Page 41 of Season's Schemings

“You were scrubbing those hands like you were trying to take your skin off, first time we met,” he replies with a laugh. “It was a natural nickname to bestow upon you.”

“Well, luckily for you, I never plan to manipulate my dear husband into committing brutal atrocities against his kingdom.”

“What a relief.” His eyes are twinkling. “You’ll just play along with fooling everyone into thinking we’re madly in love with each other.”

“Exactly.” I grin at him. “And hopefully not be driven mad by guilt about the whole thing like Lady Macbeth was.”

“Let’s hope not,” he says gravely. “But if I find you sleepwalking around the apartment, scrubbing those hands, I’ll know what’s causing it.”

This makes me laugh, and I stare back down at my phone, feeling a bit more buoyant than I did a few minutes ago. “I never thought I’d be calling my ex-mother-in-law-to-be to tell her that I’m bringing my new NHL-playinghusbandfor the holidays.”

“And I never thought I’d be driving my new wife to a work event where I have to dress up and parade around as a six-foot-four, twenty-seven-year-old freaking Christmas elf, but here we are. So, no more excuses.”

He’s not wrong. Heisgoing to be posing tonight as a Christmas elf (the costume is in the trunk) with the rest of the team at the home of Carter freaking Callahan—yes,theCarter Callahan, Hollywood A-Lister extraordinaire—for this year’s Cyclones charity event.

Apparently, Chantal Holmes is friends with Carter’s wife, and when she heard about Seb’s idea for a toy drive, she suggested combining hockey and movie star forces to make the event the biggest and most successful yet.

But my excitement at meeting my favorite actor is overshadowed by the call I reallydohave to make.

Seb and I have been talking lately about the logistics of our upcoming little cabin vacation (which I’ve taken to calling our Christmas of Horrors). I told him that Alicia Plumlee is a nice lady, but my own mom can be prickly. That the dads will likely be more interested in their cigars and business talk than in our relationship. That Jax is my favorite, and he’s a bartender at a really cool restaurant downtown that I love. That Adam, in general, sucks.

And while I’ve been focusing on whether Seb should gift Adam a signed photograph of himself for Christmas (my vote was yes, whereas Seb’s was a resounding no), Sebastian has been mainly concerned with letting Mr. and Mrs. Plumlee know that I’d be bringing someone to their cabin because he doesn’t want a surprise guest to cause them any bother.

In fact, his exact words were, “I take up a lot of room, Madelyn. And though those people raised an absolute idiot of a son, we will be staying in their house. I was raised to have manners.”

Again with the thoughtful. And I know that he’s right.

Seb looks at me expectantly and I sigh.

Here goes nothing…

The phone starts to ring and one hand tightens around my cell phone, the other on my thigh. I wince like I’m preparing for impact when Alicia Plumlee’s aptly plummy voice says, “Hello?”

Her voice is painfully familiar and painfully far away, all at once. I haven’t heard that voice in months. Not since before I dunked her son in a vat of frosting.

I can’t do this.

Panicking, I clear my throat. Croak out an incoherent sound.

Cough again.

And then, while I’m frozen with my soundless mouth open like a frog, wondering whether I should open the door and fling myself from the moving vehicle, a warm, strong, solid hand covers the hand that’s currently cutting off the circulation to my leg.

Seb gently pushes on my fingers, one by one, until he’s released my death-grip. Then, he takes my hand in his.

All while he maneuvers into the left lane around a semi.

He wasn’t wrong when he said he could multitask. And it’s enough to give me the confidence to find my voice. “Hello, Mrs. Plumlee. It’s Maddie. Um, I mean, Madelyn Grainger.”

Seb gives my hand a little squeeze, as if to reassure me that, yes, I am speaking somewhat coherent English and not pig Latin.

“Madelyn, so nice to hear from you. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Alicia’s tone is more confused than pleased, but I can hardly blame her for that. If Adam called my mother out of the blue, she’d probably have a stroke. And then immediately start planning our wedding.

Meanwhile, my actual husband begins to rub his thumb back and forth along the edge of my hand in a steady, calming, reassuring rhythm.

He’s telling me that he’s here for me. That I can do this. And I can.

“I’m calling to talk to you about Christmas…”

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