“No one else knows? Not Gretchen or your other friends?”
She shook her head and let out a shuddering breath, and he felt another surge of protectiveness that she would trust him with such a terrible secret.
Her fingers brushed against his and his stupid cock reacted. He forced himself to remain still, to ignore it, and squeezed her hand again. “I feel like I understand you a bit better now, Chelsea. But . . . I guess I have to ask. Why the marriage?”
“Because people don’t hit on married women. They’re off limits. When I’m with you, I’m completely and utterly safe.”
And she smiled at him.
He pulled her against him into an enormous bear hug, and she went into his arms, trusting and content. She gave another long, shuddering sigh and her arms went around his waist. “I’m glad we have our understanding, Sebastian.”
And he didn’t know how he felt about that. Because while he was coming to care for her . . . he was really starting to hate their marriage.
Chapter Fourteen
One Week Later
Sebastian threw a piece of popcorn at the flat screen as romantic music swirled through the speakers. “This movie is such crap.”
Chelsea giggled and poked his arm, then reached for another handful of popcorn from the bowl in his lap. “You said I got to pick this time, and this is what I picked. I watched Fast and Furious with you last time. Now you have to watch The Notebook with me.”
“I didn’t realize you were going to torture me, though,” he grumped.
She just chuckled and rested her cheek on his arm, continuing to watch the movie. “Be quiet. This is romantic.”
He made a noise of pain that she ignored.
The last week of living with Sebastian had been so much fun. After her big confession, they’d come to an understanding and an easy friendship. She felt . . . free, now that he knew her secret. He hadn’t judged her, hadn’t told her she was asking for it, hadn’t told her that she should have been smarter. Hadn’t told her she needed to get over it. He was upset on her behalf, and really, that was all she needed.
They’d been sleeping together ever since, and their marriage had turned into an intense friendship. It was like having the perks of a boyfriend without the worry of sex, and Chelsea loved it. She and Sebastian went out to dinner with friends, he attended her bouts, and they had started snuggling on the couch each night and watching movies. When they were apart, they texted each other constantly.
Really, she kind of adored it. It was the best of both worlds—she had the affection and attention of a guy, and she didn’t have to worry about the sexual part, which had been pretty much dead inside her since her rape. And she didn’t even have to worry about excusing it. And if sometimes she looked at Sebastian’s ass a bit too long when he got out of bed, or looked at his full, perfect mouth when he was sleeping and wondered what it’d be like to have a real kiss with him, it wasn’t important to her.
What was important was having fun. Like now.
Sebastian made a sound of pain and stared at the screen. “They’re kissing in the rain. Does this guy have no nuts?”
“He’s in love!” she exclaimed, but couldn’t help but laugh.
They watched as the two characters on screen plastered themselves against each other and began to make out.
“That does it,” Sebastian said, handing the bowl to her and getting up. “It’s time for a bathroom break.”
“But this is the most romantic part!”
“You can recap it for me,” he said, heading upstairs.
She frowned, watching as he disappeared. There was a bathroom right down the hall. Why wasn’t he heading there? She looked over at his spot on the couch, where they’d been cuddling for most of the afternoon. He’d left his ever-present notepad behind.
Curious, she picked it up. Since “marrying” Sebastian, she’d noticed that he liked to make notes in his notebook whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. It went everywhere with him, too. She assumed it was his “thing,” like the way she tended to rattle on about nothing in particular when she was nervous. Sebastian made notes to himself. No big deal.
Except he never shared what those notes were. He never showed her, and she never asked, just like his locked study. She knew it wasn’t a big deal, because the other day he’d let one of the maids in to clean and she hadn’t run out of the room screaming. But whatever it was, it was deeply personal to him and he wasn’t ready to share it.
She knew what that was like. Except . . . she’d shared and he hadn’t.
So she picked up his notebook and contemplated it for a moment, then flipped it open and peeked.
And gasped. He was sketching. More important, he was sketching her.
And he was amazingly good.
The first page was her face, relaxed in sleep, her hair spilling over her brow. The entire drawing was done with delicate lines and shading, tiny hatch-marks indicating shadow. It looked just like her. Stunned, she flipped to the next page and saw another drawing of her, this time skating on the track, her short ruffled skirt flying behind her. The next picture was of the old woman who lived next door, a grocery bag in hand as she stood on the steps and petted a cat.
She paused the movie and kept flipping through, knowing she shouldn’t and yet unable to help herself. God, he was incredibly good. Over and over, he’d sketched faces of people she could clearly make out. There was Gretchen in her Ursula costume, vamping for her audience. Her pregnant sister Audrey, glowing, a hand on her belly. More sketches of Chelsea—Chelsea laughing, Chelsea crying, sleeping, and deep in thought.