Husband Material Read online

  HUSBAND

  MATERIAL

  A Novel

  Emily Belden

  radesize) Husband Material #37377 page 5

  YDON HOUSE 07/19 (T

  GRA

  Recycling programs

  for this product may

  ISBN-13: 978-1-525-80598-1

  not exist in your area.

  Husband Material

  Copyright © 2019 by Emily Belden

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereinafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Graydon House Books, 22 Adelaide Street West, 40th Floor, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M5H 4E3.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, radesize) Husband Material #37377 page 6

  living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Enterprises Limited or its corporate affiliates.

  Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.

  GraydonHouseBooks.com

  BookClubbish.com

  Printed in U.S.A.

  YDON HOUSE 07/19 (T

  GRA

  9781525805981_BG_TS_PL.indd 6

  1/3/19 9:45 AM

  Dedicated to my husband, Matt. I appreciate you.

  radesize) Husband Material #37377 page 7

  YDON HOUSE 07/19 (T

  GRA

  9781525805981_BG_TS_PL.indd 7

  1/3/19 9:45 AM

  HUSBAND

  MATERIAL

  radesize) Husband Material #37377 page 9

  YDON HOUSE 07/19 (T

  GRA

  9781525805981_BG_TS_PL.indd 9

  1/3/19 9:45 AM

  1

  Well, that’s a first.

  And I’m not talking about the fact that I brought a date to

  a wedding I’m pretty sure didn’t warrant me a plus-one. I’m

  talking about grabbing a wedding card that just so happened

  to say “Congrats, Mr. & Mr.” on my way to celebrate the nup-tials of the most iconic heterosexual couple since George and

  Amal. This—and a king-sized KitKat bar from the checkout

  lane—is what I get for rushing through the greeting card aisle

  in Target while my Uber driver waited in the loading zone

  with his flashers on.

  It’s Monica and Danny’s big day. She’s my coworker, whose

  gorgeous face is constantly lining the glossy pages of Luxe LA magazine. Not only because she’s one of the leading ladies

  at Forbes’s new favorite company, The Influencer Firm, but because this socialite-turned-CEO is now married to Daniel Jones—head coach of the LA Galaxy, Los Angeles’s pro-

  fessional soccer team. If you’re thinking he must look like a

  derivative of an American David Beckham, you’re basically

  9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 11

  1/14/19 1:43 PM

  12

  Emily Belden

  there. Let’s just hope their sense of humor is as good as their looks when they see the card I accidentally picked out.

  Before I place it on the gift table, I stuff the envelope with

  a crisp hundred-dollar bill fresh from the ATM. Side note: I

  think wedding registries are bullshit. Everybody wants an ice

  cream maker until you have one and never use it, which is

  why I spring for cold, hard cash instead. I grab a black Sharpie marker from the guest book table, pop the cap off, and attempt

  to squeeze in a nondescript s after the second “Mr.,” hoping my makeshift, hand-drawn serif font letter doesn’t stick out like

  a sore thumb. I blow on the fresh ink, then hold the pseudo

  Pinterest-fail an arm’s length away. That’ll do, I think to myself.

  I lift a glass of red wine from a caterer’s tray as if we cho-

  reographed the move and check the time on my Apple Watch,

  which arguably isn’t the most fashionable accessory when

  dressing for a chic summer wedding. But aside from the fact

  that it doesn’t quite match my strapless pale yellow cocktail

  dress, it serves a much greater purpose for me. It keeps my

  data front and center, right where I want it, not on my phone

  buried somewhere deep in my purse. Bonus: the band, smack

  dab on the middle of my wrist, also covers a tattoo I’ve been

  meaning to have lasered off.

  Other than telling me the time, 7:30 p.m., it also serves

  up my most recent Tinder notifications. I’ve gotten four new

  matches since this morning which isn’t bad for a) a Saturday,

  since most people do their Tindering while zoning out at

  work or bored in bed at night; and b) a pushing-thirty New

  York native whose most recent relationship was the love-hate

  one with a stubborn last ten pounds. That’s me, by the way.

  Charlotte Rosen.

  Though present and accounted for now, the battle of Tide

  Pen vs. toothpaste stain went on for longer than I intended

  back at my apartment, causing me to arrive about half an hour

  9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 12

  1/14/19 1:43 PM

  Husband Material

  13

  late to the cocktail hour. Which means I for sure missed Mon-

  ica and Dan’s ceremony in its entirety. I of all people know

  that’s rude. I’m someone who is hypersensitive to people’s ar-

  rival tendencies (well, to all measurable tendencies to be hon-

  est; more on that later). But I’m sort of glad I missed the I Do’s, as there is still something about witnessing the exchange of

  vows that makes me a little squeamish. I got married five years ago and, well, I’m not married anymore—let’s put it that way.

  The good news is that with time, I can feel it’s definitely

  getting easier to come to things like this. To believe that the couple really will stay together through it all. To believe that there is such a thing as “the one”—even if it may actually be

  “the other” that I’m looking for this next go-round.

  Late as I may be to the wedding party, there are some perks

  to my delayed arrival. Namely, the line at the bar has died

  down enough for me to trade up this mediocre red wine for

  a decent gin and tonic. Another perk? Several fresh platters

  of bacon-wrapped dates have just descended like UFOs onto

  the main floor of the venue, which happens to be a barn from

  the 1800s. Except this is Los Angeles, and there are no barns

  from the 1800s. So instead, every creaky floorboard, every

  corroded piece of siding, and every decrepit roof shingle has

  been sourced from deep in the countryside of southwest Iowa

  to create the sense that guests are surrounded by rolling fields, fragrant orchard blossoms, and fruiting trees. The reality being that just outside the wooden walls of the coveted, three-year-long-wait-list Oak Mill Barn stands honking, gridlocked traf-

  fic on the 405 and an accompanying smog alert.

  As I continue to wait for my impromptu
wedding date,

  Chad, to come back from the bathroom, I robotically swipe

  left on the first three guys who pop up on Bumble, another

  dating app I’m on, then finally decide to message a guy who

  looks like a bright-eyed Jason Bateman (you know, pre-

  9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 13

  1/14/19 1:43 PM

  14

  Emily Belden

  Ozark) and is a stockbroker according to his profile. We end up matching and he asks me for drinks. I vaguely accept. Welcome to dating in LA.

  I’ve conducted some research that has shown that after the

  age of thirty, it becomes exponentially harder to find your fu-

  ture husband. What number constitutes exponential y? I’m not sure yet, but I’m working on narrowing in on that because

  generalities don’t really cut it for me. Thinking through things logically like this centers me, calms me, and resets me—no

  matter what life throws my way. All that’s to say, I’m officially in my last good year of dating (and my last year of not having

  to include a night serum in my skin care regimen), and I’m

  determined not to wind up with my dog, my roommate, and

  a few low-maintenance houseplants as my sole life partners.

  “Sorry that took so long,” says Chad, returning from the

  men’s room twenty minutes after leaving. “Did you know the

  bathroom at this place is an actual outhouse? Thank god it

  was leg day at the gym, I had to squat over the pot. My quads

  are burning nice now.”

  Confession. I didn’t just bring a date to the wedding, I

  brought a blind date.

  No worries though. Monica knows how serious I am about

  the path to Mr. Right and supports the fact that I go on my

  fair share of dates to get me there quicker. Plus, he isn’t a total stranger; she knows him—or, she met him, rather. He attended her work event last week at the LA County Museum of Art

  and is supposedly this cute, single real estate something or

  other. Of course he tried to hit on her and, unlike most beau-

  tiful people in Los Angeles, Monica actually copped to being

  in a committed relationship with Danny. (Who doesn’t like

  to brag they’re marrying Mr. Galaxy himself?) So she did the

  next best thing and gave him her single coworker’s Instagram

  handle and told him to slide into my DMs. It’s a bold move

  9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 14

  1/14/19 1:43 PM

  Husband Material

  15

  on her part, but I appreciate her quick thinking and commit-

  ment to my cause, Operation: Reclassify My Marital Status.

  Since Chad first messaged me a week ago, I’ve done my

  homework on him. And I’m not talking about just your basic

  cyber stalking. I’m talking about procuring and sifting through real, bona fide data. It’s essentially a version of what I’m paid to do for a living—track down all the “influencers,” people

  with a lot of fans and followers on the internet, and match

  them to events we plan for our clients so they can post on so-

  cial media and boost our clients’ profiles.

  Some may think my side-project software, the one that

  computes how much of a match I am with someone, is a bit…

  much, but I don’t see it that way at all. I’m on the hunt for a man who is a true match for me—one who won’t just up and

  leave in the blink of an eye. I left things up to fate once and look how that turned out. I’ll be damned if I do it that way

  again.

  While I studied up on Chad, I conducted a hefty “image

  search,” yielding about a hundred photos of him that have been

  uploaded across a variety of social platforms over the years. In real life, I’m pleased to say he checks out. Chad is over six feet tall, tanned, and toned, with coiffed Zac Efron hair that’s on

  the verge of being described as “a bit extra.” From the shoul-

  ders up, he’s an emoji. A walking, talking emoji. But as I step back and admire him in his expertly tailored suit, he looks

  like a contestant on The Bachelor. In retrospect, Chad is just the right amount of good-looking to complement my physical

  appearance, which can be described as a made-for-TV version

  of an otherwise good-looking actress.

  “Something to drink, sir?” one of the caterers asks Chad.

  “Yes. A spicy margarita. Unless…wait. Do you make the

  margarita mix yourselves? Or is it, like, that sugary store-

  bought crap?”

  9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 15

  1/14/19 1:43 PM

  16

  Emily Belden

  Eek. I had forgotten my discovery that Chad is a bit of a…

  wellness guru. I guess so is everyone in LA, but I can’t help

  but be taken aback when I hear that there are people who

  actually care about the scientific makeup of margarita mix.

  “Fuck it. Too many calories either way,” Chad announces

  before giving the waitress a chance to answer his question.

  “I’ll just take a whiskey.”

  “Splash of Coke?”

  “God, no. So many empty calories.”

  With his drink order in, Chad rolls his neck around and

  pops bones I never knew existed. Then, one by one, the joints

  in his fingers. The sound makes me a bit queasy but I’m try-

  ing to focus on the positive, like his beautiful hazel eyes and the fact that cherry tomatoes and mini-mozzarella balls with

  an injection of balsamic vinegar are the latest and greatest

  munchie to hit the floor.

  Chad turns to me with a smile, his palm connecting with

  the small of my back. “Should we find our seats? What table

  are we at?”

  Good question, I think to myself. I’m at table six. Chad is…

  on a fold-up chair we will have to ask a caterer to squeeze

  between me and Monica’s great-aunt Sally? I kind of forgot

  to mention to him that I didn’t really get an official okay to

  bring him tonight.

  “Table six,” I say pleasantly with a smile.

  “Six is my lucky number. Well that, and nine if you know what I mean,” Chad says with a wink accompanied by an actual thumbs-up.

  The waitress comes back with his whiskey neat, and he

  proposes we clink our glasses in a toast to meeting up as we

  make our way to the table. Still not over the lingering effects of his immature, pervy sixty-nine joke, I reluctantly concede to do the cheers with the perpetual high-schooler.

  9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 16

  1/14/19 1:43 PM

  Husband Material

  17

  “So, what did you think of Monica’s event?” I say to break

  the ice as we take our seats at the luckily empty round table.

  “Well, I don’t really know what she does for a living, but

  she is fine as hell. I mean, that’s why I hit on her last week at the LACMA. Sure, I saw the ring on her finger, but couldn’t

  resist saying hi to a goddess like her. My god, that woman is

  something else.”

  I nod in agreement. Partly because, yes, Monica Hoang

  needs her own beauty column in Marie Claire, stat. And partly because I’m too shocked by his crass demeanor to really do or

  say anything else. Did I say Chad reminded me of a contes-

  tant on The Bachelor? I think I meant he reminds me of a guy who gets sent home on night one of The Bachelor.

  “She said you’re a real estate…attorney, was it?” I awk-

  wardly
segue. “What’s your favorite neighborhood in Los

  Angeles?”

  It sounds like I’m interviewing him for a job, which in a

  way, I am. But had I known the conversation was going to be

  like forcefully wringing out a damp rag, just hoping to squeeze out something semidecent, I would have never invited him to

  join me at the wedding. In fact, I likely wouldn’t have gone

  through with a date, of any kind, at all. Conversation skills

  rank high on my list of preferred qualities in a mate. Looks

  like he’s the exception to the rule that attorneys are good lin-guists, because my app sure as shit didn’t predict this fail.

  So how does my software work, then? Well, it’s all about

  compatibility. My algorithm is programmed to know what I

  like and what I’m looking for in the long term. So to see if a

  guy is a match, I comb through his online profiles, enter the

  facts I find out about him, and generate a report that indi-

  cates how likely he is to be my future husband or how likely

  we would be to get a divorce, for example. One of the most

  helpful stats is how likely we are to go on a second date. I’ve 9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 17

  1/14/19 1:43 PM

  18

  Emily Belden

  determined that anyone scoring above 70 percent means that

  chances are good we’d go out again. And, well, a second date

  is the first step to marriage. You get the point. Anyone below

  a 70, I ignore and move on. Chad pulled a 74, which is a solid

  C if you’re using a high school grading system. Not stellar, but certainly passable with room for improvement.

  As it’s turning out, there’s a lot of room for improvement.

  “Huh? I’m not in real estate,” he says with a confused look

  on his face.

  “Oh, Monica said you were an attorney at Laird & Hutchin-

  son?”

  “Well, yes, that’s the name of our firm. The Laird side is

  real estate. But they acquired Hutchinson a couple years ago,

  and that’s the side of the practice I work on.”

  “What kind of law is Hutchinson?”

  “We’re the ‘Life’s too short, get a divorce!’ guys. You’ve

  probably seen a few of our company’s billboards.”

  Chad slides his business card my way, and as soon as I see

  the logo, I picture those billboards slathered all over the bus stop benches down Laurel Canyon Drive and feel physically ill.

  Not only because he’s in the business of making divorce seem