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 min
d 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.
“Look, Chelsea.” He pointed out at the street, in the rain. “Can you see? Lights. Look at all the lights.” Even though it was dark and stormy outside now, New Orleans was still lit up. Street signs, street lamps, even headlights from cars. Not even the pouring rain could darken Canal Street. “There’s lights everywhere. You’re outside.”
For a moment, he thought she was going to scream again, but she tensed and then gave a huge shudder. She sucked in an enormous breath and her hands found his shirt. Her fingers dug into his clothing. “S-Sebastian?”
“It’s me,” he said, voice soothing. What the hell was going on?
“I need the lights,” she said, panting. Her wide eyes stared out at the city, unfocused. “Please.”
“I’ll go get my phone. It has a flashlight app—”
“No,” she blurted, clinging harder to him. “Don’t leave me. Please!”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded and her arms went around his neck. “Just . . . stay out here with me, okay? I can’t . . . I can’t be in the dark.”
He settled down on the balcony next to her, pulled her into his lap, and tucked the now sodden blanket around her. All the while, the storm raged and whipped rain into their faces. “We’ll stay out here until the power comes on again, okay?”
She nodded and buried her face against his neck. Her breasts pressed against his chest. She was naked under the blankets.
He couldn’t even get an inappropriate boner. Instead, he just stroked her hair and her face and murmured to her as she shivered against him. The night was warm and balmy, and it felt more like a sauna than the bathroom had. Chelsea’s trembling wasn’t caused by the weather or the rain, but something going on in her mind.
She hated the dark. Hated it so much that she kept her lights on in her apartment at all times. He’d thought she just liked a lot of light.
But then why the screaming and utter terror about how she couldn’t breathe while in the dark?
Her nose pressed against his throat and she relaxed against him, her shivers turning into tremors, and the tremors slowly dying away as he soothed her. The rain soaked the two of them, pouring endless buckets down on the city of New Orleans.
This was their wedding night.
The thought struck Sebastian as utterly ludicrous. He’d really had no idea of what he was getting into when he’d married. He’d thought he’d marry Chelsea, they’d have a good time, buddy up for public appearances, and then pretty much ignore each other. Two strangers living in his big town house who occasionally had conversations and pretended to be married.
The kiss should have warned him. It should have told him that this wasn’t going to be the easy, platonic relationship they’d agreed to on paper.
Because he’d been aroused and attracted to her, and she’d treated it as nothing.
Chelsea wasn’t a happy-go-lucky girl. She was broken somewhere inside, and hiding it with a smile. Tonight showed him that.
He supposed there was still time to back out of the relationship. File a few annulment papers, say it was a mistake, go on their way. It was a fake relationship and there’d be no hurt feelings if they called it quits after twenty-four hours.
Except . . . that was out of the question.
From the time she’d given him that kiss in Hunter Buchanan’s library last night, she’d become his.
Her problems changed nothing. It only made him hold her tighter and gave him determination to find out what was wrong so he could help her.
At some point, despite the driving rain, she fell into an exhausted slumber against him. And he kept holding her, stroking her wet hair and touching her dripping arm, because she seemed to need it.
The power came on again a few hours later, the lights in the room behind them flicking on and flooding the balcony with light. Chelsea didn’t stir. Sebastian got to his feet and picked her up again. The dazed, exhausted whimpers started once more. “I’m here,” he murmured against her. “I’m here and the lights are on so we’re going to go into the room now, all right?”
“We have to keep the lights on,” she mumbled sleepily, still clinging to him.
“We will,” he vowed.
Chelsea was never going to be in the dark again if she didn’t want it. Even if he had to hold a freaking flashlight on her himself.
He eased her into bed and then retrieved his phone, setting it by the bedside. The blankets were sodden so he got extras out of the closet and then wrapped her in one of the fluffy bathrobes provided with the suite. He didn’t look at her long limbs or bare skin. It wasn’t important right now. She was like a doll, dazed and half-asleep, only moving her limbs when he encouraged her to lift her arms or legs so he could ease the robe around her.
Then, when she was dry, he stripped out of his own wet clothing and got into bed. She immediately curled up against him and went back to sleep. He pulled her against him and ran a hand through her drying hair, thoughtful. She was beautiful while she slept, but utterly vulnerable.
Chelsea Hall was now his to protect. He wouldn’t fail her. It was clear that someone had failed her in the past.
Never again.
Chapter Nine
Chelsea woke up with her cheek pressed against a warm male chest and her hair a snarl around her face. Her head throbbed and her throat hurt, and for a moment, she didn’t recall where she was. She sat up, blinking at her surroundings. A posh hotel room with a canopy bed and a fancy couch, and the world’s biggest balcony just outside the doors. There were towels and blankets strewn all over the floor. Even as she sat up, thunder rumbled, and she remembered.
Oh, god. She’d lost her shit last night. All she remembered was the shower, then the loss of light. Then utter fear.
When she had one of her panic attacks, she forgot everything else, her body moving in a state of mindless terror. Normally she attacked people until somehow it clicked that she wasn’t in the Dumpster. That she was safe.
She licked her lips, feeling awkward.
Sebastian’s hand went to the small of her back and he rubbed
it through the robe. “Hey. You okay?”
She looked over at him, hesitant. His black hair was a wild nest of curls, stark against the white pillows. His skin seemed darker than ever, that gorgeous olive that contrasted so beautifully with his eyes. His bare chest was muscular¸ lightly furred with dark hair, and she could see a happy trail disappearing down under the sheets.
And he had a big bruise on his jaw. Probably from her. She tended to go fists-first when she had a panic attack, and it looked like Sebastian had been the victim of it.
She didn’t know what to do. Deny her panic attack? Confess her past? Neither seemed like a great option. Only Pisa and her therapist knew the truth of things, and it had taken Chelsea nearly a year to confess to Pisa her traumatic past.
And she’d only been married to Sebastian Cabral for a day.
So she pasted a brilliant smile on her face and rubbed her wild hair off of her face. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
He sat up on his elbows in bed, dark brows furrowing. “Well, last night was kind of a hot mess.”
“I must have drank something,” she lied, getting out of bed. Oh, jeez, she was naked under her robe. That was awkward. She held it tighter against her.
“I watched you all night. You didn’t drink anything. You want to tell me what this is about?” His tone was utterly suspicious.
“It’s nothing—”
“It’s not nothing,” he said vehemently, sitting up in bed. “You were catatonic with fear. You acted like you were being murdered.”
She flinched at his words. Did he really have to use the term “murdered”? “I don’t want to talk about it. Especially not on day one of our marriage.”
“Are you kidding me? I feel like this is something we absolutely need to talk about, and the sooner the better.”
“Please,” Chelsea said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I can’t, okay? Not right now.” Maybe not ever.
For a moment, she thought he was going to argue with her. Instead, he rubbed a hand down his face and then threw his arms up. “Fine. Forget it. We won’t talk about it right now. I just worry about you, okay?”
The Billionaire Takes a Bride Page 7