by Beck, Jamie
“As I suspected.” Steffi shrugged nonchalantly, as if she hadn’t just pulled the pin from a grenade and dropped it on the table. “So that leaves us a little tight until something else comes up. In terms of our social media presence, I just read an article . . .”
Claire heard Steffi talking, but the words ran together like white noise because Claire’s brain was still stuck on the idea of working with—no—for Logan Prescott. His obvious ploy made her want to laugh. Did he really think he could buy her forgiveness for his sister? Well, Claire would never, ever forgive Peyton. Not even if he paid her a million dollars to renovate his condo.
The very condo Peyton had moved into while undergoing chemo because Todd had dumped her when she got sick. Given how Todd had treated Claire, his leaving Peyton shouldn’t have shocked her. Either way, it served Peyton right for breaking a cardinal rule of friendship.
Eyes closed, Claire pressed her palm to her hot cheek, silently asking for forgiveness for yet another bitter thought.
“Claire? Did you hear anything I said?” Steffi turned her hands out in question.
“Sorry.” She rubbed the scowl from her forehead. “I’ll find another way to turn up new leads. Working with Logan is a hard no.”
“Too bad. You’d have so much fun decorating his place. I’m sure he’d let you do whatever you wanted. Anything would be better than how it looks now. Guess he never cared before, since he was rarely around to enjoy it.”
Only a Prescott would own a million-dollar property that sat vacant as often as it was occupied.
Their family’s legacy stemmed from their great-grandfather’s famed body of literature. The Prescott mystique—and coastal home here in town—was like something out of The Great Gatsby. Logan, like his sister, had chosen a career that let him jet-set around the world. Former fashion photographer turned documentary photographer. Cool jobs. Suited to his enchanting mix of charmer, adventurer, activist, and artist. Not that she paid too much attention to his comings and goings.
“I’m not an idiot.”
“Did I call you one?” Steffi had the gall to look stunned.
“This has Peyton’s paw prints all over it. I’d bet my last penny that she put him up to it. I don’t know what I hate more—that she did it, that you took the bait, or that she knows we’re desperate for money.”
“It’s not a conspiracy. I mentioned that I felt bad about putting you in this situation because of this home. Logan tossed out the idea on the spot.”
“I can’t deal with the strings that would come with his offer.” Except now Claire couldn’t focus on anything else because thinking about Logan took up all the space in her head. If Peyton hadn’t stolen Todd, Claire might’ve pounced on a chance to work closely with Logan. Of course, then she wouldn’t have been free to act on her desire. Not that she had ever acted on it before Todd, either. The hawkish way Logan could stare at her turned her to jelly around him and—oh, just no. “I thought you finally understood that.”
“I do. That’s why I wasn’t going to say anything.” Steffi crossed her arms. “You forced me to tell you.”
True enough. Logan’s image flickered through Claire’s mind again, poking at the tender spot of her pointless longing, like always.
She’d memorized his face so long ago, during the countless hours she’d hung out at his house with Peyton and Steffi. Sandy-blond hair, worn in lengths ranging from shaggy to shoulder-length, which had the added bonus of annoying his father. Piercing green eyes that glowed like phosphorous in the dark. A patrician profile that befitted his family’s prominence. All that and a surprisingly generous smile. Logan Alder Prescott. Even the sound of his name belonged on a lighted marquee.
From their very first meeting, when she’d barely been thirteen years old, she’d concocted adolescent fantasies about him professing his secret love for her. He had fulfilled her wish for him to be her first kiss. He hadn’t known that wish part—at least she hoped he hadn’t. She’d been fifteen, but he’d kissed her only because he felt sorry for her after her surgeries. Just thinking of his gentle lips made her pelvic area throb as if the bullet were striking anew.
She shook her head, dislodging all thoughts of Logan. “I’ll catch up with Mrs. Brewster and pitch a proposal for her bathroom. But we also have to scrape together funds to advertise and update the website, and you need to scare up reno work pronto. Promise me we’ll earmark new revenue toward retail space—”
A knock at the door interrupted her monologue.
Ryan called downstairs, “Steffi, can you get that? I’m not finished dressing.”
“Sure.” Steffi held up her index finger, silently begging for Claire’s patience, before she rose from the table and disappeared around the corner.
Claire added another dollop of whipped cream to her last bit of cocoa plus a spray to the tip of her finger, grateful for her superhuman metabolism. From the other room, she heard Steffi’s surprised voice say, “Oh, we didn’t expect you so early.”
“Hope that’s not a problem,” replied Logan, in his unmistakable baritone.
Claire choked, spewing bits of whipped cream and cocoa across the table. She grabbed at paper napkins to start cleaning up, which was impossible while her vision blurred.
Logan noticed Steffi’s jaw twitch. She remained still in the doorway except for a quick glance over her shoulder. He couldn’t stop a stupid grin from forming when he realized he might’ve just cock blocked his buddy Ryan. “Am I interrupting?”
She batted his shoulder while rolling her eyes, although he noted tension tightening her smile. “No . . . Ryan’s upstairs dressing.”
Uh-huh. As he’d suspected. He guessed those two had a lot of catching up to do. They’d been gaga for each other back in high school, but he never would’ve believed Ryan could forgive her for ghosting him in college. If Ryan could forgive Steffi, then Logan could hope that, one day, Claire might forgive Peyton.
In his ragtag circles, loyalty was a rather flexible concept . . . as was friendship. What his sister had done to Claire, however, had shocked him, given the history of the Lilac Lane League. But he loved his sister, and she regretted her actions, missed her friend, and wanted to atone. Seeing her suffer so much these past months—contemplating her mortality and begging to make amends in case she died—made him desperate to help her earn Claire’s forgiveness.
“Can I come in, or should I freeze my ass off out here on your porch?” he joked, shoving his hands in his coat pockets.
“Sorry!” Steffi smiled and backed up. “Come in. I, uh, I—”
A noise from the left caught his attention, but the living room was empty. And inviting.
Logan whistled, his eye noting the shadowy crisscross pattern cast by the French door mullions. The hot spot of honey-colored light glinting off the oval mirror on the corner elevation. The contrast of coarse and soft textures of the fabrics. “Picture-perfect, Steffi.”
A massive river rock fireplace anchored the room, but its refinished beams drew his eyes up. The L-shaped navy sofa absorbed most of the floor space. Coral-colored mix-and-match pillows filled the sofa’s corners—but his attention fixed on the needlepoint one displaying Ryan’s, Steffi’s, and Emmy’s names written in the shape of a heart.
“I assume Claire designed all this?” The room practically glowed with warmth and love—two things noticeably absent from his condo. Not that he needed those. Life lived in the moment couldn’t thrive inside the picket-fence trappings of the suburbs. Spending a single afternoon with his parents proved that fact of life.
“She did.” Steffi’s expression changed as she cleared her throat. “She’s great with personal touches, like that handmade pillow.”
“Not a surprise.” He recalled that Claire had always been thoughtful and attentive to details, like with the gift she’d given him for his sixteenth birthday—Lee Child’s Persuader. She’d wrapped the book in a desk blotter–size monthly calendar page, circled his birthdate in red marker, and tied the packa
ge in a red ribbon, leaving it for him on his bed. Her short note had revealed that she’d spied him reading Jack Reacher novels at the library, presumably because his parents sneered at anything other than literary fiction.
It’d been disquieting to be so unaware of being watched, yet somehow sweet at the same time. Most of the women he’d known in his life never knew him—or even attempted to know him. They’d been more interested in his face, his money, and his name. Claire had always been different from most women.
He strode into the cozy space—a sort of foreign concept to him, given the formal places he’d called home. He fingered the chenille sofa, then went to the fireplace to inspect the framed photographs on display, which were sure to be the sort of uninspired candid snapshots taken with smartphones. It perturbed him when people didn’t bother to capture interesting images. He didn’t get a chance to let his critical eye go to work because motion to his right drew his attention . . . to Claire.
He gripped the mantel.
She’d always been cute with that shy smile, but something had changed. Gold highlights. A longer, angled bob that brushed her shoulders. Its lighter color didn’t suit her skin tone as well as her natural shade, although it didn’t look bad. Her eyes remained the same, thank God.
Most would call her irises blue. He would not. Setting aside the enlarged jet-black pupils, Claire’s irises were an ever-changing medley of arctic blue, turquoise, and cobalt—with occasional streaks of white to make them glitter—rimmed in navy. A quick assessment proved them as round and kind as ever, but not as trusting.
She remained stiffly seated beside Rosie, the souvenir of a psychopath. That old cane had been a talisman of strength and survival after an unfortunate mass shooting at the Yankee Crossing Outlets killed her promising tennis career. Better the death of that dream than a literal one, though.
Having one of its own become a victim of random violence had shaken their small town, which had then rallied around the McKennas. Although Claire had been fifteen at the time, he’d never once caught her feeling sorry for herself despite being forced to walk away from a top tennis ranking in her division. Never seen her break down or give up while relearning to walk. In her quiet way, she’d shown more mettle than he’d ever been required to muster.
Her bravery had moved him in ways his sixteen-year-old self hadn’t fully understood. To this day, that uneasy awe remained with him, affecting the rhythm of his heart.
“Claire.” He nodded, oddly tongue-tied. He’d hoped to run into her soon, but on his terms, not hers. Not unprepared. He had a plan, after all. One that required careful plotting. He wouldn’t let Peyton down. And if spending time getting reacquainted with Claire was part of the process, well, that would be no hardship.
“Logan.” Claire’s voice squeaked. It did that often when she spoke to him. Sometimes she’d sputter, too. Endearing, frankly. He’d secretly liked her little crush on him. It’d been so authentic—another thing he was unaccustomed to with most.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt.” He gestured around the space. “But since you’re here, let me extend my compliments. You did a beautiful job. I can only imagine what it looked like when old Mrs. Weber lived here.”
“Thank you.” She fidgeted with her hair, which was a couple of inches longer than his. “Steffi and I have similar taste, so it was easy.”
“It’s comfortable, unlike my museum in the city.” He purposely avoided meeting the stony gaze he felt coming from Steffi. “Maybe you could transform my place to better reflect me?”
“But a museum is perfect for you,” came Claire’s brittle reply. “You can display all your photographs to impress all your girlfriends.”
He flinched. When he’d last seen her a few months ago, she’d been harried in her attempt to dodge him. Of all the reasons he’d imagined for her running from him that afternoon, he’d never considered that her feelings toward him had changed because of Peyton.
The loss of her affection deflated him.
Surely she couldn’t disapprove of him supporting his sister. Then again, maybe Peyton had nothing to do with Claire’s change of heart. Throughout the years, he’d enjoyed a different date on his arm for each social event that his family expected him to attend. After Claire’s experience with Todd, she’d probably lost all patience for that kind of thing.
Nonetheless, her prickliness provoked him. “I’m getting older. Who knows, maybe one of these days I’ll follow in Ryan’s footsteps and start a family of my own?”
She snorted a laugh, then covered her nose and mouth with one hand, mumbling, “Sorry.”
“Apology accepted.” He smiled because she’d unwittingly given him an opening regarding his sister. With a happy sigh, he said, “Gee, that felt good.”
“What did?” Her brows gathered.
“Letting you off the hook.” He tucked his hair behind his ears and nodded at Steffi before returning his gaze to Claire. “Forgiveness is such a win-win, don’t you think?”
Claire’s expression turned as icy as the sidewalks outside. She pushed herself out of her chair, shoved her laptop into its case, and grabbed Rosie. “Steffi, we’ll finish our discussion later. In the meantime, I’ll find a way to tempt Mrs. Brewster.”
Claire limped across the room to the coatrack by the front door, each uneven step leaving an imprint on his gut as if she’d trampled right over him. Needling Claire had been a shitty move—a knee-jerk reaction to her cold shoulder, and in poor form. “Hang on. Let me help you to your car.”
“I can manage.” She rose onto her toes to reach her jacket at the top of the coatrack.
He dashed across the room and reached for her bag. “I insist.”
She yanked her arm away, but he’d clutched her elbow too tightly for her to escape. “Claire, it’s slick out there.”
“And yet I got inside on my own.” Her gaze flitted around the entry like a butterfly looking for a safe place to land.
He tipped up her chin, hungry for her eye contact, which somehow simultaneously calmed and excited him. “But you weren’t upset when you first arrived.”
She stared back at him. A flicker of something—sorrow, regret, surrender—rippled through those azure pools.
Ryan came trotting down the stairs, oblivious to the tension in his entry. “Where are you going?”
Logan slapped Ryan’s shoulder, sparing his old friend a brief smile. “Just helping Claire to her car. I’ll be right back.”
“Maybe we should salt again,” Steffi said to Ryan, although her gaze remained fixed on Claire.
“I’ll take care of it.” Ryan grabbed his coat from the rack and dashed ahead of them, kissing Claire on the cheek on his way out the door. “See you later, Claire.”
Logan followed Claire onto the porch. Ryan’s footprints wound around the house toward the detached garage. His disappearance left Logan alone with Claire for a few minutes. All around them, snow blanketed every shrub, lawn, and branch like a thick coat of icing. He kept hold of her elbow, allowing her to set the pace, somewhat distracted by the play of light and glitter on the snow. If he’d had his camera with him, he’d have caught some intriguing images.
Once they crossed the porch and descended its two steps, she turned. “Logan, I’m fine. Please, let me go.”
He stopped and held her in place on the walkway, softening his voice. “I didn’t plan on bumping into you today, you know.”
Claire glanced at an orange VW Beetle at the curb before raising one brow. “You didn’t see my car?”
“I didn’t know that was yours.” He covered a smile because he could picture her tooling around town in the miniature car. Bright and preppy like her, in her turtleneck, corduroys, and fuchsia crewneck. “I figured it belonged to someone on the street.”
Her cheeks flushed bright scarlet. He’d always liked that trait because it made her easy to read. Today was different. She didn’t smile or fidget with her hair. She didn’t stutter. She held her arms stiffly at her sides.
&n
bsp; “Claire, what’s with the hostility? Come back inside and let’s catch up. Steffi’s told me about your business, but I’d love to hear how you’re liking it.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t play dumb. I know you’re exploiting our financial situation as a way to buy my forgiveness for your sister. Well, listen up. I’d rather lose my business than forgive Peyton.”
Logan crossed his arms, the chill in his body having nothing to do with the single-digit temperature. “You’ve changed.”
She huffed. “I’ve wised up. I’m no longer too shy to speak my mind or willing to take a back seat simply to make everyone else happy even when it makes me miserable.”
Her words settled between them like a barbwire fence. He said nothing, hoping she’d take them back. When her gaze didn’t waver, he said, “I always thought you were naturally generous and kind, which was so appealing. Pity to learn it was all an act.”
Her nostrils flared, and those bright eyes darkened with a mix of pain and something else he couldn’t identify. “Just like your sister’s friendship, I guess.”
He hated that Claire’s tongue was now as sharp as a scalpel, although maybe he shouldn’t judge her for it when Peyton’s behavior might well have been the whetstone.
She turned from him and took two quick steps. The next few things happened in slow motion: Rosie skidding on a patch of ice and Claire’s feet going out from under her. She landed with a dull thud, faceup, in a snowdrift.
“Claire!” Logan lurched forward to help her up. “Are you hurt?”
She waved him off, but not before he saw tears shining in her eyes. “Just leave me alone, Logan. Please. Go inside.”
He hesitated, jaw clenched, arms lowering as fists formed at his sides. Every ounce of breeding he’d ever had pushed him to assist her, but her flinty attitude held him at bay. “Fine.”
He turned his back on her and strode to the porch just as Ryan came around the side of the house, carrying an open bag of salt. Ryan took in the scene, scowled at him, and then dropped the salt bag and jogged toward Claire.
