
He chuckles and steps away from me.
Our moment was good while it lasted, but it’s obviously over now.
Probably just as well.
Four
TWO WEEKS LATER IS my first day at Masterson’s.
I still feel kind of weird about taking a position my husband created just for me, but it’s the only thing I have available if I don’t want to wash hair in Eva’s salon. Even then, I’d be using her connection to me to land me the job, and at least this way no one is paying me for work they would have otherwise given to someone else.
So I pick out a sleek pencil skirt and a great trendy top, pair them with my favorite heels and simple jewelry, and pray I look appropriate for an office place. I’m not wearing a suit, but that’s not going to be a problem. Not in Charleston. But I want to look nice. Stylish.
Like there might be a reason Owen gave me this position aside from the fact that I’m his wife.
I’ve never had a first day of work before, so I don’t know how they’re supposed to go. Mine isn’t bad. Everyone is nice to me, and I like the head buyer and the assistant buyer, who is my supervisor. Owen clearly made sure there was a position created for me with specific duties and my own desk. My boss and I work out a twenty-hour-a-week schedule for me, and I think I’m capable of doing everything I’m supposed to do.
Owen wears one of his new suits today for the first time, and the women definitely notice. I see eyes on him every time he passes by. It’s honestly a little annoying to have all those women gawking at my husband that way, but I’m realistic about these things and know it’s inevitable. I try not to let it bother me too much.
But, while I’m in a stall in the bathroom, I overhear a few women talking about me. They aren’t nasty or even particularly catty. At all. And I know that speaks well about Owen and how his staff likes and respects him. But they are surprised I’m so young. They say they didn’t think Owen would be such a stereotype, but maybe even nice guys have midlife crises.
The whole thing leaves me with a sick feeling in my gut.
One I just can’t shake.
I leave work at four and meet up with Eva and another friend afterward for coffee and some low-key shopping. I pick up dinner from a local Italian place on my way home and arrive to find Owen just finishing up his workout.
He grins at me from the treadmill in the basement where he’s cooling down.
“I picked up dinner,” I tell him from the stairs.
“Perfect. I’ll just be about twenty minutes.”
“Take your time.”
I still have that heavy feeling in my stomach. I hate that feeling.
I don’t even know why it’s there.
The day went fine overall.
It could have been so much worse.
And at least I have a start now at carving out a career for myself.
Still...
I put a hand on my stomach as I turn away from the basement stairs.
I should change clothes since I’m still wearing my work outfit, but I can’t seem to find the energy. Taking off my shoes is about all I can do.
I put the pasta in a baking dish, cover it with cheese, and stick it in the oven to warm up. Then I make a quick salad to go with it and set the table. (I like eating at a real table, and Owen doesn’t seem to care where we eat.) Then I stand around and do nothing. Lean against the counter and wait for Owen.
He comes in a few minutes later, smelling like soap, wearing a T-shirt and the ugliest purple-and-gold sweatpants in the history of the world, his hair wet from his shower.
I want to squeeze him, but that sick feeling hasn’t gone away.
He gives me a close look and then comes to stand right in front of me in that way he has. “You look tired.”
“Maybe a little.” Better that he thinks I’m tired than attempting to explain my real mood.
He pulls his eyebrows together and scans my face. “Didn’t you have a good day?”
“I did. The position seems great, and I really like Mary and Heather. Our food should be just about ready, so we can...”
“Chelsea.” His voice has gotten lower and softer.
I know this mood. The one word is a warning. He’s going to be stubborn and demand to know what I’m feeling right now.
I briefly consider putting up a fight, but the truth is I don’t have the energy.
And maybe part of me wants to talk to Owen about it.
I release my breath and keep my eyes lowered as I try to explain. “It really was a good day. Everything seems great. People are nicer than I expected. Everyone was really nice to me.”
“But?”
“But nothing really. I just feel kind of... weird. Like I don’t deserve this. I’m an intern. I’m supposed to be making coffee and sorting mail. I’m not supposed to have these real jobs to do—things I’ll actually enjoy.”
“So you think you’ll enjoy it?” He sounds genuinely interested, like it matters to him that I enjoy the work I’ve been given to do.
“Yes. But that makes me feel weirder. And I know what people are probably thinking. About me. About you.” I’m starting to ramble now, getting emotional. I can hear it in my voice, but I can’t stop it. “And I don’t want anyone to think you’re having some sort of... some sort of midlife crisis, and you picked out some airhead for a wife and now are spoiling her like the princess she is.”
His body is tensing up. I can tell because he’s standing about three inches away from me. “Did someone imply you were—?”
“No! No. I told you before. They were all really nice. Everyone was nice. Really nice. And I don’t think they were just being fake. But I still feel like they’re all looking at me like... like I can only be one thing to them... like I’m nothing but a...”
So I lose it. Completely. I burst into tears right in front of him.
I don’t even know where it comes from. That heavy knot in my stomach just unleashes in a storm of tears.
He wraps one arm around me and pulls me against him, so I bury my face in his shirt. I shake against him for a minute. He smells good. Like soap and laundry detergent. And he’s big and warm and hard.
I pull myself together after a minute and straighten up. He loosens his arm but doesn’t drop it. It’s still resting lightly around my waist.
His eyes are almost soft.
I sniff and wipe at my face. “Good thing you’ve changed out of your new suit. You looked very hot today, by the way. People were definitely noticing.”
“Chelsea.”
He’s not going to let me change the subject.
I sigh. “I’m okay. It’s silly, I guess. I just want to do something worthwhile. I’m tired of being nothing but... fluffy. I don’t want people to see me that way anymore.”
Something changes in his stance. “Did someone call you fluffy?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. I didn’t mean—”
He’s gotten low and soft again, and his jaw is very tight. “Chelsea, if someone called you fluffy, then I need to know right—”
“Owen, no. No one called me fluffy.”
“Then where did you come up with that word?” He hasn’t relaxed very much.
“I’m not really sure. Oh, wait, yes, I am. Trevor called me that once, right after he first met—”
“Trevor called you fluffy?” His voice is no more than a rasp.
I reach up and cup his face with my hands because he’s so tense now it’s starting to scare me. “Owen, stop being ridiculous. It was ages ago. I’d only met him a couple of times, and he didn’t know me. Melissa told me a while back, laughing about how wrong he knows he was.”
“He should never have—”
“He didn’t know me, Owen. He knows he was wrong, and he freely admits it. Trevor is a really good guy. He’s a friend of yours. You know he’s a good guy. Don’t you dare hold it against him.”
Owen’s tension is finally relaxing a little, and it’s a relief. Owen sees Trevor every week at Sunday supper, and the two men also have lunch occasionally. They’re friends, and Owen doesn’t seem to have a lot of friends. I don’t want to mess that up by mentioning something stupid.
“I was just explaining where I came up with the word. And it kind of fits. A pretty package filled with nothing but air.”
“You are not—”
“I know I’m not filled with air. I’m just trying to explain that I feel that way a lot. And people see me that way. And I’m trying to change it, but I don’t know if I ever can. And I don’t want a job that’s just part of the... the fluffy package.”
“Your position isn’t fluffy, Chelsea. I need you there. You’ve met Mary, haven’t you?”
Mary is his head buyer. My boss’s boss. “Yes. She’s really nice.”
“Yes. She is. She’s worked for Masterson’s for thirty-nine years. Sh
e’s going to stay until she retires. I’m not going to make a staffing change—not since she only has a few years left. I need you, Chelsea. You know what I’m saying.”
I do know what he’s saying. Mary is a kind, comfortable woman who must be around sixty. She’s clearly from another generation, and I can immediately see why Masterson’s has had trouble reaching a younger market. Women in their sixties can certainly be up on new trends and styles and innovations, but Mary isn’t one of those women. Her assistant, Heather, seems more in touch, but she’s also blunt-spoken and takes entirely the wrong approach with Mary.
I suddenly realize why Owen wanted to put me in that office. “So you want me to—”
“Help. I know you can. You’re good with people. Mary already likes you.” He’s still got one arm around me, and he moves it so his palm is pressing against the small of my back. “I need you, Chelsea. And there’s nothing fluffy about what I need you to do.”
“Okay,” I say, that knot in my stomach finally loosening, disappearing completely. “I will then.”
Owen’s face is sober, but he’s not tense anymore. He lifts his free hand and gently brushes back a few strands of hair from my face.
It’s so gentle, and his eyes are soft.
I’m overflowing with an entirely new feeling. “Thank you,” I whisper, stretching up to press a soft kiss on the side of his mouth.
I want to kiss him for real, but I have no reason to think he wants that. So I brush my lips against the corner of his mouth.
It’s supposed to be a light, brief gesture, but his bristles feel intoxicating against the sensitive skin of my lips. So I let them linger, clenching in excitement at the sensation.
I’m flushed when I pull back. We stare at each other for a minute.
Owen’s gaze has grown hot. I know I’m not mistaking it.
Then he leans forward and kisses me, his mouth meeting mine squarely.
It only lasts a second, and he pulls back to check my expression. Then he does it again, this time nestling his lips around my lower one and giving it a delicious little tug.
My body jolts, and my hands move up to cling to his neck.
I draw him down into another kiss, and this one is even better. His tongue gets going, gently sliding along the line of my lips. Then I open for him, and I can’t be held back. I suck his tongue into my mouth and press my body against his.
