Текст книги "The Billionaire Takes a Bride"

Автор книги: Jessica Clare

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter Seven

Chelsea could feel her eyebrows shoot up in disbelief. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly. Did you say . . . married?”

Sebastian nodded and clasped his hands together, lacing his fingers. “Not in the way you think, though. I should probably explain.”

“Explaining’s good,” she said faintly. Oh, no. Here she’d thought Sebastian was safe, and he wanted to marry her? Marriage meant sex. Ugh. She really, really did not want sex right now. Maybe not ever again. Mostly, though, she was feeling a sense of loss at the moment. He was supposed to be her safety date, damn it. What was this marriage crap?

She was perilously close to crying at the moment. Crying . . . or hitting something. First, the party made her nervous. Bad memories. Second, no Pisa. Third, those guys had cornered her when she was feeling vulnerable and she still felt rattled and unhappy and on edge.

And now a marriage proposal? From someone she’d put in what she considered “the safety zone”?

This sucked.

Sebastian raised his hands. “Before you freak out. I’m not in love. We’re still each other’s safety date. We’d be taking things just one step further.”

Recognition dawned on her face. Oh. That must have been why Sebastian felt so safe to her. “You want me to beard for you. I get it.”

“What? No!” He looked rather offended at the suggestion. “I’m straight.”

“Okay, then I’m super confused.”

“Confused that I’m straight?”

“No, confused that you want a beard when you are straight.”

He flung himself up off the chaise and began to pace. “It’s not a beard. I’m not gay, and I don’t need a wife to make me look straight.” The look he shot her was reproachful. “If I was gay, I wouldn’t give a shit who knew. But I have a crazy ex-girlfriend and a contract problem.”

“And . . . this means you need a wife.” She was having trouble connecting the dots. How did someone go from “girlfriend issues” to needing a fake wife?

Sebastian tapped his hands behind his back as he walked, clearly agitated. “Maybe this is a stupid idea. But the show? The Cabral Empire? I’m locked into a contract that says I can be on television if one of the primaries is on screen. Normally I can avoid them when they’re filming, but this time, they’ve decided that this season’s story line is that I should get back together with my ex. And that means she’s going to ambush me at every turn.”

Comprehension dawned. “And if you’re married, you ruin that plot, right?”

He looked grimly satisfied at the thought. “Exactly.” He continued to pace. “The reason I suggested it to you is because we’re comfortable around each other, and we both want the same thing—no romantic entanglements. I’m afraid if I dated someone else, she’d read more into it than there would be. That even though it’s a marriage of convenience, I’d somehow change my mind and we’d become something else. I don’t want that.”

Chelsea shuddered at the thought.

“See?” His eyes lit up and he slid onto the chaise next to her. “That reaction is exactly why we’re perfect for each other. You don’t want me. I don’t want a relationship. We could get married and continue on just as we are, and no one would bother us anymore. If you had a ring on your finger, guys would leave you alone. If I had a wife, Lisa would leave me be, and that damn show could take a hike. What do you think?”

It was a totally outrageous idea. A fake marriage in this day and age? And yet . . . she thought of her empty apartment. Pisa had been gone only a few days, but already Chelsea was struggling. Every noise at night made her spin into panic. A light had burnt out in the bathroom and she’d held her pee until it was daylight again and she’d called her neighbor to change it. Those weren’t rational actions.

Then again, neither was getting married to a guy she barely knew.

She studied Sebastian. He was gorgeous. Dark olive complexion; thick, wavy black hair; piercing green eyes. Great build. Friendly. Handsome. Wealthy. He seemed smart.

But she was pretty much dead inside after her incident. If he thought he was getting more than a friend, he’d be sorely mistaken. “This would be completely platonic, right?”

“One hundred percent,” he agreed. “I’m going to be blunt. If I wanted to get laid, I could walk out into that room and get just about any woman there once she found out how much money I have. I could have a Sexy Cookie Monster and Sexy Elmo sandwich.”

“So modest,” Chelsea said sarcastically.

“Just being truthful,” Sebastian replied. “You think it’s not the truth?”

“No, I think you’re right, and that’s kind of sad.” She grimaced and adjusted her kneepads. “Okay, then.”

“Okay, what?”

Chelsea blinked at him. “I’m saying, okay, we can get married.”

He sat back. He looked surprised. “Really?”

“You’re the one that suggested it. I’m just agreeing with you. I’m game to have a platonic marriage if you are. It might be a relief to not have to worry about being hit on for the next while.”

Sebastian looked blank for a moment, and then a slow, boyish grin spread across his face. “Really?”

“You keep saying that. Really,” she emphasized. “Really, and truly, I’m down for this crazy marriage. But we need to work out details.”

“Of course.” He spread his hand and gestured at her. “Let’s work the details out.”

“Well, for starters, I need a roommate.” Her apartment was nice, but she’d give it up in a heartbeat if it meant crashing on someone else’s couch, just so she wouldn’t have to be alone. Plus, her Etsy soap shop wasn’t bringing in the cash that she needed to keep a NoHo apartment. It barely made enough for subway fare and food. Pisa hadn’t minded, but now that Pisa was gone, well . . . she was going to have to step up production and get creative to make more money.

“I have a penthouse off of Park Avenue. Six bedrooms. You can come stay with me.” His big shoulders shrugged. “We’d have to cohabit to make a sham marriage work anyhow.”

Oh, wow. She hadn’t really thought that far ahead. “Okay, you’re right. We’ll go with your place. Separate rooms I assume?” Her voice sounded prim.

“Absolutely. Once we’re inside, nobody has to know what goes on.” He grimaced. “Well, except for the staff.”

“Staff?”

“I have maids and an assistant.” His smile curled up on one side. “You don’t think I’d clean six bedrooms myself, do you?”

He had a point. Most guys she knew of did well picking up their dirty socks. “I’ll need an extra bedroom for my business, too. Preferably close to a bathroom or a kitchen.”

“There’s two kitchens. You can have one of them . . . after you remind me what it is you do again.”

“I make soaps and sell them online.”

His blank look told her that it was clearly something he’d never considered before. “People buy soap online?”

She chuckled. “Oh, heck yes. Mine are artisan soaps, and I have a vegan line that’s very popular.”

“Vegan soap? Why is soap vegan?” His lip curled.

“Because people oppose using animals?”

“Yes, but you’re not eating the soap, are you?”

“It’s still made with glycerin, which is made from animal hooves.” She leaned over and elbow checked him. “Can we not get distracted by soap talk? We’re discussing room arrangements. And since you’re the billionaire, I’m going to need you to pay for me to break my lease.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You gonna pay me back?”

“Hey, you need me. I don’t need you,” she said, voice teasing. Truth was, she kind of did need him. The thought of another person puttering around the house—even if it was his house—filled her with such relief that she knew she was going to take him up on this ridiculous offer, no matter how weird it got.

“Fair enough. I’ll break your lease for you.” He nudged her back with his elbow, a buddy move. “And you need a kitchen for soap. That’s easily done. And I can make the staff sign NDAs about our sleeping arrangements.”

“Or we can just tell them you snore.”

“Or we can do that.”

Chelsea drummed her fingers, thinking. There was a lot to consider with a marriage. “Do I need to take your name?”

“I don’t know. You think it’ll be suspicious if you don’t?” He rubbed his chin, thinking.

“Maybe we can hyphenate. How long is this sham marriage thing going to last? If we’re only doing this for a few months, there’s no point in changing my name.”

“It has to be longer than a few months, or that’ll cause more scandal than it’ll fix.” Sebastian considered. “Would you be okay with two years?”

Two years and she’d be tied to him? It seemed like a long time to date someone . . . but then again, this was platonic. She wasn’t interested in him romantically, just as a friend. And she’d lived with Pisa for three years, and that had gone by in a blink. “We can do two.”

He looked relieved. “You’re pretty easygoing about this.”

Chelsea shrugged. “I’m not after your money, so what’s there to argue over? I assume you want a prenup? I’m really not interested in cashing in.”

“Oh, there will need to be an ironclad prenup or my lawyers will freak the fuck out.” He grinned. “But I’ll give you a settlement. Whatever you think is fair.”

“One million dollars,” she said, quoting Dr. Evil. She raised a pinky to her mouth.

Either he didn’t get her joke, or he didn’t realize she was joking. “A million’s fine. You do know this will be in the tabloids for a month or two, right?”

She shrugged. “I’m not thrilled about it but I figured as much. I promise to be polite and only shoot them the bird every now and then.”

He snorted. “Shoot them the bird as often as you want. Just be ready to be followed.”

That sent a prickle down her spine. “But you’ll be with me, right?”

“Of course. I’ll be holding your hand like a properly newlywed husband.” He reached out and clasped her hand in his.

She looked at their joined hands. So very odd, to be contemplating a quickie, sexless marriage between friends like this. But it just made so much sense, and it’d help both of them. “You think people will buy that we married for love?”

“I think they’ll buy it on my end,” he said, and squeezed her hand. “You’re kind of hot.”

Chelsea grinned at him. “You’re not exactly liver cheese yourself.”

“Liver cheese?” He looked aghast. “It’s clear you’re not doing the grocery shopping in this relationship.”

She stared at his mouth for a moment, another thought occurring to her. “We’re going to have to make this look real, aren’t we?”

“Only if we don’t want to be in the tabloids for a lot longer than we already will be.”

“Then we should practice kissing to make sure that we can do it, and that it doesn’t mean anything.”

His brows drew together. “I’m sorry, but that sounds ridiculous. Practice kissing? What next, a practice fuck?”

“God, no.”

Sebastian laughed. “The way you said that wounds my masculine ego.”

“It’s not you,” she said, patting his arm with her free hand. “I’m just not interested in fucking anyone at the moment.”

He gave her a speculative look, then shrugged. “You want to practice kiss? All right with me.” He leaned in and gestured at his mouth. “All yours.”

An uncomfortable knot formed in her stomach. She had to do this, though. If he tried to kiss her and she freaked out on him, that wouldn’t work. She needed to make sure she could do this before moving ahead with the fake marriage.

So Chelsea leaned in and pressed her mouth to his. His lips parted under hers, and she pushed her tongue into his mouth, all the while fighting panic. She was going through the motions, her tongue stroking against his, licking at him. Then, when it seemed adequately long enough for a decent kiss, she pulled away.

There. That wasn’t so bad. “Perfect. Didn’t feel a thing.”

Sebastian rubbed his mouth. “Yep.”

*   *   *

Holy. Fuck.

This . . . could be a problem. Sebastian kept rubbing his mouth as his driver took him home that night. After the kiss, they’d agreed to get together again tomorrow to hash out a few more details and help her pack up her apartment. Then, they had returned to the party, where Chelsea had clung to his side, her hands wrapped around his arm.

It was pretty clear she’d felt absolutely nothing in their kiss. The delighted look she’d given him and the way she’d hopped up like she’d gotten a reprieve from prison? That told him everything he needed to know.

Unfortunately for him . . . he hadn’t felt “nothing.” He’d felt quite a bit, actually. The moment her full lips had brushed over his, he’d felt electrified. And then she’d glazed her tongue over his mouth.

And his cock had become instantly alert.

Sure, he was a guy. He was going to get erect when a gorgeous woman kissed him. When she pressed her body up against his and slowly, sensually tongued his mouth, he’d felt a massive jolt go through his system despite telling himself they were just friends.

But now he couldn’t stop thinking about . . . what if they weren’t just friends? What if they had a marriage with some benefits on the side? What if they crawled into bed together and had hot, nasty sex . . . with no strings attached? Just for fun? He imagined Chelsea’s plump lips curving around his cock and clenched the door handle.

It was clear she wanted this as friends only, though. He shook the thought out of his head.

Marriage of convenience. No more. No less. It was what he needed, and even he admitted that sex just fucked things up. If he wanted an example, he just had to look at Lisa.

As the driver dropped him off in front of his building, his phone buzzed with an incoming text. He flicked his fingers over the screen even as he walked inside, nodding at the doorman.

Safety Date Chelsea: I forgot to mention something earlier. I’m going to need Tuesday nights, Thursday nights, and Saturdays to myself.

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.

Married.

They’d hit up a small chapel in the French Quarter and Chelsea had bought a loose sundress at one of the shops. It had spaghetti straps and a gauzy skirt and was a pale almost-white. She’d paired it with sandals and a bouquet of flowers they’d paid through the nose for at the chapel, and then they’d stood quietly for their small ceremony.

Well, okay, not so quietly. Chelsea had gotten the giggles, and he’d started chuckling, too.

Then it was over, and they’d prowled around the French Quarter, watching partygoers and drunks stagger the area. They’d had dinner at an expensive seafood restaurant and Chelsea had proclaimed that she wanted to take a tour of the city the next evening, if they had time.

Of course they had time. Sebastian didn’t have a day job like everyone else, and Chelsea, well, Chelsea made soap. Their schedules were wide open. Plus, it wasn’t like they were going to be doing anything in bed together, so there was no need to rush back to the hotel room. So they roamed the streets and ate beignets and coffee and laughed at the antics of the street drunks. Chelsea avoided all alcohol, even the complementary bottle of cheap champagne that the wedding chapel tried to give them. Since she was determined to stay sober, Sebastian did the same.

“Oh, look,” Chelsea called as a group of people zoomed past them on Segways. “It’s a Segway tour! That looks like so much fun. Can we do that?”

“Do you want a Segway? I can just buy you one.”

She elbowed him and pushed the pink veil on her hair aside as it caught in the wind. They’d found a Bride-and-Groom souvenir stand and now Chelsea wore a rhinestone crown with a pink veil that said BRIDE and he wore a top hat that said GROOM. They’d been getting cheers and back pats from passersby all afternoon, which made things kind of fun. “I don’t want a Segway. I want to go on a New Orleans tour on a Segway with everyone else!”

A raindrop splattered on his hand, and he glanced up at the gray, angry skies. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Look at the weather.”

She looked up, and the skies opened up and began to pour. With a shriek, she grabbed his arm and raced for an awning. Everywhere, people were hiding under overhanging balconies or building awnings, and the streets were emptying out fast.

“Shoot,” Chelsea said, looking sad. Thunder boomed overhead. “Should we head back to the hotel?”

“Might as well.”

Their hotel was right off of Canal Street, so instead of calling a taxi, they ducked their heads and ran down the street despite the pouring rain. By the time they got to the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton, they were soaked to the bone. Chelsea’s frothy dress was clinging to her body like a second skin, so Sebastian took off his wet shirt and draped it over her shoulders, glaring at any men who looked in her direction.

If he couldn’t look, they couldn’t look, either.

Soaked and disheveled, they headed for the elevator, and Chelsea giggled again. “You know, that was kind of fun.”

He grinned at her. Nothing seemed to get her down. He liked her sheer cheeriness. That was one of the things that was most admirable about her—that she took everything in stride. It was nice to be around such a low-key person, given all the other people in his life who liked to manufacture drama.

When they got into the room, Chelsea shivered. “Okay with you if I take a hot shower to warm up?”

“Of course. I’ll go into the other room to give you some privacy.” That was the nice thing about a suite—there was plenty of room to maneuver around. Since they were “newlyweds” it had only one bed, but Sebastian was planning on taking the couch. He wasn’t a dick to press her into sharing a bed with him. Pillow forts were a joke. One wrong move, and someone would end up with a hand down someone else’s pants.

Then boom, no more platonic relationship. And considering they were newlyweds? It was too soon to go off the rails.

His phone buzzed with an incoming text. As the shower started, he headed into the other room and groaned at the sight of his mother’s picture that popped up.

Mom: Nugget, what is this I hear about you getting married????!!!!??? Call me!!!

Oh, his mom. He sighed. She did love her punctuations. At least she didn’t know how to do emojis yet. Then he imagined she’d be filling his phone with cartoon turds and angry faces instead of question marks.

Sebastian: Is the call going to be on the show?

Mom: Nugget, you know how I feel about that stuff. I film everything. It’s reality TV. This is my reality!!!

Sebastian: Then I’m not calling. And quit calling me Nugget.

Mom: Sebastian call your mother right now!!!

Sebastian: I’m not calling, and how did you find out?

Mom: You’re on TMZ!!!! She looks like a hooker!!!!!!!! Is she a hooker????? Why are you doing this to me!!???!

Mom: Lisa will be devastated!!!!!!!

Mom: I cannot believe you did this!!!!! Is this because of the show????!! Answer me! CALL ME!!!

Sebastian rubbed a hand down his face. Shit. TMZ? That must have meant they were followed the moment they left the airport. Paparazzi truly were everywhere. He pulled up TMZ on his phone and there were several shots of him and Chelsea laughing and walking down Bourbon Street, their silly hats on. A CABRAL GETS MARRIED . . . AND NO ONE’S INVITED!!!! read the article headline.

Well, it had to come out at some point. He’d break it to Chelsea when she got out of the shower. She’d take things with stride, he imagined. In fact, he doubted there was much that could get her down.

Thunder crashed overhead, and the lights in the hotel flickered. Then lightning flashed, thunder boomed so loud it rattled the building, and the lights went out.

Fuck. That was annoying. He groaned and flipped his phone’s flashlight app on just as he heard the sound of screaming.

Coming from the bathroom.

Chelsea.

He forgot all about his phone, the storm, even TMZ. Racing to the bathroom across the suite, he went to the door and jiggled the handle. Locked.

She kept screaming, over and over again, like she was being murdered. Jesus.

“Chelsea,” he called, rattling the door. “Open up! It’s just a storm. It knocked the power out.”

Her screams continued, then turned into sobbing. His nerves on edge, he pushed at the door again. When it wouldn’t open, he fumbled in his pocket for his wallet, got out his credit card, and started shoving it through the seam in the door. It fell open with a snick a moment later, and he stumbled into the dark, steamy bathroom.

The shower was still going, and he fumbled forward, following the sound of her cries. “Chelsea? Are you okay?”

“Nooo,” she moaned, her screams turning into low sobs. “No. Please no. Let me out! I can’t breathe!”

“Chel?” He moved toward the shower and found her, huddled low into a ball as the spray poured down on her. “Jesus, are you all right?”

She slapped away his hands. “Don’t touch me! I can’t breathe! Please, no—” Her hands flung out, and her fist smacked him in his jaw.

Sebastian clenched his teeth, wincing at the blow. She didn’t know what she was doing. She was out of her mind with fear. “It’s okay,” he soothed, keeping his voice low and even. Her sobs of fear were breaking his heart. He reached over and turned off the water, and then pulled her against him, ignoring the fact that she flailed and tried to hit him again. “Chelsea, it’s me. It’s Sebastian.”

“I can’t breathe,” she rasped in his ear. “I can’t breathe! Help me!” Her cries turned into whimpers. “Too dark. Too dark.”

Was it an asthma attack? She seemed to be breathing fine, given that his ears were ringing from her shrill cries. A flash of memory from her apartment hit him. All the lights.

Was she afraid of the dark?

“The power’s off,” he soothed. “It’s just a storm. It’ll be back on soon.” He felt around in the dark and found a towel, then pulled it around her quaking body. The scent of her soap, cherries and vanilla, brushed over his nose. It smelled sweet and happy, a stark contrast to her terror.

He hauled her against him and carried her out of the bathroom. She was shaking like a leaf, and every time it thundered, she whimpered anew.

“Shh,” he told her, carrying her across the room toward the immense balcony. It didn’t matter that it was raining outside. If there was light out there, that was where he was going to go. “I’ve got you, Chelsea.”

“Can’t breathe,” she whimpered. “Can’t breathe.”

He snagged one of the blankets from the bed and pulled it onto her, then kicked open the door to the balcony. It was an enormous patio with delicate furniture that was currently being rained all over. There was about two inches of dry space next to the door, and he sank to his knees, holding her against him, and tucked the blanket around her. “Chelsea. Chelsea. It’s me. Can you hear me?”

Her eyes were dilated from fear, her hair plastered to her skull, and her entire body shivered and quaked with terror. She was lost in her mind, somewhere. He needed to help her. Frustration and helplessness swept over him.