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 penthousetakes 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."
