The Billionaire Takes a Bride

by Jessica Clare

  “Seeing as how we only dated for a month well over two years ago and I haven’t seen her since then? I don’t know that I care.”

  “You know she wanted to reconcile, Nugget—”

  “Then her story line can be about how she’s going to get over that I married Chelsea.” He smiled tightly and steered Chelsea past the cameras toward the steps of the town house. “I love you, Mother, but I’m not doing this. Not right now.”

  “Aren’t you going to invite your mother in to meet your new wife?”

  “You are welcome to come in, Mother. The camera crew is not.” He continued steering Chelsea forward, and then paused.

  There was a woman sitting on the steps of the townhouse. She looked up as Chelsea and Sebastian approached, her mascara streaking down her cheeks. She was pretty, in an exceedingly plastic-surgeried sort of way. And she stood up at the sight of Sebastian and began sobbing anew the moment the cameras started rolling.

  He made a pained sound and gestured at the woman. “Chelsea, meet Lisa.”

  * * *

  So that was an awkward afternoon, Chelsea mused as she unpacked her clothing in her new room. While she’d known that the marriage thing wasn’t going to be all daisies at the beginning, she hadn’t anticipated being called a whore by her new, crazy mother-in-law, and being sobbed on by the “jilted” ex. Or rather, the woman who imagined herself jilted. And even though she knew all of it was set up for a scene to make television, she found herself sitting on the steps with Lisa, trying to comfort her while Sebastian threw his hands into the air.

  She’d ended up promising Lisa a lunch date, which would probably be filmed on camera. That was fine; Chelsea didn’t care.

  They’d managed to shake off “Mama Precious” and Lisa and eventually settled into the town house. Sebastian had given her the grand tour, turning on lights as he went room to room. It was thoughtful of him to remember her paranoia. The town house itself was rather sparsely decorated, with pale gray walls and a few abstract paintings and stark, somber furniture. It looked like someone’s corporate office rather than a lived-in home. At least it was well lit, with track lighting and several windows facing out into the street.

  The town house also boasted several bedrooms and bathrooms, one of each which had been promised to Chelsea. She picked the most well-lit bedroom, even though it was the smallest. It had a carved cherrywood twin bed and a matching dresser and a vase of fake flowers that screamed “decorator” all over it. There was a bathroom right outside in the hall and while it was tiny, there was enough counter space for her to at least start to set up her soap kitchen. He had two kitchens in his town house, but she felt . . . weird about occupying so much space. Like she was intruding. So for now, she was setting up in the bathroom.

  Even taking over one of the bathrooms made her feel uncomfortable. It was odd to set up in a stranger’s house. Especially when it was a house that was so much bigger than her last apartment. The place she’d shared with Pisa was six hundred square feet and two tiny bedrooms. This one was three floors and many, many bedrooms, along with a media room, a formal dining room, a study, and a room she wasn’t allowed to go in.

  Seriously. Sebastian had shown her around the place and then declared the room at the end of the hall off limits. It was even locked and everything.

  And, okay, that was creepy. She even told him that and he looked chagrined. He told her it was a private study and messy and he’d show it to her when it was cleaned up. But still.

  Maybe tonight she’d push the dresser in front of her door, just in case.

  But as she settled in for the night and it grew late, she became increasingly agitated. She had the lights on in her room, but the blackout they’d had in New Orleans kept coming to mind and she didn’t feel safe. What if the lights went out again? Then she’d be in this strange place with no one familiar. The thought made worry start crashing through her, and by the time she crawled into her narrow, unfamiliar bed, she was practically trembling with fear despite the cheery light flooding the room.

  She stared up at the ceiling for a good half hour, utterly terrified. The town house was silent. She could hear the occasional distant traffic outside, but this residential street was a lot quieter than her old apartment and she felt isolated. Scared.

  She wondered what Sebastian was doing and if he’d mind company.

  On her bad nights, she used to crawl into bed with Pisa for a sisterly snuggle. Nothing weird, just the comforting presence of knowing another living being was with her and that they’d protect her. But Pisa was in Austin now, and from the texts she’d gotten from her friend over the last week, she was loving it. She sat up in bed and reached for her phone on the bedside, contemplating a late-night text.

  But she’d still be alone.

  Again, she thought about Sebastian. He hadn’t minded sleeping with her back at the hotel. She wondered if she could impose on him again. Part of her was ashamed for being so weak, but the bigger part of her didn’t care. She just wanted the fear to go away.

  So she crawled out of her unfamiliar bed and put on a pair of flannel pajama pants. Normally she slept in a tank top and panties, but she suspected Sebastian wouldn’t be a fan of that if she trotted into his room half-naked and wanting to share the blankets.

  That was the good thing about Sebastian. He didn’t think with his dick, which made him safe.

  Chelsea padded out of her room and down the brightly lit hallway, heading for Sebastian’s room. Not the locked “mystery” room but his bedroom. The door was shut and she knocked gently.

  He opened it a moment later, dressed in an undershirt and boxers. A notepad was tucked in his hand, along with a pencil, and his dark hair looked tousled, as if he were getting ready for bed. “You okay?”

  She wiggled her feet on the hardwood floors and clasped her hands in front of her breasts. “Can I sleep with you tonight?” At his surprised look, she added, “I’m a little freaked out about the new room and I know you’re safe.”

  Sebastian studied her face, then nodded, opening the door a bit wider.

  She crawled into his enormous bed, noting the decor here was just as sterile and gray as the rest of the house. Here, though, there were a dozen fluffy pillows to get lost in, and only one corner of the bed had been disturbed by Sebastian. She bounded onto the other side, feeling a bit like a kid with a sleepover, and grabbed a pillow. “I appreciate it, Basty.”

  “Basty?” He snorted. “That’s worse than Nugget.”

  She yawned and shrugged as he got back into bed, then snuggled down next to him. Sebastian was warm and safe, and she immediately relaxed. “You work on your similes, I’ll work on my nicknames.”

  Chelsea was asleep before he even responded.

  Chapter Twelve

  Being married to Chelsea was messing with his head.

  It had been a week since their impromptu wedding and so far it was a week of secrets, sneaking around, and blue balls.

  Oh, and his house smelled like flowers.

  Secrets, because Chelsea continually left the house without telling him where she was going, a big bag hung over one shoulder. She’d disappear during the daytime for about an hour, return, and then head straight to her soap making, where she’d put on a pair of headphones and rock out to music for hours while mixing soap recipes and then cutting bars. This week, she told him, was lilac week, and the house smelled like flowers. Tons of flowers. It permeated his clothing, to the point that guys were giving him weird looks at the gym.

  Sneaking around, because when Chelsea wasn’t disappearing in the daytime, she was disappearing several nights out of the week, again with her bag. She didn’t volunteer where she was going, and every time he asked, she ignored him. Not rudely. She’d just wink and give a cheery laugh and say that it was part of their agreement, and if he wasn’t going to open his locked room, she sure wasn’t going to tell him where she was going.

  Except his locked room was just full of drawings. Not particularly good dr
awings, either. And when she came home? Half the time she came home with bruises.

  So to say he was concerned was an understatement.

  The sleeping arrangements were a torture he hadn’t foreseen. Every night, she showed up at his door to the point that he’d come to expect her in bed with him. And after a few nights? She’d stopped “dressing up.” Since he was going to be in his boxers, she had now started going to bed in a tiny tank top that outlined her perky breasts and pert nipples and a pair of tiny underwear. And he told himself it was fine.

  He didn’t mind Chelsea crawling into bed with him. He didn’t mind the teeny tiny underwear. He didn’t mind that she was a clingy sort of sleeper, too, and that he’d wake up with her arms wrapped around one of his, her breasts pressed on either side of his bicep, or that her leg would be kicked over his.

  She was gorgeous and half dressed. He’d be crazy to mind it. But that was part of the problem. They were supposed to be just friends, and he was feeling decidedly un-platonic. Every morning, he woke up with a hard-on that he had to conceal. Every evening, he had arousing, incredible dreams about her. She was in his head constantly, the subject of his furtive sketches, and the reason he took many a cold shower that week.

  And they were supposed to be platonic for two years.

  He was going to die. Blue balls were going to kill him.

  The most annoying thing? She constantly referred to him as “safe.” As if he were some sort of nutless teddy bear she could cuddle on and not think twice about. Like he wasn’t a red-blooded male who needed sex.

  It was getting harder and harder to keep things platonic, because the more he saw her? The more he wanted to roll her over in the bed and start kissing her. Press his mouth to those full, gorgeous lips, her breasts, her juicy nipples, her bouncy, tight ass that flexed in those tiny panties, everywhere. Everything she was—her personality, her body, her laugh—she totally did it for him on every level.

  But he couldn’t—wouldn’t—because he remembered how stricken with terror she’d been at the hotel. He needed to figure her out before they could move things forward.

  Which was why he was following the bodyguard he’d hired to protect her.

  Which was another thing going terribly wrong this week.

  He’d gotten a recommendation for a security company from Hunter, who had his own personal security guard who attended him when he went out in public. He’d called and explained his needs and they’d sent over a man named Rufus.

  Rufus was enormous. Six foot tall and easily four hundred pounds, he had a mean scowl that would make anyone step back, and his arms, neck, and ears were covered in tattoos. He was perfect for the job, and Chelsea seemed to like him. Now she took him along when she left, and as part of his tasks, Rufus was supposed to report back to Sebastian.

  Except, Chelsea had asked Rufus not to.

  So now when he went to Rufus to ask how things were, he got a blank stare. It didn’t matter that Sebastian was the one cutting the check—Rufus’s loyalty was to Chelsea. And really, he was fine with that, too.

  But now his curiosity was getting the better of him. Which was why he’d tailed them when they took the subway and headed across town toward a local college, Chelsea’s ever-present enormous bag on her shoulder. She was chatting Rufus’s ear off, which was how they’d managed to not notice him.

  The college part baffled him. Was she taking classes? It was Saturday night—who had classes on a Saturday night? In addition, that didn’t explain the bruises.

  He grew more baffled as they headed into an arena. Chelsea entered through a back door, nodding at a guard posted there. Instead of following them, Sebastian headed around to the front of the building, following the crowd that was slowly moving inside.

  There were flyers and T-shirt stands and he stopped to browse through the contents, not entirely sure what he was looking at. A lot of it was tough-looking girls on roller skates. He picked up a flyer, curious.

  “You got a ticket for tonight’s bout?”

  Sebastian looked up. The woman in the booth was covered in tattoos and piercings, but her smile was friendly.

  “I’m looking for a friend, actually.”

  “She play?” The woman gestured at a table full of oversized trading cards.

  “No, I don’t think she does,” he said, eying the pictures of the women. Some of them were larger, heavyset, and muscular. Some were dainty, posing flexing their arms. Some had a star on their helmet and some were covered in tattoos. A few looked all business while there were a couple in heavy makeup, their track uniforms altered to be sexier and more provocative. He scanned the faces on the cards, gravitating towards the purple- and pink-bordered cards. Chelsea’s bag was purple and pink.

  Sure enough, posing with a vicious looking snarl, was his new wife, her hair in pigtails. She was one of the ones in a more provocative costume, the neckline gathered at the breasts, her skirt a lot shorter and pleated. She wore stripy knee-high socks and held up a fist as if she’d like to smash it into someone’s face.

  She looked incredibly fucking sexy.

  Chesty LaRude, number 34DD. Broadway Rag Queens.

  “I want this card, please,” he said, and pulled out some cash.

  Ten minutes later, he was inside the small stadium with a beer in hand and a lot of damn questions. He sat down in the bleachers near the top, glancing around. The floor was overlaid with some sort of strange blue flooring, the lines of the flat track marked in pink. Chairs were set up in the center of the room, and girls skated around, warming up. He didn’t see Chelsea, but the uniforms were the wrong color. So he kept watching and waiting, sipping his beer.

  Roller derby. It didn’t make sense, and yet it did. His cheery, happy Chelsea who had a smile for everyone, got along with him like peas and onions (he really had to work on his similes), who sold fruity soaps . . . she played with these rough and tumble women? She didn’t seem the type. As a bruiser of a girl with a Mohawk and huge biceps rolled past, he wondered at the constant sets of bruises Chelsea had on her body.

  A woman sat next to him, beer in hand, her hair in a blue buzz cut. She nodded at him. “Derby virgin?”

  “Huh?”

  “Are you a derby virgin?” She grinned at him. “You don’t look the type.”

  “Oh. Yeah, it’s my first game.”

  “That’s adorable,” she said. “And it’s a bout. Not a game. Like boxing.”

  “Boxing with roller skates. Got it.” He held his hand out. “Sebastian.”

  “I know,” she said with an evil grin. “I watch your mom on that show. She’s fucking crazy, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I’m Diane.” She gestured out at the floor. “My wife’s Morning Whorey, number sixty-nine for the Rag Queens.”

  “My wife’s this one,” he said, holding up his playing card of Chelsea.

  “Oh, shit, did Chesty get married? Fuck, that’s awesome. Congrats!” Diane looked thrilled. “She’s fun to watch on the track. Downright nasty and swears a mean streak. Gets a lot of penalties when she’s in a bad mood.”

  That . . . did not sound like the Chelsea he knew. But then again, it sounded like he didn’t know her all that well after all. He nodded at the track. “So how does the game work?”

  “Bout, buddy, bout,” she corrected. “Like you’re about to wear my beer if you don’t start calling it a bout.”

  He grimaced. “Sorry.”

  “S’okay. I’ll remember that you’re a virgin.” She took a sip of her beer and gestured down at the track. “I’ll try and make the rules simple for you. When the whistle goes off, everyone starts skating, okay? There’s four girls in a pack. One of them’s a pivot but I won’t go into that just yet, because it’ll confuse you. See the second line on the track down there? The fifth girl for each team skates from there and they have a star on their helmet. Those are the jammers. If they make it through the pack, they have to skate around the track again and try to pass the pack a se
cond time. If they do, they score a point for each person of the opposite team they pass. Got it?”

  “I think so,” he said, glancing down at the card in his hand. “So the jammer has to be the small, fast one, right? Is that what Chelsea plays?”

  “Chesty?” Diane grinned. “Oh, hell no. She’s in the pack playing a blocker, and she’s a vicious one. You watch and see.”

  A few minutes later, music started and the announcer got on the microphone. “Let’s bring out our first team for tonight’s bout . . . the Broadway Rag Queens!”

  Music started, and the thumping beat of Destiny’s Child’s “Bootylicious” filled the stadium. The track was suddenly filled with girls in purple and pink, skating in circles and vamping for the audience. They wore helmets and moved so fast that he craned his neck to see if he could find Chelsea among the team.

  The announcer began to call out names.

  Good Whip Lollipop.

  Morning Whorey.

  Drool Whip.

  Lady ChaCha.

  Kid Vicious.

  Sandra Flea.

  Tail Her Swift.

  Sebastian laughed at the names. They were clever and badass all at once. As each girl’s name was called out, the others pointed at her, and she posed for the crowd.

  Chesty LaRude.

  Chelsea did a little hop and jiggled her breasts at the crowd, which made them roar. Then she licked her thumb and pressed it on her arm, pretending that she was sizzling.

  Damn. He laughed again, clapping a hand against his beer. Why had she kept this from him? He didn’t know anything about the sport, but seeing her vamping it up on the track with the other girls? That was awesome. It was so incredibly not what he expected, but seeing her out there in the derby uniform he’d thought was nothing more than a Halloween costume?

  She fit. She totally fit.

  The other team was called out, and the skaters were announced one by one as their team’s music played.

  “Bout’s gonna start,” Diane said at his side a few minutes later. “Get ready to watch some moves.”