A flare of something—part embarrassment over someone seeing my incomplete sketches, part genuine irritation at his intrusion—shot through me.
“That’s not for you to look at!” I leaned forward and flipped the notebook closed. I knew he didn’t understand my art. His earlier abject confusion over my Saugatuck piece rang in my ears. Was he making fun of me now when he said my art was remarkable?
“I apologize for invading your privacy,” he said sheepishly. He sounded genuinely sorry, but that didn’t excuse his snooping. The cuddly feelings from a few moments ago were gone. “I should not have looked through your notebook.”
“Then why did you?”
He said nothing for so long I assumed he wasn’t going to answer my question. When he finally did, his voice was quiet and a little strained. “I have grown . . . curious about you and the inner workings of your mind. I thought looking through the sketchbook you spend so much time with would provide insight with relatively minimal disruption.” He paused. “I should have asked your permission first, and I apologize for not having done so.”
Confusion mixed with my irritation. “You’ve been curious about how I think?”
“Yes.”
The single word hung in the air between us. I paused, feeling as if the ground were shifting beneath my feet. “You’ve been curious about how I think because you . . . want to learn as much as you can about the modern world and . . . learning more about how I think will help on that score.” I paused, evaluating his reaction. “Right?”
He didn’t answer me right away. His dark eyes grew pensive, his face adopting an odd expression I couldn’t read.
“Of course.” He nodded brusquely. “That is the only reason why I’ve been curious about what’s on your mind.”
But his eyes were so soft, his voice a gentle caress, belying his claim. My heartbeat kicked up and . . .
Frederick’s eyes flicked down to my chest again, the same way they had the last time my heartbeat started racing when I was with him.
Maybe he could hear my heart beating.
My cheeks grew warm again at the thought of it.
“I apologize again,” he said. “But please believe me, Cassie. Your drawings are excellent.”
“They’re just rough sketches.”
“Do not downplay your talents,” he said, scowling as though the idea of me selling myself short was offensive to him.
He leaned forward to grab the notebook, then paused, looking back at me over his shoulder before his fingers closed around it. “May I?”
I nodded, unable to think of a reason to tell him no when this time, he was asking permission.
He opened the notebook to the page I’d been working on when he joined me on the couch, moving a little closer to me in the process.
Our thighs were touching again. My insides were quivering at his nearness, at the solid musculature of his thigh beneath his clothes. It didn’t seem to have the same effect on him that it had on me, though. His eyes were fixed firmly on the art on the page.
“This is fascinating,” he breathed, gesturing to my designs. This early version of Manor House was nothing but the barest outlines of a house and the general impression of a lake. Arrows pointed from the middle of the lake out to the edge of the page to represent motion and modernity; the idea of combining tinsel and cellophane had not yet occurred to me when I’d drawn it.
“You don’t have to say that.” Years of kind words from Sam and other well-meaning friends who didn’t get what I did made it so that false compliments hurt almost as badly as negative—but honest—feedback. “I know you don’t understand what I do.”
“That . . . might be true,” he admitted. He touched the top of Manor House’s roof with his right index finger. “But that does not mean I do not find it fascinating.”
I watched as he traced over every single line on the page, from top to bottom, not skipping over any part of it, with deliberate care. The house. The lake. The barely intimated trees blooming as rough graphite swirls on either side of the page. The memories of his large hand covering mine as we explored Instagram together—the way my hands had looked pressed up against his chest in the Nordstrom dressing room—rose unbidden, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.
I’d always felt my art was an extension of my innermost self, and the sight of his large, graceful hands touching every single part of this early drawing felt almost unbearably intimate.
“What do you find fascinating about it?” I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sight of his hands touching my work. I felt moments away from melting into a puddle at his feet.