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.

Which meant that he didn’t want her, because why else marry her?

And really that should have been a relief, but it just made her feel more confused and hurt. Did he think she was . . . dirty because of what she’d told him?

She didn’t know what to think. She wrung her hands unhappily and waited for him to come down the stairs.

Just like that, her happy, content bubble vanished again. Why on earth had they thought this would ever work?

He came back downstairs several minutes later, clothes tucked in and neatly back to normal. His hair was perfectly in place, and her face grew red, thinking about the visual of him gripping his cock and stroking it, and her catching him.

This was so awkward. Everything was going to be different now, she just knew it. She wanted to cry. She’d found a guy she felt safe with, and felt like there were no demands. Now that was gone.

He sat down heavily on the couch next to her and rubbed his face, not saying anything.

Chelsea glanced down at his pants. Had he . . . ?

“If you’re wondering, no. It killed my hard-on pretty fast to watch you run away like that.” He glanced over at her, unsmiling. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I’ve been trying to be discreet.”

It felt like there was a knot in her throat. “So this has been happening often?”

He was silent for a moment, then looked over at her. “I really thought I could do this. That I could be platonic and not an asshole. And then you had to catch me in the worst way possible.” He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. “I’m sorry this isn’t what you needed, but I can’t do a platonic marriage. I knew I was in over my head after that kiss—”

“The kiss?” She cocked her head, curious. “What kiss? In the airport?”

“No, in the library, when we first agreed to this.”

Her eyes widened. “Wait. You knew then that you couldn’t be platonic but you still wanted to give this a shot?”

“It seemed like the perfect solution to our problems, didn’t it?” He gave her a look that was full of self-loathing. “Too bad I can’t stop thinking with my cock. I was hoping that at some point maybe you’d come to be attracted to me, too. That maybe we could move forward if I was patient. And then after you told me . . .” He shook his head. “Well, just shows that I’m stupid.”

Hot tears filled her eyes then. “And you stopped being attracted to me because I was raped?”

Sebastian gave her a look of shock. “What? God, no. Not that.” He pulled her against him and began to rub her back, comforting her. “If anything, it made me more attracted to you because you’re so fucking strong. But I’d feel like the biggest dick in the world if I tried to put the moves on you after promising you we’d be utterly platonic. I can’t do that to you. Not when you want nothing more than to be safe.”

It felt so good to be held against him, to snuggle and be comforted. This was what a boyfriend would do for her, she realized. And she was getting everything she wanted out of their relationship . . . and he wasn’t.

She was the one being unfair. And yet . . . “I don’t know if I told you, Sebastian. But . . . after my incident, I had to compartmentalize a lot of how I was feeling so I could function. And a lot of my sexuality went away.”

He rubbed her shoulder. “You don’t have to explain anything to me, Chelsea.”