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The sketchbook his father had torn through had been filled with sketches of his dad during--and after--his last bender. Sebastian had simply wanted to know why his father was so attracted to the high that he refused to give it up, even when their lives were falling completely apart because of it. Maybe if Sebastian knew why, then he could finally figure out how to make the drinking stop. And if his father stopped getting wasted all the time, Sebastian had been sure his mother would follow.
But those dreams were slashed the night his father had laughed in such a cruel, devastating way as he ripped out Sebastian's sketches in big fistfuls of paper, his wasted friends laughing right along with him. My stupid, worthless kid thinks he's an artist. But he's nothing, his father had declared. I'll show you where your pictures belong, you little shit. He'd thrown Sebastian's drawings into the fireplace, and when they'd lit and flamed, his father had toasted his friends with another bottle, another shot, another pack of cigarettes.
All the while, Sebastian's mother was passed out on the couch in the corner. Sebastian never knew if his father told her what had happened, or, honestly, if his father even remembered what he'd done. But it didn't matter.
The damage had been done. Sebastian now knew just how worthless his dreams really were. How crazy. His father was right--he'd been kidding himself to think he could actually be an artist.
Sebastian didn't draw for years after that, not until the itch in his fingers got so strong that he couldn't stop himself from doodling in class. He still remembered the first time he drew again, the way his hand shook, knowing what crap he was at being an artist. And yet, at the same time, it was such a huge relief to let out the urges again.
The first time Susan had seen one of his doodles, she'd marveled at it, the opposite reaction to his father's. Sebastian knew it wasn't because he was actually talented, but simply that she had the eye of a mother, not an art critic. Eventually, though, he decided it would be okay to draw if he was simply using it as a way to work through his thoughts and feelings, to figure people out. But never again art for art's sake. Never with any dreams attached. And that was fine, since his dreams had completely changed once he'd finally grown up.
Ever since the moment he'd set eyes on Charlie, he'd wanted to try to capture her unique beauty and her irrepressible spark, even if he didn't have a prayer of actually doing her justice. Of course, he'd make sure she never found his drawings.
He flipped past a dozen sketches of his parents in the sketchbook before he found a fresh page. It still grated on him that he'd never been able to shine a light on their addictions. Though they were no longer alive, he was still drawing them, still trying to understand why they'd lived their lives as they had--why they'd chosen booze and parties over a life with him.
On the fresh page, he put pencil to paper and quickly worked to try to bring Charlie to life beneath his fingers--her beautiful, expressive eyes, filled with heartache and pain but also with such joy it floored him. He hated that he didn't have the skills to get what he saw in his head onto the paper, but at the very least he hoped the pencil would reveal things he couldn't see with the naked eye. There was so much he wanted to figure out about the woman who commanded his attention like no one else ever had.
Charlie had been helpless to cure her father's illness, and now clearly felt helpless to ease her mother's suffering. Just as he'd been helpless against the liquor in his parents' cabinets. It hadn't mattered how much gin or beer he poured down the drain or how little money there was in the house, somehow there was always enough for another bottle and another party.
Susan and Bob Spencer took him in on the nights when his own parents seemed to have forgotten they had a son. His thirteenth birthday had been just around the corner when his mom woke from a drunken stupor long enough to ask where he'd been the night before, telling him that he was her son and he needed to come home to her. She'd helped him throw out the bottles, and he'd thought things would change. He thought he mattered to her. He'd had hope for a whole week. Until his dad wanted to have a little fun, just a night out, one night.
Once again they forgot they had a son who desperately wanted to see them clean and sober. He'd moved in with Bob and Susan on his thirteenth birthday. This time, neither of his parents had seemed to miss him.
Over the next five years, no amount of AA meetings, rehab, or liquor down the drain had done a thing. He'd suffered with them through the DTs, but they'd never stuck it out. The moment his back was turned, they'd find another drink. Until finally his mother had fallen, hit her head on the edge of the coffee table, and never woken up again. He'd often wondered if his dad had died in that car crash because his luck had finally run out? Because guilt had finally soaked through his sodden conscience? Or was it simply that Ian Montgomery couldn't live without his wife Olive?
Sebastian had created a billion-dollar career out of helping people change their lives for the better in every possible avenue--career, relationships, health, family. But the concept of love still twisted him up in knots. He knew firsthand that you could love someone with everything in you and still be the absolute worst thing for them. Sure, there were couples like Bob and Susan, who would do anything for each other, but then there were couples like his friend Evan and his wife Whitney. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that Whitney was toxic and would be Evan's destruction. As far as Sebastian was concerned, you always had to be ready to walk away from a love like that. But he didn't think Evan ever would. Not only because of his loyalty, but also because he was holding onto hope with an iron grip.
Sebastian hadn't allowed himself to hold onto hope against all odds again, not since that day his mother had sworn she'd stop drinking if he came home, and then surrendered the first time her husband had tempted her with another party, another night out, another drink.
An owl hooting outside his window brought him back to his workroom and the drawing of Charlie beneath his hand. Looking down at it, he knew he'd never been involved like this before. So involved, on such a deep level already, that he was tempted to draw a self-portrait next, to try to figure himself out this time.
To try to figure out love.
Love wasn't something he'd been looking for. Wasn't something he thought he'd be able to trust in for himself, after his upbringing. But could Charlie change everything?
Had she already?
Working to push away his memories of his parents for good this time, he refocused his thoughts on Charlie as he continued to fill in the flowing locks of her hair, then sketched the lines of her cheekbones, her jaw, her nose. Yet he still saw nothing in his drawing that shed light on why she hadn't reached her career potential despite her brilliant talent and skill.
His pencil swirled, giving life to her luscious lips, the
ones he'd tasted and craved with a soul-deep need. Dammit, that was the problem. He was so focused on the physical, on his desire--on himself rather than her--that he couldn't see beneath the surface of what he drew.
He nearly crushed the pencil and pad in his fist. This always happened, this moment where his frustration at his poor skills made him want to rip out the pages just the way his father had and burn them to ashes.
Knowing he wouldn't be able to see beyond his memories tonight--or his desire for Charlie--he tossed aside the pad. But he did know one thing for certain, knew it even without drawing her. Charlie badly needed a cure for her mother's pain. There had to be some treatment--an operation, an advanced drug, something that would help. He might not have been able to fix his parents, but he'd spent his life trying to make up for that by building an empire facilitating positive change for as many people as he could.
He had all the money in the world to find the best doctors and the best medicine. He would find a way to help Charlie's mother. And maybe knowing her mother had every dime of his billions working for her would clear the roadblocks from Charlie's path to achieving her true potential.
She had already brought him more than she could know, first by letting him watch her creative mind take flight in the lobby of his building. Though he would never be an artist himself, it was incredibly satisfying just to be near one of her caliber. And then she'd given him so much again tonight, listening to every word about his parents, and knowing just the right thing to say when he needed it. She'd been there for him in a way no other woman ever had.
Charlie might think she was the one who needed him. But Sebastian already knew the truth.
He was the one who needed her.
CHAPTER NINE
Charlie got up early Saturday morning, planning to don her overalls and work boots first thing. But how could she resist luxuriating in a shower that had two heads and practically massaged her scalp? And, honestly, she would have been a fool not to make the most delicious coffee in a contraption that added whipped cream, chocolate, and Almond Roca syrup. But though the fridge was stocked and she could have cooked for a week out of the staples in the cupboards, she made herself settle for cereal with fresh blueberries. It was time to get out to her fabulous new studio before she frittered away the whole morning in luxury.
