I END UP HAVING A DECENT wedding night.

When our room service comes, we find an old movie on TV and watch it while we eat. By the time the movie is over, it’s late, and we’ve finished all the food and the whole bottle of champagne, so we end up going to bed.

Not together.

I still wouldn’t mind it, but I’m not going to put Owen on the spot by asking. Not when he’s said very clearly he has no plans to have sex with me tonight.

It’s fine. All that food and alcohol have made me sleepy anyway, and I only stay awake for a few minutes.

Our plane doesn’t leave until two the following afternoon, so I sleep in until around nine. When I come out of my bedroom in my pajamas, I don’t see Owen. I call out, but no one answers. The door to his bedroom is still closed.

I guess he’s sleeping in even later than me today.

I wouldn’t have taken him for a late riser, but what do I know?

I brew a cup of coffee and sit on the couch to text my sisters and Eva to see if anyone is awake and available for chatting.

Melissa is, so I call her up and tell her about the day before.

She listens and laughs and asks questions. I’m feeling encouraged and more like myself twenty minutes later when our conversation starts to wrap up. I promise to send her the video of Owen singing the Elvis song.

I’m about to say goodbye when the front door to the suite opens without warning and Owen walks in.

“Oh,” I say, blinking and sitting up straighter. “Here’s Owen coming in. I guess he wasn’t still sleeping after all.”

“All right. I’ll let you talk to him. Text later.”

“I will. Talk to you later.”

I disconnect the call and put my phone down, picking up my mug to take a sip of my now lukewarm coffee.

I’ve only drunk half the cup, but I’ll have to dump it and make myself another. I only like hot coffee.

“Hi,” Owen says, putting his key card on the counter and getting a bottle of water from the full-sized refrigerator.

“I thought you were still in bed.”

What he’s been doing is very obvious. He’s wearing gym shorts and a T-shirt. He’s also sweating. A lot.

I gape at him before I pull it together. I usually don’t do that kind of thing, but Owen is hotter than I ever imagined he’d be.

He’s obviously hot in temperature right now. His face is dripping, and his shirt is plastered to his chest.

But I mean he’s hot.

He’s all flushed and physical and masculine, and his workout clothes don’t do anything to hide the strong lines of his body. His shoulders aren’t the only good thing he has going for him. His chest and abs are firm. His arms have some good definition. And his thighs...

Shit, his thighs.

That’s all I can say.

I stare at him, stunned and overwhelmed and bemused.

This is Owen. He’s supposed to be a fuddy-duddy. Quiet. Cute-ish. Kind of odd, but nice enough.

He’s not supposed to be this.

He’s not perfectly molded and manicured like a model or movie star. His stomach isn’t perfectly flat. (I can see it very clearly beneath the damp fabric of his T-shirt.) And he’s got a lot of hair on his arms and legs... and I would bet his chest too. In the morning light streaming through the glass door leading out to the balcony, I can see a few threads of gray in his hair.

And I like them.

I like every detail of him.

Even the smell of him—a mixture of laundry and effort.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“What’s the matter?” he asks after taking a swig of water. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Nothing.”

“Something’s wrong. You’re staring at me like I just sprouted horns.”

That isn’t at all how I’m staring at him, but it’s just as well he doesn’t know what I’m thinking. “It’s nothing. You just surprised me. I thought you were still in bed.”

“At nine thirty?”

“Nine thirty is a perfectly legitimate time in the morning to sleep in.”

He snorts and comes over to sit beside me on the couch.

I really don’t need to see him from an even closer perspective. I’m already off-kilter enough.

“Maybe nine thirty is normal for you to sleep in, but it’s not normal for me.”

“What time did you wake up?”

“Around seven thirty.”

“Have you been working out all this time?”

“Of course not.” He shakes his head like I’m being ridiculous. “I’m not in my twenties like you. It takes some time in the morning for me to adjust.”

“Adjust to what?”

“Adjust to being... awake. Alive. And over forty.” He slants me a look that’s wry. And kind of sexy.

I laugh at his words and his look. “You’re just barely over forty. Don’t act like you’re an old man.”

“I know I’m not an old man. But I’m not twenty anymore. You wait until you’re forty. I promise you’ll feel different than you do right now.”

“Okay, grandpa. Tell me all about how I’ll feel when I reach your great heights of wisdom and maturity.”

He narrows his eyes and shoots me a look. “You won’t be able to jump out of bed and get right to working out.”

I snicker. “I don’t do that anyway. Melissa and Trevor work out every morning. And Hunter, Sam’s husband, runs every morning. I’m not a big fan of exercise, but I try to keep in decent shape. So I’ll do something a few days a week in the afternoons or evenings. But that’s about it. Do you work out every morning?”

“God, no. I usually work out after work. Otherwise, I’d have to get up at some ungodly hour so I could sit for an hour before I started my workout.”

I’m smiling as I rest my eyes on his face. It looks handsomer than normal. Surely it’s not the sweat that has done it.

“What?” he asks, his eyebrows lowering.

“Nothing.”

“Why are you looking at me that way?”

“What way?”

“Like you’re thinking about laughing at me.”

I huff and straighten up.

The man really is as infuriating as it’s possible for someone to be. And the worst thing is it’s unintentional. He’s not trying to be contrary or misunderstand everything I say or think.

He really is this clueless.

Idiot.

“I wasn’t laughing at you,” I tell him coolly.

He frowns. “You’re annoyed with me now?”

“I’m not annoyed.”

“Yes, you are. You were liking me a minute ago, and now you’re annoyed.”

“I thought you said I was laughing at you.”

“Sure, but you wouldn’t laugh at me if you didn’t like me.”

“Why do you assume that?”

He shakes his head and wipes his face with the back of his hand again. “Because you’re a nice person. You wouldn’t laugh at someone to be mean. So you only laugh at people you like.”

The most ludicrous feeling blooms in my chest. Something warm and grateful and really quite stupid.

He’s waiting for a reply, so I manage to give him one. “I wasn’t laughing at you.”

“Okay. If you say so.”

I give his arm a soft punch in retaliation for his ironic tone, and I’m startled to feel how hard his bicep is.

God, he’s got a better body than I thought.

As he stands up, he has to smother a groan.

“You’re not that old, grandpa.”

“I feel like I’m about a hundred this morning. Too much champagne, I guess.” He’s smiling back at me though.

I can’t seem to stop grinning. “You had more than I did, so it could be that. All I need is another cup of coffee, and I’ll be fine.”

“I’m going to take a shower and try to recover.” He pulls down his T-shirt, which is still sticking to his chest and his back. I catch sight of a glint of gold on his left hand, and it startles me.

He’s wearing a wedding ring.

He’s married. To me.

He’s my husband.

I don’t know exactly why, but it’s a very strange thing to wrap my mind around.

He must see where my gaze is fixed because he looks down at his own hand. “You having second thoughts already?”

“Nope. No second thoughts.”

My tone is light and almost playful, but I’m telling him the absolute truth.

So far, this marriage has been a very good idea.

***

EVERY SUNDAY EVENING for as long as I remember, my family has gotten together at Pop’s for Sunday supper. It’s the only time of the week when Pop cooks anymore.

It’s our one family tradition.

A couple of hours after Owen and I land in Charleston, we drive over to Pop’s house for Sunday supper. I’m tired after the weekend, but I’ve put on a cute outfit and my best smile.

Owen will be meeting Pop for the first time since we came to our arrangement, and I have no idea what to expect.

When we arrive at the house, Melissa and Trevor have just gotten there too, so we all walk in together. Owen looks pleased to see Trevor and smiles at the other man in a friendly, relaxed way.

They’re friends. Trevor has known Owen a lot longer than I have.

I wish he’d smile that way at me.

“You ready for this?” Melissa asks me softly as we enter the front hall.

I shrug. “I have no idea.”

“Owen doesn’t look nervous, so that’s good. Trevor says he’s really happy about the marriage.”

My heart skips a few times at that piece of information. I glance over and realize that Melissa is right. Owen doesn’t look nervous at all. He looks calm and serious and absurdly attractive in his khakis and blue button-down. He gives me a questioning look when he sees me staring.

Then he extends a hand toward me, and I step over to take it.

It’s an act. I know it’s an act. We want Pop to believe this marriage is normal. But his grip is warm and comforting anyway.

I like how it feels to hold hands with him.

We find Pop in his leather armchair, drinking whiskey as he always does before dinner. He glances up as we enter.

I see his quick double take when his eyes land on Owen.

“Who’s this?” he asks brusquely.

“This is Owen Masterson. The man I’ve been dating for the past month.”

“What’s he doin’ here?”

“We went to Vegas this weekend.” I try to sound excited and kind of shy at the same time. “We did something kind of... spontaneous.”

Pop’s bushy eyebrows go sky-high. “What did you do, girl?”

“We got married. Owen is my husband now.” I smile and hold my breath and wonder what on earth Pop is going to say now.

He blinks. Then his eyes move from me to Owen and back again. He’s silent for a long time. Then he finally says in a gruff voice, “You too, huh?”

“Yes. Me too.”

The silence goes on so long my belly twists. Pop doesn’t look angry or ornery. He looks slightly confused.

Almost vulnerable.

I’ve never seen Pop look that way before, and it really upsets me.

After a minute, Owen clears his throat. “It’s nice to see you, Mr. Greyson. We’ve actually met before. I don’t know if you’ll remember or not.”

“I remember.” Pop eyes Owen up and down. “And everyone calls me Pop.”

“Pop then.” Owen isn’t smiling. I never expected him to. But he looks relaxed and confident, and it makes me feel better. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to ask for your blessing beforehand. I hope I might get it now.”

It’s exactly the right thing to say, with exactly the right balance of respect and self-assurance. I’m amazed Owen—who was so tongue-tied with me—is pulling the conversation off so perfectly.

After another several seconds, Pop mutters, “Nice of you to ask.”

I glance over at Sam for help, since so far things have gone smoothly, and I don’t want to stretch this conversation out long enough for it to fall apart.

Sam says with a smile in her voice, “We’re all really excited for Chelsea and Owen. She can tell us more about it as we eat. How was church today, Pop?”

Pop stands up and heads for the kitchen, where the meal he’s prepared is waiting to be served. “Good. Real good sermon. You girls need to go more often. Take your husbands too.”

I let out a breath and squeeze Owen’s hand.

That went as well as it could possibly go. With my sisters’ help, we might even make it through the meal in relative peace.

***

ALMOST A WEEK LATER, I’m waiting outside a dressing room while Owen tries on a suit.

Early in the week, I told him we were going shopping today, and I reminded him every day so he wouldn’t forget or try to get out of it.

If I’m going to do my duty by this marriage, then I’ve got to get him at least a few new clothes. We’re starting with a couple of suits.

He doesn’t appear all that excited about our shopping trip, and he grumbled when I told him we couldn’t pick something out from Masterson’s, which is evidently the only place he’s ever gotten clothes. But he’s been perfectly compliant as we get to the most upscale clothing store Charleston has to offer and I find him a few things to try on.

I’m excited to see him in the first outfit I picked out, and I’m wondering why he’s taking so long putting it on.

The first week of our marriage has been okay.

Just okay.

The truth is, I’ve barely seen Owen, and it’s a little disappointing.

I know we’re not soul mates or something stupid like that. And it’s clear he’s not interested in me physically since he never touches me unless I tell him to. But we’ve gotten along okay when we’ve spent time together, so I don’t know why he wouldn’t want to hang out with me at least a little.

We’re living in the same house—Owen’s very nice four-bedroom place in one of the nicer neighborhoods with established trees and big yards. And we’re married. And I thought he liked me at least a little.

But he always leaves for work very early—even when I try to wake up by seven, he’s already gone. He doesn’t get home from work until after six, and then he works out for an hour or so. After he’s showered, he eats dinner on the couch in front of the television. He’s perfectly happy for me to join him, but he’s not a bit talkative.

I’m sure he’s tired. He works long hours. Of course he’s tired.

But still...

I’m not used to being ignored this way.

It’s troubling.

Kind of upsetting.

But I’m not going to complain. This marriage is a business arrangement, and I have absolutely no claim on him in any other way.

If he doesn’t want to talk to me, then he doesn’t have to.

But he can’t escape me today, and I’m going to get started on the repackaging by getting him some new clothes.

“Is everything okay in there?” I ask through the door, after a few more minutes of silence.

“Yes.”

“Do you have one of the suits on?”

“Yes.”

“So open the door and let me see.” Surely the idiot wasn’t going to try on clothes I picked out for him and not even let me see them.

He’s frowning as he opens the door.

The jacket is a little too long in the sleeves, but otherwise the suit fits just right. It’s sleek and tailored with thick, expensive fabric and a modern cut.

It looks great.

He looks great.

He looks like he could be James Bond or something.

I gape at him like an idiot.

“Is it that bad?” he asks, adjusting the silver-gray tie I picked out to go with it.

“No! It’s not bad at all. It’s... great.” I swallow, more annoyed with myself than ever. This is still Owen. He hasn’t changed. He’s just put on a good suit.

Get it together. Now.

“Is it?” He frowns down at himself.

“Yes. It’s perfect.”

“It’s not much different from my regular suits.”

“It is different. The cut makes all the difference.”

“Okay. If you say so. But I don’t need this shirt. I’ve got four or five shirts this color.”

“But they’re not shirts like this. You need this one.”

His lip curls up in a half snarl.

“Don’t make that face at me. The only thing I bring to this marriage is my expertise in packaging, so you sure as hell better listen to me.”

“Okay. Fine.” He’s already unbuttoning the jacket to the suit. “Do I have to try on the other two?”

“Yes, you have to try them on. They’re not the same suit in different colors!”

“Why not? If this one works, why can’t I just get more of the same style? I could get two black, one gray, one brown, and I’d be all set. No more shopping.” He’s trying for an innocently clueless look, but I catch a little glint in his eyes.

He’s teasing me.

He’s teasing me.

“Asshole,” I tell him without any heat. I’m trying not to smile. “You’re stuck shopping with me for a little while longer. Now take this one off and put the next one on.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And don’t call me ma’am.” I close the dressing room door.

“Then don’t be so bossy.”

I huff loudly enough for him to hear, but fortunately the door is closed and he can’t see that I’m smiling.

***

ON OUR WAY HOME, WE drop off his new suits to get the needed adjustments. When we get home, I go to the bathroom and then change into something more comfortable—yoga pants and a little T-shirt. When I come back downstairs, I find that he’s in his normal place in front of the TV.

He’s turned on sports.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” I tell him. “I need to trim your hair.”

“What?” He looks and sounds outraged.

“You heard me.”

“Why do I need a haircut?”

“Do you want to up your cool factor or not?”

“I guess. But not enough to let you cut my hair.”

“I’m not going to cut it. I’m just going to shape it a little. You’ll hardly notice.”

“If I won’t notice, then no one else will notice.”

“Oh yes they will. It will only take a few minutes.” I show him the sharp, very expensive shears I’ve brought down with me.

He snarls, but he gets up easily enough. “Where do you want me?”

“Come sit on one of these stools. That will put you at the right height.”

He sits on a stool in front of the kitchen bar. “Do I need to get my hair wet?”

“Nah. I’m not cutting off any length. I’m just going to try to give it a little shape.”

“What’s wrong with my shape?”

“Your shape is fine.” This fact is more than evident to me since I’m inches from his broad shoulders and straight back. I really want to touch him, but I touch his hair instead. “But your hair could use a little.”

“I have a normal haircut.”

“I know that. But you comb it all down flat. It needs a little... movement.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so.”

I play with his hair for a bit. It’s thick and soft, and he’s got a lot of it. Then I take the shears and, using the tips, I thin his hair a bit in a few places and then fluff it up to study the effect.

When I move around to see him from the front, I discover his eyes are on my face. They never waver. He keeps watching me as I work on his hair.

It makes me feel weird. Kind of nervous and fluttery.

I wish I knew what he was thinking when he looks at me like that.

I know how to read men for the most part. I know when they admire me or want to get me into bed or want to hang out with me or think I’m silly and stupid.

But Owen doesn’t appear to be thinking any of those things.

I have no idea what he’s thinking.

I keep giving his hair a few touches until I’m satisfied with it. It’s lying nicely now. Naturally. With just enough freedom to be sexy without coming across as anything Owen would be uncomfortable with.

“You’re not giving me big hair, are you?” His eyes are still resting on my face with that same expression.

I snicker. “No. I’m not giving you big hair. I’m done now. You look really good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I’m standing very close to him, and one of my hands is threaded through his hair. It would take very little for me to tilt my head down and kiss him.

I suddenly want to so much that my body flushes hot and a pressure tightens between my legs.

I’m seriously considering doing it, despite Owen’s standoffishness. I want to a lot, and I suspect we’ll make a pretty good kiss together.

But Owen clears his throat and ducks his head. “So can I see my hair?”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” I step back to let him up.

He goes into the half bath near the kitchen and looks in the mirror. He doesn’t say anything.

“Well?” I prompt.

“It looks fine.”

“Fine? Fine? Your hair looks better than fine.”

“Okay. It looks good. Is that better?”

“I guess.”

He comes out and stands in front of me in the hallway. “You’re pretty bossy for a temporary trophy wife.”

I manage to hold on to an aloof expression, although I really want to laugh. “And you’re pretty whiney for a grandpa. So I guess we deserve each other.”

“I guess so.”

He stands and looks down at me for another minute. Then he jerks his head to the side and walks abruptly into the kitchen. He stands there for a minute as if he’s forgotten why he went in there. He finally pulls a beer out of the refrigerator.

“Back to sports?” I ask him.

Just perfect. I’m about to be dismissed again, after he’s gotten me all hot and fluttery.

“I guess so.” He pauses. “Unless you want to watch something else.”

I arch my eyebrows and try not to look excited. “Are you asking me to join you?”

“Sure. If you want to. But I’m sure you have something better to do.”

“I don’t have much of anything to do, except tweak my résumé and cover letter.”

“Oh yeah? You’re applying for a job?”

I sigh and go to the refrigerator. I hesitate over the beer but go with a sparkling water instead. I haven’t worked out a lot this week, and I don’t want my clothes to start to get tight. “Yeah. Another one.”

“So you’re applying to a lot of jobs?”

He’s still standing in the kitchen, so I turn to face him. “Yes. I’ve been applying for months. I told you I couldn’t find anything.”

“I didn’t know you were actively looking right now.”

“I am. I’m always looking. And job searching is like a job in and of itself. I hate it.”

“You want me to look at your résumé? Not that I’m an expert, but I could—”

“Sure. That would be great. Let me go get it.”

I go back to my bedroom upstairs to grab my laptop and a paper copy of my résumé and cover letter template, and then I bring them back downstairs.

Owen has moved to the couch, but he hasn’t turned the television back on. He reaches out for the papers I hand him.

I sit down beside him and wait as he reads it.

“This is good,” he says when he finishes. “It’s really good.”

“Thanks. Melissa helped me with it. She’s really good at that kind of thing. My problem is that I have no experience to put on it. Spoiled princess isn’t a very good job title.”

His brows lower ominously. “Don’t call yourself that.”

“Why not? It’s true, isn’t it?”

“You’re more than that, and you know it.” He’s not trying to be sweet or flattering or even particularly encouraging. His tone is blunt, almost bad-tempered.

And it makes me believe he means what he says.

Wishing I didn’t feel that warm swell of appreciation quite so strongly, I manage to say in a light voice, “I guess I could add temporary trophy wife to the résumé. What do you think?”

He’s still looking down at the sheet of paper, but he smiles at this. “It’s a thought.” He raises his eyes to meet mine. “Do you want a job at Masterson’s?”

I blink, and then my eyes widen. “What?”

“Do you want a job at Masterson’s? You’re good at fashion and everything, and God knows we can use more help.”

I’m so surprised by the offer that I’m almost choking on it. “Owen, I can’t just accept a job from you.”

“Why not?”

“You’re my husband!”

“So? No one would even bat an eyelash. Spouses get jobs all the time. Nepotism is alive and well—in Charleston and everywhere else.”

“I know, but I’d feel weird about it.”

“I don’t know why. You could take a job for the year, and then if you didn’t still want it after we split, you’d have some good experience.”

It sounds perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

I want it so much I can taste it.

But I want it so much I’m sure I shouldn’t have it.

“I... I don’t know. It would feel like... cheating.”

“Cheating? Why would it be cheating? You’d do the work, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course. I’d work as hard as I possibly can. But I’ve said no every time Pop has tried to get me a job, and I’d feel the same about this. I want to get a job that’s not just an act of pity.”

“What’s pity? Have you not told me multiple times that I have no style or taste at all?”

“I’ve never told you that!”

“You’ve told me in a variety of ways, but the message is very clear. I’ve tried to hire people who are better than me, but we’re still not where I want us to be. You’re good at packaging. You told me so yourself. So why can’t you help us do better?”

I can help them. I know I can.

I actually have something to offer here.

Owen is watching me closely, and after a minute of silence he finally says, “If the idea of nepotism really bothers you, we could call it an internship. You could do all the work and not get paid for it. Surely you can’t think that’s cheating.”

I’m so excited my arms are crossed over my stomach, hugging myself.

Surely if I’m not getting paid, I’d be allowed to take the experience that Owen is offering me.

I would work so hard.

Harder than anyone.

He’d never feel like I was mooching. He’d never be disappointed in me.

“I can’t tell what you’re thinking, Chelsea. You look like you’re going to explode, but I can’t tell if it’s from annoyance or excitement.”

“I’m not annoyed!” I burst out. “I really like the idea. I’m just afraid...” I take a ragged breath. “Can I think about it for a day or so?”

“Sure. Think about it all you want. I promise you we can use your help. I couldn’t give you a job with a lot of responsibility, but you’d be able to help us. I’m not offering you charity. If anything, I’d be taking advantage of you, especially if we don’t pay you.”

“I don’t want money. Not right now, I mean. I just want to... to do something. Worthwhile. I don’t feel like I ever have.”

“You have,” he says softly. “People wouldn’t love you as much as they do if you’ve frittered away your life doing nothing.”

“How do you know people love me?”

He slants me a teasing look, the seriousness having faded along with the intensity. “Did I or did I not call up about fifteen of your acquaintances to find out about you before our interview so that I’d know whether you’d be a good temporary trophy wife.”

I giggle. “You did?”

“I did. So I know people love you. You’ve done something worthwhile with your life already, but if you want to do something more, then do it. Just do it.”

I swallow hard. “Okay. I will.”

***

THAT EVENING, I OPEN the oven door and get a whiff of something really good.

I’m not much of a cook—to the surprise of no one—but I do enjoy putting food together and entertaining.

No one is coming over for dinner tonight, but I went to my favorite upscale grocery store this morning—before Owen and I went shopping—so I decided to make the most of what I bought. Earlier I took my favorite crab dip, put it in a small baking dish, covered it with cheese, and baked it alongside a loaf of take-and-bake bread. I’ve also put together a plate of good cheese and prosciutto, along with some cut vegetables in case we want something other than bread to eat with the dip.

I’m pleased with my preparations—including a dessert—but now I’ve got to get Owen out of hiding to eat it with me.

I have no idea where he is. I went to use his treadmill a couple of hours ago, and he disappeared after that.

The only reason I know he’s still at home is because I checked to confirm his car is still in the garage.

It’s almost seven now. We grabbed a sandwich during our shopping trip, but that was at noon, and surely he’s getting hungry again by now.

Maybe he really doesn’t want to eat with me.

I wait a couple of minutes, and he doesn’t miraculously make an appearance, which leaves me only two options. I can eat my prettily prepared food all by myself—something I’m not opposed to but would rather not to do if Owen is planning to eat tonight.

Or I can go looking for the infuriating man.

I start with his bedroom, which is the ground-floor master suite. (He likes to have a whole floor and a lot of stairs between my bedroom and his.) The door is open, so I just say his name before I stick my head in.

He’s not there. Or in the connecting bathroom.

I go to the back door and look outside, but the wide expanse of lawn and beautifully paved patio is empty except for a few birds and a quickly darting squirrel.

That leaves only one possibility, unless he’s hiding out in one of the guest bedrooms upstairs. I walk down the front hallway to his home office.

The door is closed, and it’s usually open.

He must be in there.

I stand for a minute in front of the closed door before I knock on it.

“Yes?”

I’m assuming this is an invitation to enter, so I open the door partway to see him sitting in front of his computer.

“Am I interrupting anything?” I ask.

“No. Of course not.” Despite his words, he’s obviously typing out something, and he completes it before he turns around to look at me.

He’s wearing the jeans and burnt-orange shirt he wore for our shopping trip, but his eyes are slightly fuzzy, like he’s been concentrating on something hard. As I watch, he pushes his fingers through his (newly trimmed) hair and gives me a questioning look.

And suddenly I’m aware of him as a man.

An intelligent, mature, hardworking man. Over forty. He’s got laugh lines on his face and a little bit of gray in his hair. He runs a large company.

And I feel like a little girl playing dress-up.

It’s hard to explain why this feeling hits me the way it does. Owen doesn’t look annoyed or impatient by my interruption. But the guys I usually go out with are a lot like me. They’re young. They’re looking for fun. Most of them have jobs, but they’re not jobs like Owen’s. They don’t feel serious.

Owen feels serious. He feels a lot more serious than me.

What the hell am I even doing with him? And why did I ever think I was capable of being even a temporary trophy wife to this man?

“What’s going on, Chelsea?”

“Nothing. Sorry. I didn’t realize you were working.”

“Eh. I’m not really.” He waves a dismissive hand at his keyboard. “Just clearing out some email. I hate coming in on Monday morning to tons of unread email.”

“You could have your assistant help you with it, couldn’t you?”

“Sure. I’ve thought about it. But it would be more trouble than it’s worth. I get personal stuff in my email as well as work stuff, and even the work stuff Barbara wouldn’t always know what to do with. I forward most of the messages I get anyway to someone who can act on them. I’d end up fielding most of the messages even if I staffed out my inbox. It’s easier for me to just do it myself.”

“Pop lets his assistant handle all his email.” I’m still feeling rattled, and this is mostly just something I can say without effort.

“I bet he does.” Owen has a little smile on his face. “But he’s from a generation before email. I’ve had email my entire working life. I’d rather do it myself. I just don’t like it to pile up.”

I nod to acknowledge his reply and to let him know I’m listening. He feels farther away from me than ever right now.

“Did you need something?” he asks, using his fingertips to rub at his scalp as if he has a headache.

“No. No. It’s nothing. You keep working on email.”

I’ve turned to leave the office, but he stops me by asking, “Did you make up your mind about the internship?”

“Oh. No. Not that. It’s... nothing. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

I’m all flustered now. For no good reason. I’m not used to feeling this way, so I don’t really know how to handle it.

My best bet is to get away, so that’s what I do—even though I hear Owen saying, “Chelsea?” as I leave.

I make it to the kitchen before he catches me.

He actually catches me. He’s been hurrying, and he grabs my shoulder to turn me around to face him. “Chelsea, what the hell?”

I like when it calls me Chelsea. I’m not sure why, but I like it better than any pet name he might come up with. It makes me feel like I’m personalized to him. Like he’s taking me seriously.

But I’d rather him not be in my face like this right now, so I frown at him. “I told you it was nothing. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“I know what you said. But I said at least twice that you’re not interrupting. It’s just email. It’s not like I’m signing the Magna Carta in there. Tell me what you wanted.”

“I said it’s nothing.” My jaw has gone out because I’m getting frustrated. Why the hell won’t he just let it go?

“It is something.” He’s stepped into me, so my back is against the kitchen counter. He feels very big and very solid right now. I can feel the heat from his body, although he’s not touching me. “Tell me. Right now.” His voice has gotten lower and softer.

Here’s something I’ve learned about Owen in the month and a half I’ve known him. He’s got a bad-tempered grumble he uses when he’s not really serious about his annoyance. But when he’s serious—when he gets angry—he doesn’t get loud.

He gets soft. Low and soft.

He’s low and soft right now.

His mood has an effect on me. I want to surrender to it. To just tell him the truth. But it bothers me that I want to do this. That I want to do what he says.

So, naturally, I resist. I tighten my lips and give him a steady glare. “I don’t have anything to tell you.”

He moves even closer. There’s an intensity radiating off him that’s really getting to me. It’s taking my breath. Making me ache between the legs. “Tell me, Chelsea.”

“No.”

“Damn it,” he mutters. “Why are you so stubborn?”

“Why am I so stubborn? You’re the one who keeps demanding that I tell him something when I don’t have anything to say.”

“Yes, you do. You came into my office to tell me, and then you stopped because of this ridiculous fantasy that I was too busy. I was just doing fucking email.” His voice is so soft I have to tilt my head up to hear him. “Who the hell gives a shit about email?”

I’ve never heard him curse before—anything stronger than “hell.” I didn’t know he even used that kind of language.

I like it.

A lot.

I’m shuddering now, and one of my hands has gone up of its own accord to hold on to his upper arm. My fingers are wrapped around his firm muscles, and I like the feel of them.

“Chelsea,” he says.

“What?”

“Tell me.”

I make a weird little sound in the back of my throat because I’m so close to just giving in to him and all his quiet, heated intensity.

Then I see him sniffing the air, and I remember the bread and crab dip in the oven.

I push him back so I can get to the oven and open it up, relieved when I see that nothing is burned.

I grab a hot pad to pull out the food.

“Did you make something for dinner?” he asks. His voice is its normal decibel again.

“Yes.”

“Is that what you came in to tell me?”

I don’t answer. I put the bread on a cutting board and move it to the kitchen bar next to the crab dip, which is looking hot and bubbly and delicious.

“Damn it, Chelsea! Why didn’t you just say so?”

His voice is outraged, but it’s also very loud now, proving that he’s not really angry.

I slant him a little look. “Because you were being too demanding.”

He grumbles under his breath, but he’s digging a fork out of a drawer and tucking it into a corner of the dip. “Oh my God, it’s good,” he moans. “You were really going to leave me out of this because I was too demanding?”

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.