Free Trophy Husband by Lauren Blakely Page B

on my show, and viewers love it, and so does the store that
sells it since I’ve sent a ton of business its way. I also worn it
once when I picked up Hayden’s daughter from school to help her
out. I got a few cold looks from the other moms that day. Whatever.
It’s not like it says “Saddle up and Ride Me.”
    I open the door and do my
best to assume a sexy smile, but not quite a come-hither one. It’s
a delicate balancing act. And I am so out of practice at the art of
seduction, I’m beyond out of practice. But I give it my best
shot. Be sexy, be bold.
    “Hello,” I say slowly, drawing out each
syllable.
    “Hi there. Got a package for you. Want to
sign?”
    “I would love to sign your package,” I purr
back.
    He raises an eyebrow, and all my
self-confidence depletes to zero. A withered balloon.
    “Just tell me where.” I return to my
professional voice. No wonder I haven’t landed a date. I’m
abysmal.
    He points to the clipboard he’s holding,
tapping his pen against the spot where he wants my name in ink. I
sign as directed, then look straight at him, not up or down, so he
must be right about 5’10” too. I try again, going for simple and
direct this time. “McKenna Bell, there you go. And what’s your
name?”
    He hands me the envelope and smiles back.
“Steely Dan Duran.”
    I crack up right there on my doorstep.
“What’s your name for real?”
    “It really is Steely Dan Duran. My mom was a
huge Duran Duran fan.”
    “Evidently.”
    “And my dad liked Steely Dan. So they
compromised.”
    “That is the very definition of
compromise.”
    He nods and gives me another smile, and
that’s exactly why I like it when he brings me packages. That sexy
sweet grin is precisely why he’s the type of deliveryman a girl can
fantasize over. So I lay the envelope on the table by the door and
decide to see if he qualifies. Because maybe this is my parking
karma at play – Triple D might not have worked out, but perhaps the
universe is delivering the best man to my porch in the form of
Steely Dan Duran.
    “So is your mom like a child of the eighties
or something?”
    “Apparently. I think they were listening to
Duran Duran and Steely Dan when I was born.”
    Oh, he practically walked right into
that.
    “And that would be in 1982?” I ask with a
wink.
    He laughs. “Ha. ’90.”
    Twenty-three.
Perfecto. “So Steely Dan Duran. Would you
like to go out some time?”
    He takes a step back, as if I’ve just asked
him to drink hemlock.
    “Scratch that,” I quickly add, crimson
racing to my cheeks. Why did I ever think I could pull this off?
“I’ll just take that back.”
    But Steely Dan Duran will have none of it.
He steps towards me and places a hand on my arm. “I would love to
take you out to dinner.”
    “You would?”
    He nods vigorously. “I was just surprised
that’s all. But please don’t take it back because I would love to
go out. And I would love to be the one to do the asking. Would you
like to go out with me?”
    “Yes.”
    I’m ready to dance a little
jig, kick my heels up in the air a la Gene Kelly. Maybe it’s not that hard to find a
Trophy Husband after all. I make plans with Steely Dan Duran for
next weekend and head back inside. I reach for the envelope he
dropped off and rip it open.
    And there goes my happy mood.
    My jaw drops as I read a letter from Todd’s
attorney, requesting joint custody of the dog. Now that he has a
house in Marin, and a baby, and a yard, he’s claiming the dog is
better suited with him. I can’t believe he has the audacity to ask
for this, but then he’s the same person who didn’t leave my
favorite restaurant when he ran into me even though that would have
been the courteous thing to do.
    I read more, pushing my hands through my
hair, hard against my scalp. My brain is about to officially pop
when the papers request three canine sleepovers each week, and then
I nearly gag when I see Amber’s name as well on the claim – Todd
and Amber