She stared up at the ceiling for a good half hour, utterly terrified. The town house was silent. She could hear the occasional distant traffic outside, but this residential street was a lot quieter than her old apartment and she felt isolated. Scared.

She wondered what Sebastian was doing and if he’d mind company.

On her bad nights, she used to crawl into bed with Pisa for a sisterly snuggle. Nothing weird, just the comforting presence of knowing another living being was with her and that they’d protect her. But Pisa was in Austin now, and from the texts she’d gotten from her friend over the last week, she was loving it. She sat up in bed and reached for her phone on the bedside, contemplating a late-night text.

But she’d still be alone.

Again, she thought about Sebastian. He hadn’t minded sleeping with her back at the hotel. She wondered if she could impose on him again. Part of her was ashamed for being so weak, but the bigger part of her didn’t care. She just wanted the fear to go away.

So she crawled out of her unfamiliar bed and put on a pair of flannel pajama pants. Normally she slept in a tank top and panties, but she suspected Sebastian wouldn’t be a fan of that if she trotted into his room half-naked and wanting to share the blankets.

That was the good thing about Sebastian. He didn’t think with his dick, which made him safe.

Chelsea padded out of her room and down the brightly lit hallway, heading for Sebastian’s room. Not the locked “mystery” room but his bedroom. The door was shut and she knocked gently.

He opened it a moment later, dressed in an undershirt and boxers. A notepad was tucked in his hand, along with a pencil, and his dark hair looked tousled, as if he were getting ready for bed. “You okay?”

She wiggled her feet on the hardwood floors and clasped her hands in front of her breasts. “Can I sleep with you tonight?” At his surprised look, she added, “I’m a little freaked out about the new room and I know you’re safe.”

Sebastian studied her face, then nodded, opening the door a bit wider.

She crawled into his enormous bed, noting the decor here was just as sterile and gray as the rest of the house. Here, though, there were a dozen fluffy pillows to get lost in, and only one corner of the bed had been disturbed by Sebastian. She bounded onto the other side, feeling a bit like a kid with a sleepover, and grabbed a pillow. “I appreciate it, Basty.”

“Basty?” He snorted. “That’s worse than Nugget.”

She yawned and shrugged as he got back into bed, then snuggled down next to him. Sebastian was warm and safe, and she immediately relaxed. “You work on your similes, I’ll work on my nicknames.”

Chelsea was asleep before he even responded.

Chapter Twelve

Being married to Chelsea was messing with his head.

It had been a week since their impromptu wedding and so far it was a week of secrets, sneaking around, and blue balls.

Oh, and his house smelled like flowers.

Secrets, because Chelsea continually left the house without telling him where she was going, a big bag hung over one shoulder. She’d disappear during the daytime for about an hour, return, and then head straight to her soap making, where she’d put on a pair of headphones and rock out to music for hours while mixing soap recipes and then cutting bars. This week, she told him, was lilac week, and the house smelled like flowers. Tons of flowers. It permeated his clothing, to the point that guys were giving him weird looks at the gym.

Sneaking around, because when Chelsea wasn’t disappearing in the daytime, she was disappearing several nights out of the week, again with her bag. She didn’t volunteer where she was going, and every time he asked, she ignored him. Not rudely. She’d just wink and give a cheery laugh and say that it was part of their agreement, and if he wasn’t going to open his locked room, she sure wasn’t going to tell him where she was going.

Except his locked room was just full of drawings. Not particularly good drawings, either. And when she came home? Half the time she came home with bruises.

So to say he was concerned was an understatement.

The sleeping arrangements were a torture he hadn’t foreseen. Every night, she showed up at his door to the point that he’d come to expect her in bed with him. And after a few nights? She’d stopped “dressing up.” Since he was going to be in his boxers, she had now started going to bed in a tiny tank top that outlined her perky breasts and pert nipples and a pair of tiny underwear. And he told himself it was fine.

He didn’t mind Chelsea crawling into bed with him. He didn’t mind the teeny tiny underwear. He didn’t mind that she was a clingy sort of sleeper, too, and that he’d wake up with her arms wrapped around one of his, her breasts pressed on either side of his bicep, or that her leg would be kicked over his.

She was gorgeous and half dressed. He’d be crazy to mind it. But that was part of the problem. They were supposed to be just friends, and he was feeling decidedly un-platonic. Every morning, he woke up with a hard-on that he had to conceal. Every evening, he had arousing, incredible dreams about her. She was in his head constantly, the subject of his furtive sketches, and the reason he took many a cold shower that week.

And they were supposed to be platonic for two years.

He was going to die. Blue balls were going to kill him.

The most annoying thing? She constantly referred to him as “safe.” As if he were some sort of nutless teddy bear she could cuddle on and not think twice about. Like he wasn’t a red-blooded male who needed sex.

It was getting harder and harder to keep things platonic, because the more he saw her? The more he wanted to roll her over in the bed and start kissing her. Press his mouth to those full, gorgeous lips, her breasts, her juicy nipples, her bouncy, tight ass that flexed in those tiny panties, everywhere. Everything she was—her personality, her body, her laugh—she totally did it for him on every level.

But he couldn’t—wouldn’t—because he remembered how stricken with terror she’d been at the hotel. He needed to figure her out before they could move things forward.

Which was why he was following the bodyguard he’d hired to protect her.

Which was another thing going terribly wrong this week.

He’d gotten a recommendation for a security company from Hunter, who had his own personal security guard who attended him when he went out in public. He’d called and explained his needs and they’d sent over a man named Rufus.

Rufus was enormous. Six foot tall and easily four hundred pounds, he had a mean scowl that would make anyone step back, and his arms, neck, and ears were covered in tattoos. He was perfect for the job, and Chelsea seemed to like him. Now she took him along when she left, and as part of his tasks, Rufus was supposed to report back to Sebastian.

Except, Chelsea had asked Rufus not to.

So now when he went to Rufus to ask how things were, he got a blank stare. It didn’t matter that Sebastian was the one cutting the check—Rufus’s loyalty was to Chelsea. And really, he was fine with that, too.

But now his curiosity was getting the better of him. Which was why he’d tailed them when they took the subway and headed across town toward a local college, Chelsea’s ever-present enormous bag on her shoulder. She was chatting Rufus’s ear off, which was how they’d managed to not notice him.

The college part baffled him. Was she taking classes? It was Saturday night—who had classes on a Saturday night? In addition, that didn’t explain the bruises.