The Billionaire Takes a Bride

Gretchen’s eyes went wide. She put her hand on Chelsea’s. “Oh, my god. Is that why you two got married? He’s impotent and wants to leave his fortune to someone?”

“I said I have problems with intimacy. Not him. Meeeee .”

“Oh.” Gretchen thought for a moment, then shook her head. “Yeah, I don’t understand. Sorry. Details, please. You can’t get a ladyboner?”

Chelsea shook her head. “I’m not . . . into it. At all.”

“None of it?” Gretchen looked shocked. Her fork went to her plate, salad forgotten. “But . . . but sex is so yummy. No orgasms? No kissing? You like kissing, right?”

Chelsea grimaced. “I like cuddling. That’s about it.”

“Oh, my god. This is tragic.” She leaned in and hissed. “Is it Sebastian? Is he a shitty lover? Because I could see that. The hot guys don’t have to try hard at all and—”

“It’s not him. He’s fine. It’s me. I just . . . can’t get into it. He’s being super patient and says he doesn’t mind, but I worry, you know?”

“I’m still stuck on the first part. What about masturbating? You masturbate, right?”

Not in three years. “Not really.”

Gretchen looked aghast. “Toys? What about toys? What about—”

“It’s all not going to work, okay? It’s me and my head.” She gestured at her hair and tried not to cry at the thought of being so messed up. “It’s all in my brain and I just can’t shut the thing off to enjoy myself.”

“That’s awful,” Gretchen said, and reached out and squeezed Chelsea’s hand. “I’m terrible at being sympathetic. That’s Audrey’s gig. But seriously, there’s got to be something you can do.”

“I wish there was.” She blinked rapidly. “I really like Sebastian and I trust him and I want us to go forward, you know? But I can’t seem to enjoy that part of the relationship.”

“Maybe if you had the right toys? There’s a place we can visit after lunch that sells all kinds of weird shit. We’re bound to find something to shock your chonies back into existence.”

“Maybe,” Chelsea said, feeling glum. Why had she brought this up to Gretchen? Now she felt like more of a freak than ever. “Let’s just forget I brought it up, okay?”

“Heck no,” Gretchen exclaimed. She scooted her chair closer to Chelsea’s and leaned in. “Look. You think Hunter is mister perfect in the sack? He was totally shy when we got together.”

“I don’t know if I want to hear this—”

“I had to approach him, you know? Had to point out to him that it was totally fine to bone me. Is that the problem, maybe? You’re not sending the right signals to Sebastian?”

She shook her head. Maybe if she got lucky, the floor would swallow her up alive, because Gretchen’s enthusiastic voice was making people at the surrounding tables stare at them. “Maybe we should talk about something else.”

“Or maybe it’s a control issue, you know? Like you have to be the one in control of the situation or else your lady parts close the doors for business.” She snapped her fingers and pointed at Chelsea. “We are going to the sex store, and we are getting you handcuffs!” she proclaimed loudly.

Someone at the next table over giggled.

Chelsea just shook her head. “I don’t think it’ll work.”

“Yeah, but if you don’t use them, then I can borrow them.” She gave Chelsea an exaggerated wink, and then groaned. “Oh, god. Speaking of people with control issues . . . Your new mother-in-law is here and headed this way.”

Chelsea stiffened. “Oh, shit.” And today, of all days, she’d said she didn’t need a bodyguard. Figured.

“I know. And she’s got a camera crew. Be ready to smile.” Gretchen gave her a fake smile and then scrubbed the front of her teeth, indicating that Chelsea had something in hers.

Chelsea took her napkin and swiped at her teeth, then stood as Mrs. Cabral came over to their table. Today her iron-gray hair was streaked with black and pink, and she carried her same little dog and a massive red Birkin bag that smacked a few diners in the head as she walked past. Her tight designer suit was red, and she wore impossibly tall heels. At her side was a familiar face—Lisa. Two cameras hovered as the women entered the restaurant and headed unerringly for Chelsea’s table.

“Someone must have told on you,” Gretchen said. “How fun.” Her voice was flat.