I stare at his sleeping form for a few more seconds before slipping out the bedroom door. I’ve luckily been able to memorize the layout of the house in the few days we’ve been staying with Carter’s family. Their vacation home is loads nicer than the actual home I grew up in. Just another reminder of how different the world I grew up in is from Carter’s.
In my few days of staying here, I’ve learned which floorboards creak and which ones don’t. I navigate them carefully, although I’m not sure it’s necessary. From Carter’s point earlier, I don’t think anyone in the house could hear me.
When I finally reach the backdoor of the kitchen, I let out the breath I was holding. I’m not sure if anyone in the Sinclair family would really care that I’m wandering their house in the middle of the night, but I’m not trying to figure it out either.
I hold the strap of my art bag tightly as I sprint toward the crashing waves of the ocean. As someone who grew up without anything scenic enough to stare at, the ocean has completely captivated me throughout this trip. While it wasn’t my first time seeing an ocean, it was my first time at a beach. From the moment my toes hit the sand, I’d dreamt about sitting in it and getting lost in my sketchbook.
I hadn’t exactly pictured doing it while I was reeling from another rejection from my boyfriend, but it didn’t matter. For a few peaceful hours, I don’t want to think of anything—including Carter.
I pull a towel I’d snatched from one of the pool chairs off my shoulder and lay it over the sand. Taking a seat, I open my bag and neatly place my supplies around me. I treated myself to a brand new set of drawing pencils before the trip, and I’ve been itching to put them to use. I’d attempted to draw by the pool today, but Carter kept bothering me, his wet body threatening to drip all over my favorite sketchbook.
Once everything is neatly laid out, I place my sketchbook in my lap. I’d begun a drawing earlier in the thirty minutes of peace I got when Carter fell asleep on one of the pool loungers. Since the moment I had to stop sketching to get ready for a fancy dinner with the Sinclair family, I’ve been dying to get back to it.
Call me inspired. I’d found a muse, and now with just the moon as my witness, I can get to sketching without anyone interrupting me.
I turn the pages in my book, admiring the past work I’ve kept in there. There’s rushed, rough sketches and one I’ve taken my time on, all works I’m still proud of deep down. One day, I’d give anything to see my very own drawings on display in a gallery, until then, me appreciating what I’ve worked on is enough.
Stopping on the one I was working on earlier, I trace my finger over the pencil strokes I’ve already created. My cheeks flush slightly at what my inspiration was—or who for that matter. The detail of the muscles is one I wish I could show somebody else. I’m impressed with my attention to detail on them.
I pick up one of my pencils, continuing to shade the perfect ridges of the abs I was working on. With the sound of crashing waves surrounding me, I get lost in the drawing. I don’t know how much time has passed when I suddenly feel hot.
My head shoots up, my eyes connecting with the very person I’ve spent god knows how long drawing in precise detail.
“Beck?” I ask in disbelief, snapping the book closed before he can get a look on what I’ve been working on. My neck prickles with heat as I pray in my head he didn’t see what I’d been drawing.
Carter’s elusive older brother stares down at me, no hint of emotion on his face. His lips are set in a scowl that I’ve learned in a very short amount of time he wears often. He keeps his hands tucked in the pockets of his nicely pressed shorts.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone.” His voice is rough, that one sentence almost more words than he’d uttered to me this entire weekend with his family.
I look up and down the beach, raising an eyebrow at him. “I don’t see any threats around here.”
He grunts, taking me by surprise when he takes a seat next to me. He carefully moves a few of my supplies out of the way, his huge body way too close to mine as we share the towel I’d snatched.
“What are you doing?” I hiss. My arms clutch my sketchbook to my chest for dear life. I hate to admit it to myself, but there’s a good chance he’s already seen what I was working on. I’m going to live in denial until he gives any indication he’d seen what’s inside.
Beck brings his knees to his chest, looping his arms around his legs and looking way too easy-going for this persona I’ve made up for him in my head. “I’m not leaving you out here alone,” he states. The abrasive tone of his voice makes it clear he’s not interested in me arguing.
I do it anyway.
“We’re on a private beach. I’m fine. I came out here to be alone, and you’re ruining that.”
He effortlessly reaches out and plucks the sketchbook from my arms. I screech, reaching across the towel to try and steal back my own property.
“Give that back right now!” I yell, my hand trying to yank the book free from his grasp.
He holds the book on the opposite side of him, pinning me with a stare that dares me to try and get it from him. I know it’s probably no use, but I’m going to melt into a puddle of embarrassment if he looks at what I’ve been drawing. I have to do everything in my power to get it from him.
My hands fall to my lap as I pretend to be disinterested in getting it back for the time being. “Has anyone ever told you it’s rude to steal someone else’s things?”
The only response I get from him is an amused chuckle under his breath.
Why does the tiniest twitch of his lip, the movement not even forming a smile, have heat washing over my entire body? I could blame it on embarrassment for what he might find, but I know it’s not that.
Beckham Sinclair is staring at me. It feels like he’s leaving so much unsaid with the way his eyes take their time running over my features.
My eyes flick to the sketchbook in his hands. “If I wanted to show you what I was drawing, I would. You have no right stealing it from me.”
“Don’t I?” His challenging stare says everything it needs to. The asshole definitely saw.
“First, you hijack the first chance at alone time I’ve had this weekend, and then you have the nerve to steal something that’s meant to be private. Are you always like this, Beckham?”
“It’s Beck.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh excuse me, Beckham.” I use the name on purpose just to annoy him. “I’ll get the memo to call you that when you stop being an ass and give me my drawings back.”
My stomach plummets when he lifts the cardboard cover of the book. At least there’s a small grace in the fact he doesn’t automatically flip to the newest page. He starts with the first page, his eyes raking over every pencil stroke I’d drawn.
He’s silent, taking his time looking over each drawing before flipping to the next. Eventually, he looks up at one I’d drawn of a man I’d seen eating alone at a cafe. One page had him seated at the table exactly as I’d seen him that early morning. The page after it was the life I’d made up in my head for him. He was walking through a Brownstone neighborhood in New York with his arm looped through a woman’s. In my head, this was the life he used to live before whatever transpired to have him eating alone that morning. I’d drawn him happily in love with the woman next to him, the two of them on a morning stroll with their tiny, yappy dog.