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.
Good lord, why was he hiding this? She flung herself to her feet and tucked the notebook under her arm, heading up the stairs to find him. She knew it was personal, but she had to know more. To think that he was hiding his talent by pretending to be writing notes?
As she went up the stairs, she saw the bathroom doors were open. Where the heck was he? On a hunch, she went to the bedroom.
The door was cracked, but she could see his back. She peeked inside, curious. His pants were loose at his waist and she saw his hand moving in front of him. He groaned and threw his head back, and she gasped. He was masturbating.
“Sebastian?” She pushed the door open and stared at him, a myriad of emotions racing through her. Shocked, yes. Titillated? Maybe a little. Betrayed? Absolutely.
Because for the last week, he’d been getting up occasionally to head to the “bathroom” during sleep or during movies. Actually, he got up and “took a moment” a lot, which made her wonder if he was constantly masturbating.
And that hurt, because weren’t they supposed to have a platonic relationship? It was just more shit they were hiding from each other.
And she was suddenly really tired of it.
He turned, and sure enough, his hand was on his cock as it jutted out of his pants. A really big, thick cock with a perfectly shaped purple head. Not that she was noticing these things. He continued to stroke it, as if unable to help himself. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“It looks like you’re jerking off to The Notebook ,” she commented, unsure if this was funny or hurtful. Right now she was going for funny.
“God no,” he said. “I just . . . need a moment. Can you close the door?”
“No!”
“What, are you going to watch?” He continued to stroke himself.
“What?” Her jaw dropped. “You . . . you want me to watch?”
Sebastian’s mouth flattened. “Well, I could pretend that I’m turned on by that stupid-ass movie, but my cock will deflate at the thought. I just . . . needed a moment to myself.”
Her heart fluttered. “Because of . . . me?”
He gave her an exasperated look. “Seriously? You have to ask? Shut the door already. Let a man finish in silence.”
“But—”
“Damn it, Chelsea, let’s not do this, all right?” He released his cock and hitched his pants up, heading for the door. “Either get the fuck out or—” He stopped himself.
She squeaked and shut the door quickly, then raced down the stairs. Her heart was hammering.
Get the fuck out or . . .
Or what? Or help? But . . . they were supposed to be just friends, weren’t they?
She returned to the sofa, her stomach churning. His sketch pad was still in her hand, and for some reason the drawings weren’t important at the moment. She tossed it back aside and curled up on her end of the couch, her thoughts a tangled mess.
She was an idiot, wasn’t she? All this time she was cuddling up to a handsome, sexy guy and assumed he didn’t want sex, either. Of course he wanted sex. He just didn’t want the issues that came with a relationship.