Chapter 4
MADDISON
Iwake to the sensation of fingers tracing patterns on my bare shoulder. The touch is feather-light, and I keep my eyes closed, savoring it. Sebastian thinks I'm still asleep. I can feel his gaze on me.
It's both thrilling and terrifying.
Last night replays in my mind: the ceremony, the reception, the elevator, the balcony...
Christ, the balcony. My cheeks burn. I've never done anything so reckless in my life. So public. So uninhibited.
I finally open my eyes to find Sebastian watching me with a softness I've never seen before.
"Morning, Mrs. Clay."
Right. We're married. Actually married. Not just a PR stunt anymore, not after what we did last night. Three times. No fake couple would ever do those things.
"Morning," I rasp, voice still rough from sleep. And screaming his name. God, I don't know who that woman was from last night. "What time is it?"
"Just after nine." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "No rush."
His thumb grazes my lower lip and my body instantly responds, a pulse of heat between my thighs. One touch. That's all it takes.
I force myself to sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest. "We should probably get going. Check-out's at eleven."
Sebastian stretches beside me, all rippling muscle and tattoos. "Already handled it. Called the front desk while you were sleeping. We can stay until two if we want."
Of course he did. A man used to having everything arranged exactly as he wants it.
"Still, we should get started. My apartment isn't going to pack itself." I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, suddenly self-conscious about my nakedness in the harsh morning light.
Sebastian's hand circles my wrist. "You don't have to be shy. Not with me." The intensity in his eyes almost makes me look away. Almost.
"I'm not shy … just hungry." As if on cue, my stomach growls.
He grins. "Room service it is."
An hour later, we're dressed and finishing breakfast when my phone chimes with a text from Anya.
All good? Media's buying it. Backlash already shifting.
I show Sebastian the message. "See? Mission accomplished."
He takes the phone, reads it, then sets it down without commenting. "So the plan is to get your stuff today?"
I nod, pushing away my empty plate. "I don't have much. Should be quick."
"And then to my place." He says it casually, but there's nothing casual about the way he's looking at me.
I try to keep my tone light. "Right. For appearances."
Sebastian leans back in his chair. "For appearances," he says, though his expression says something entirely different. There's a cocky edge to that smirk.
"We could technically live separately," I tell him, testing waters I don't fully understand. "As long as we're seen together regularly."
He shakes his head. "Separate residences would look suspicious. Besides, I have three months of married leave before the new season. Plenty of time to sell the happy couple narrative."
"Three months?" I hadn't considered this part. "What am I supposed to do with you underfoot for three months?"
His grin turns wolfish. "Oh no. What am I to do with all this time? Follow you around? Cook you breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Drop you off and pick you up at work?"
"You're overselling it."
"Am I? Selling to whom? It's not for the media, baby. It's for you and for me."
I groan and roll my eyes. "No. I don't need a babysitter and housekeeper."
Sebastian gestures from his head to his chest. "No, you got someone better. A husband."
"Don't try my patience. I don't know how much more I can take, and it's only day one."
"But … but you took me so well last night. Every inch of me."
And that's how I end up tossing a pillow to his grinning face.
My apartment building looks even shabbier than usual next to Sebastian's gleaming black Range Rover. The contrast is jarring—his wealthy, polished world colliding with my modest reality.
"This is me," I say unnecessarily as I unlock the door to 2D. "It's not much, but it's home."
I hold my breath as Sebastian steps inside, suddenly seeing my space through his eyes: the secondhand furniture, the cramped kitchen, the books and magazines stacked everywhere because I can't afford proper shelving.
"You have a lot of mugs," he says, moving to the open shelving where my collection is displayed—over a hundred mugs in various sizes, colors, and designs.
"It's my thing." I shrug, oddly defensive. "Some people collect snow globes or shot glasses. I collect mugs."
He picks up one shaped like a fox. "Why mugs?"
No one's ever asked me that before. I move to stand beside him, taking the fox mug from his hands and returning it carefully to its spot.
"When I was in the orphanage, we all had identical white plastic cups.
No personality, nothing to call your own.
" I trace the rim of a blue ceramic mug with gold stars.
"I promised myself when I had my own place, I'd have pretty, unique things to drink from.
Something that was just mine. So now, I drink from different mugs every day. "
Sebastian's playful tone disappears, and he lowers his voice, almost like he's being respectful of that not-so-funny revelation. "Which one's your favorite?"
I point to a black and purple mug with a hand-painted face of a grinning Ursula from The Little Mermaid. The handle is shaped like one of her tentacles. "That one. Anya got it for me when I made Senior PR Manager."
He nods, studying it. "Pack that one in your purse. Don't trust the movers with it. Wait, on second thought, I'll pay them extra to hand-carry each mug if needed."
The care in his voice catches me off guard. I expected mockery of my tiny apartment, my humble possessions. Instead, he's treating my things—my life—with respect.
Huh. Sebastian has layers. Interesting.
We start to work efficiently, packing clothes, books, and essential items. Sebastian insists on hiring professional movers for furniture and the bulk of my belongings, but there are certain things I want to handle myself.
"I didn't realize you'd read so much hockey history," he says, boxing up my bookshelf.
I freeze, caught. "Research. For work."
"Uh-huh." He holds up a dog-eared magazine—him on the front cover released a few months ago.
"I admire your dedication and commitment, but why does this look like it was re-read multiple times?
Was my interview so devastatingly witty you couldn't believe someone this good-looking could also be smart? "
"Shut up." I snatch the magazine from him and stuff it into a box. "I take my job seriously."
"Clearly." His smirk says he doesn't believe me for a second.
Hours later, my entire life is packed into boxes labeled for the movers.
Sebastian makes the arrangements while I take one last look around the empty apartment.
It's silly to feel sentimental—I'm moving to a luxury penthouse, for crying out loud—but this place was the first home that was truly mine.
I left things everywhere and was sure they were still there when I returned, not stolen or "borrowed" or thrown into the trash.
Sebastian appears beside me. "Ready?"
I nod, emotions clogging my throat. He takes the box from my arms and carries it down to the car, giving me a moment alone to say goodbye.
Sebastian's penthouse takes up the entire top floor of one of the city's most exclusive high-rises. Totally expected and very much on-brand for him. He's a show-off on and off the ice.
The elevator requires a special key card, and when the doors open, we step directly into his foyer.
"Home sweet home," he says, setting down my boxes.
I open my mouth to respond, but before I even manage to get the words out, something large and furry barrels toward us, skidding on the hardwood floors.
"Sockrates, heel!" Sebastian commands, but the husky ignores him completely, circling me with excited sniffs.
"So this is the famous sock thief, Sockrates with a k." I laugh, kneeling to scratch behind the dog's ears. He immediately flops onto his back, offering his belly for rubs.
"Traitor. He usually doesn't warm up to strangers this quickly. I mean, he's seen you once or twice when he visited the arena, but you never really come to my place."
"First of all, I'm not a stranger anymore. I'm the wife. Second, I didn't want to bump into any of your girlfriends here."
Sebastian's expression softens. "Yeah, you are, and for the record, I've never brought any woman here, except for that lovely housekeeper cook, Linda, and she's pushing sixty."
"Was she also an ex-girlfriend?"
"Oh, how dare you."
He gives me the grand tour while Sockrates follows at my heels. The penthouse is exactly what I'd expect from a millionaire hockey star—sleek, modern, and deserves to be featured on Architectural Digest. Visually, it's stunning, but it feels too perfect and not really lived-in.
"Where do you actually live in this museum?" I ask, running my hand over a pristine kitchen counter.
Sebastian looks confused. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, where's the lived-in part? This feels like one of those open houses where realtors try to sell you the place. You've lived here for over a year, but it doesn't feel like it. Does that make sense?"
He shrugs. "Decorator handled most of it. I'm not here much during the season, you know that."
I peek into cabinets, finding them mostly empty save for protein powder and basic staples. "Please tell me you at least know how to make coffee, and I don't mean those instant ones."
He grins. "That I can do, and we're talking pulling shots from an espresso machine. No instant coffee, and no coffee pods, I promise. One splash of cream, no sugar, right?"
I pause in my exploration. "How do you know how I take my coffee?"