Sebastian: I’m sure that’s doable. Any particular reason why?

SDC: Yes.

Sebastian: Wanna share?

SDC: Nope.

Sebastian: Fair enough, see you tomorrow.

He put his phone away as he got to his penthouse, but Chelsea’s terse message was bothering him. She clearly had a schedule for something. And he thought about her black eye. If there had been a boyfriend, abusive or not, she wouldn’t have jumped on the marriage.

And she’d had zero reaction to his kiss. He was a pretty good kisser, wasn’t he?

So what the hell was going on?

Chapter Eight

Sebastian showed up at Chelsea’s apartment the next day at five in the morning. They’d decided on a super early hour to avoid any chance of paparazzi or harassment from his end. To his surprise, every light in her apartment was on. Chelsea was awake and in pajamas, but she looked sleepy and tousled. Her black eye from the night before was fading, the puffiness gone. A dark smear ringing her eye was the only memento of its existence.

“Hey,” she said, and yawned. She waved at him. “Come on in.”

He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, taking in Chelsea’s apartment. He noticed two things: It was extremely bare and it was extremely well-lit. Track lighting in the ceiling was accompanied by lamps in the corners, and everywhere he turned, there were more lights. Other than the lamps, though, there wasn’t much in the way of furniture. An old beat-up papasan chair and an end table were all that was in the living room. The dining room had a few boxes. The walls were bare. “Did you spend last night packing?”

“Hm?” She rubbed her eyes, and for a moment she looked so adorably sleepy that he had to fight the urge to toss her over his shoulder and drag her back to her bed—wherever it was. Friend-zone, he reminded himself. She’s allowed to look sleepy, you horny fool. She moved forward and her breasts jiggled under her pajama top, clearly not confined by a bra. He had to turn around before his dick got carried away.

“Oh, the apartment. Nah, my last roommate moved out a week or two ago. I haven’t really fixed the place up since she took her stuff out of here.” She strolled into the kitchen. “Guess it’s a good thing we’re moving in together, right? You want a coffee or something?”

“Nope. I’m good. I’ll have coffee on the plane. Thank you, though.” He put his hands in his pockets and glanced around the small apartment. “Do you need help packing anything?”

“I’ve got it,” she said, and padded out of the kitchen a moment later with a spoon and a jar of instant coffee. She ate a spoonful of granules while he was staring, and grimaced.

“Doesn’t that taste horrible?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, making a face. “But it sure wakes me up.” She pointed down the hall, where he saw three doors. “I put all my soap-making stuff in the empty room, but I can pick it up later. Same with the furniture, I guess.” She squinted at him and crunched her dry instant coffee a bit more. “Where are we going to get married?”

“Vegas?”

“That’s kinda cliché.”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

She blanched and swallowed hard, and then made a face. “Oh, god, that tasted awful. I’m really awake now, though.” She put the instant coffee down and headed for her bedroom. “Lemme think. Do people still get married at Niagara Falls?”

“No clue. Canadian or American side?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and shut the door. “I’m going to change, but keep talking,” she yelled from the other side. “Let’s do something fun.”

“Vegas isn’t fun?” Sebastian called back. He pulled out his phone and began to type into the search engine. Fun places to elope. “Napa Valley Vineyards?”

“I don’t drink,” she called through the door. “Think of something else.”

“Lake Tahoe? Arkansas?” He read off, flipping through links. “New Orleans?”

“Oooooh,” she yelled through the door. “I like New Orleans!” A moment later she emerged in skinny jeans and a long, gray, off-the-shoulder top that showed bright pink bra straps. She grinned at him happily. “You cool with New Orleans?”

“Just as long as we aren’t married by a voodoo witch doctor, I’m good with anything.”

“Great,” she said cheerily and held up a tote. “I packed a bag. Let’s go get married, shall we?”

He put away his phone, impressed with how quickly she was ready. Her hair had been pulled into a loose ponytail at her nape and she’d splashed water on her face, but wore no makeup other than lip gloss, which she slicked on as he watched. That one quick movement was arousing as hell, and he wondered if he was too hasty in suggesting they be platonic only. “No second thoughts?” he asked her.

She squinted and studied him. “Well, I’m having second thoughts about that outfit of yours, but other than that, no.”

“That wasn’t what I—” He looked down at his navy linen sports shirt and cargo pants. “What’s wrong with my clothing?”

Chelsea tugged at one of the buttons on his shirt. “They don’t scream, ‘Whee, I’m eloping with my hot new girlfriend.’”

His mouth quirked. “No? What do they scream?”

“They scream, ‘Whee, I just read that the DOW was up thirteen points.’”

He laughed and unbuttoned the first button at his throat. “Better? Am I wild and crazy now?”

She snorted, then reached up and ran her fingers through his hair, tousling it. His body immediately reacted to her touch, his cock aching with need. Chelsea didn’t notice the way he stiffened, though. She reached for his sleeves and rolled them up to his elbows, then stepped back and judged him. “Better. Now you just look like a businessman on a bender.”

“Perfect for a rebellious getaway marriage.”

“Exactly!”

She lifted her arms. “Let’s go, then!”

“Did you want to pack anything else?”

She shrugged. “I can get the rest of it when we get back.”

“I can send a man over to get it for you, if you’d rather. Or hire a crew.”

She gave him a dimpled smile. “That works, too.”

“We need to stop by my lawyer’s office for the prenuptial agreement before we go to the airport.”

“Cool.”

She was entirely too casual about this. “You can still back out, you know. We’re about to enter into a two-year agreement for a fake marriage.”

“Nope, I’m fine with it.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m not entertaining any other prospects, and it’ll help us both out, right?”

“Right,” he said. Fuck. Two years of being married to this woman and not being able to touch her. He watched her walk to the front door of her apartment, noticing the way her hips swayed under her long shirt.

Maybe he was the one who needed to think things through again. Sebastian quickly shook the thought out of his head. He needed this fake marriage, if nothing else, to get Lisa off of his back and to avoid his mother’s ever-present camera crew. Things would boil over for about a week and then fall into silence. Blessed, blessed silence.

He was looking forward to that a hell of a lot more than getting laid.

As Chelsea headed out the door to the apartment, he noticed she hadn’t turned any of the lights off. “Uh, do you want to switch these off?”

“The lights?” she asked. “No, I always leave them on.”

All of them? He paused, waiting for an answer as to why. When she didn’t provide one, he decided it was none of his business and offered her his arm. “Shall we go get hitched?”

Chelsea chuckled and put her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Yes we shall. I hope you bought me a nice ring.”

*   *   *

Sixteen hours later, they were in New Orleans, and they were married. With a few phone calls from Sebastian’s assistant, he’d managed to book the best suite at the Ritz-Carlton. Now they were in the room together, alone.