Whole.

But that might all be in her imagination. He called her “baby” and “love” but she knew he didn’t think she was a baby, so “love” might have been just another pet name that meant nothing. And he only said he loved her in front of his family, when they were lying about their relationship.

And why was she so darn fixated on whether he loved her or not? Chelsea worried it was because she was in love with him, too. And that was bad news if it was one sided. Actually, it was bad news all around. Just because she’d had great sex didn’t mean she was fixed. She knew that. She still had issues. She’d still have them for a while yet. So was she clinging to Sebastian because his dick had temporarily “fixed” her?

The problem was that when she wasn’t Chesty LaRude, brutal but fun derby girl, she was a shattered mess who lacked confidence. She didn’t trust her own judgment.

Gretchen made a face and re-sealed the perfume sample. “Woof. That shit was terrible. Your soaps smell way better than any of that crap.”

“Gee, thanks.” She tuned back in to Gretchen’s chatter, watching her friend page through the magazine as the car crawled through the congested streets of Manhattan.

“Oh, speaking of soaps,” Gretchen said, glancing at Chelsea. “I want to give some rose-scented stuff away as wedding party favors. I thought it’d be kind of cool, what with Hunter so big into roses. Plus, the soaps you make are badass. You game?”

“For you? Of course!” Hearing Gretchen’s praise gave her a warm flush of pleasure. “I’ll mock up a few different scents and looks and you can tell me which ones you like the best.”

“You know your business is going to take off the moment the media gets a hold of the fact that you create artisanal soaps. I figured I’d get my request in early.”

She wrinkled her nose at the thought. Chelsea liked selling her soaps because it was relatively anonymous and a fun, laid-back job that allowed her to devote time to her true passion—derby. If her business picked up, she’d have less time for Sebastian and less time for her Rag Queens. For some reason, that made her unhappy. She’d never wanted to be a soap mogul. She’d never wanted to be rich. She just wanted something that would pay enough (and most of the time, soap making didn’t pay much at all) so she could pursue her other passions. “We’ll see.”

If Gretchen heard the hesitation in Chelsea’s voice, she didn’t comment on it. Instead, she peered at an article about bridegroom gifts. “This whole thing makes me nervous, you know?” Gretchen said. “I joke about being a bridezilla, but I really want things to go well for Hunter and me. I know he’s doing the big wedding because I want one, and I feel protective of him. So I want things to be very much ‘us’ as much as they are part of the wedding. Things have to mean something. Like we’re going to have the wedding in Hunter’s gardens next summer, when the roses are blooming. I want to have a bouquet of his roses to carry. I’m going to pick everything in the menu, and I want it to be from my own recipes, not just what a caterer wants to foist off on me. I want everything to have meaning, even if I have to wrestle the jeweler and hold his arm as he creates the perfect matching bands for us.”

Chelsea smiled at her friend. It was so great that Gretchen was so excited about her wedding. “I think it sounds wonderful.”

“Which is why my soul dies a little when these magazines suggest I get him cigars or some shit as a groom present. Because the gift of lung cancer is the gift that keeps on giving, right?” She sighed unhappily. “But I don’t know what to give him, and these magazines aren’t helping.”

“Maybe a rose?”

“He can grow something better than I can get at a nursery.” She looked glum. “I just want it to be special.”

An idea hit her, and Chelsea snapped her fingers. “What about a portrait?” At Gretchen’s skeptical look, she continued. “Sebastian does art. Incredible art. Sketches, mostly, but I bet he could do a finished piece of you for your wedding. We’re trying to talk him into doing the trading cards for our derby team.”

Gretchen drummed her fingers on her lips. “Like . . . boudoir art?”

“Well, it doesn’t have to be—”

“No, I like it! And Hunter would blush like a madman, which means it would need to go in his office. Will you ask Sebastian about it?” She fluttered her eyelashes at Chelsea. “Pretty please?”

“He’s really shy about the art for some reason, but I know he would do it if it was for Hunter. I’ll tell him about it and feel him out.”

“Or feel him up?” Gretchen wiggled her eyebrows and then flicked the crown. “You’re keeping him busy.”

Chelsea grinned. “I sure am.”

The sedan parked, and Rufus and the driver got out, opening the doors for the women. They headed into the tiny bridal shop, where they were greeted by a cooing woman and ushered into a sitting room full of dresses and books. Taylor and Greer sat in the chairs, looking uncomfortable. Taylor had her phone out and was tapping busily at the screen, while Greer had a plastic garbage can held to her chin, a greenish cast to her skin.

“Oh my god, Greer, are you still sick?” Chelsea asked sympathetically. She sat down a few seats away from Greer and shook her head. “We could have rescheduled.”

“Just the car ride,” Greer said faintly, then gave them a wobbly smile. “I’ll be fine in a few.”

“Wait. I thought you had the flu?” Gretchen thumped into her seat and hauled a catalog into her lap. “You said you were fine now.”

“I am fine. I was fine,” Greer corrected.

The bridal shop owner came over and clasped her hands together, giving them a bright-eyed look. “While I think about it, ladies, we have some fabulous bridal cake samples if you want to try a few flavors? It’s from a partner bakery and I think you’d love what they’ve got.”

“Ooo, cake,” Gretchen said, sitting up straighter. “Now you’ve got my attention.”

Greer made a hurking noise and clutched the bucket closer. Taylor scooted her chair a few spots away from Greer.

“Oh, damn it,” Gretchen said, her hands going to her hips. “Not you, too?”

“Not you what?” Chelsea asked.

“Fucking Greer is pregnant, too,” Gretchen grumbled. “Are all of my bridesmaids gonna end up knocked up before I go down the aisle? Because then we’re really going to have to go with an empire waist, and those look like shit.”

Greer gave them a wan smile and then began to puke again.

*   *   *

Several hours later, Chelsea said good-bye to Gretchen, her stomach full of cake samples and her clothes rumpled from changing in and out of dresses all afternoon. She’d tried on at least twenty different gowns, since both she and Taylor had been volunteered to be the models for the “team.” Greer had miserably puked all afternoon and ended up lying down on a sofa in the back with a wet cloth on her head. It had been a weird afternoon, but a fun one. As she entered the town house, she heard the strains of classical music through the walls, which meant that Sebastian was probably upstairs in his art room, sketching. She tossed her purse aside, pulled off the silly crown that Gretchen had given her, and headed up the stairs toward his room, thoughtful.

She couldn’t get Gretchen’s earlier comments out of her mind. I’m still not entirely sure why you two jumped the gun.

Her doubts had compounded in Chelsea’s mind until it was all she could think about. Such an innocent comment had turned into an obsession. They were together because they were faking it. Except they weren’t faking it any longer, and now Chelsea didn’t know where they stood.

And she was having all kinds of lust-and-love filled thoughts in his direction, and she still wasn’t sure if he thought they were back to the old arrangement of “just friends.”

Just friends who were married and happened to have scorching, mind-blowing sex. No big.