Chapter Twenty-one
Gretchen stopped by Sebastian’s town house the next day right on time in a chauffeur-driven sedan. Chelsea emerged from the house in sunglasses and a hat, since there were a few photographers camped out near the door. Rufus was with her again, since the paparazzi tended to pay more attention to her when she was accompanied by a big scary bodyguard.
It was clear that Gretchen did not give a damn about photographers, though. She opened the door to the sedan and blew a party horn, then handed Chelsea a plastic crown as she got into the car.
“What’s this?” Chelsea asked, putting the crown on her head. It had a gigantic zero in the front. “We starting the bridal shower games early?”
“No! That is a ‘Congrats on the Big O’ crown!” She blew the horn again, earning Chelsea an embarrassed look from the driver and a frown from Rufus.
She giggled and adjusted the crown. It wasn’t a zero, then. It was an O. “Hooray for good sex,” she agreed.
Gretchen high-fived her. “I would have made you a cake, but that seemed cliché. And I’m dieting.”
“Still? You look gorgeous. You can come skate with me in Central Park if you want. My regular workout partner moved away.”
Gretchen made a face. “Hard pass. I think I’d rather eat salad. I’m allergic to sweating.”
“Uh huh.”
She fluttered her lashes. “This is my party anyhow. Don’t ruin it with talk of workouts and things. Let’s talk about . . .” She held up a bridal magazine. “Hideous bridal party dresses. I’m thinking something that rustles and has hoops. What do you say?”
Chelsea’s lips twitched. “I think your sister would kill you.”
“Which is half the fun, right?” She flipped through a few pages of the catalog. “I’m thinking something Grecian. One shoulder, etcetera. You have any heinous tattoos we should probably cover up?”
“Not me. Where are the others?”
“Oh, Greer was feeling a little under so she and Taylor are going to meet us at the bridal shop. Audrey’s working, of course. Kat’s in Germany for a publishing thing. Edie had a cat thing.” Gretchen flipped through a few more pages. “What about . . . Grecian and hoop skirts?”
“How about no?” Chelsea adjusted her crown.
“You might get outvoted.”
“Oh, somehow I doubt that.”
Gretchen pointed at the magazine. “You’re not jealous, are you? Of the fact that I get to be bridezilla for a year and you hauled off to New Orleans for the world’s quickest wedding? Because if you are, I can totally shut up.”
“No, I like hearing about the bridal stuff,” Chelsea said, smiling. “I don’t mind in the slightest.” Actually, her mood was pretty fucking spectacular at the moment. It felt like nothing could bring her down. “And I’m glad we didn’t have a big wedding. You saw all the photographers outside the house. That was because we quietly got married. Imagine what it’d be like if there was a big to-do?”
And it’d have taken her that much longer to sleep with Sebastian. The idea seemed criminal.
“I’m still not entirely sure why you two jumped the gun,” Gretchen said, flipping open a perfume insert in the magazine and sniffing it.
“We just . . . fell in love.” The lie felt weird on her tongue, and Chelsea frowned, her mood deflating a little. The story was starting to feel a little thin. Especially now that their relationship was moving away from just friends to something else. What were they now, exactly? Married friends with benefits? She didn’t know what to call it.
She still didn’t know what they were, and it was a little depressing, especially after last night. When they’d gotten out of the shower, they’d made love again, slow and sweet, Chelsea in her uniform once more. Then he’d held her for hours and they’d just talked while he lightly traced the veins under her skin. She’d felt cherished, adored, and loved.
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.”