by Beck, Jamie
“When can you get those to me?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“Are you sure you don’t want to take a trip to the city? I’ll even throw in a great lunch.” He held his breath. Claire had a well-established sweet tooth. He knew a French bistro in his neighborhood that had amazing desserts.
“No. I can’t do that. I understand if that’s a problem, and like I said before, there are plenty of fantastic designers in New York.” Those blunt words left no wiggle room. He backed away from that fight and tried a different tack, enjoying the tug-of-war, picturing her squaring her shoulders while biting her lip.
“But I want you.” He grinned at the effect those words might have on her. He’d bet she was blushing. “You’ve known me forever, so you’re uniquely positioned to transform my place into a home.”
“I’m not a magician,” came her droll reply. She then cleared her throat. “Kidding.”
Nicely played, Claire. “So you are a magician?”
He could hear her smile through the phone. That warmed him despite another gust of late-winter wind.
“Pretty close. So when will you be able to get me the pictures and dimensions?”
He’d need to move fast so she couldn’t rethink her decision. “How about tonight. Dinner?”
Water splattered beside him as icicles melted from the eaves of the house. He squinted in the sunlight reflecting off the snow. There were no buildings or people as far as the eye could see—a change of pace from his hurried life. Things looked and sounded so different when surrounded by so much quiet space.
“That’s not necessary.”
“No, but it might be nice. Friendly. We can be friendly, can’t we?”
He waited, his eyes taking note of the interesting shapes of blue shadows cast onto the snow-covered lawn by the house behind him. Shadows intrigued him. Always had. Like how they become blurrier the wider the light source.
After a brief sigh, she said, “I suppose.”
“Don’t overwhelm me with your enthusiasm.” He chuckled.
“It’s just . . . I don’t want to be the subject of gossip, Logan.”
“Is this town so dull that us sharing a pizza stirs up gossip?”
“Everyone who knows me will ask what’s going on with us and your sister, and . . . I would rather not have to fend off those questions. Can we please keep things professional for now?”
For now. He couldn’t deny such an honest plea.
Small-town life seemed such a strange world to him after living in Manhattan for the past decade. A city where he could be anonymous in his own building, let alone neighborhood. Where he could share his pizza naked with a harem and not raise an eyebrow.
“Fine. I’ll see you at seven at your house.” He hung up before she could refuse the offer, and smiled, knowing he’d probably just pushed a few of her buttons.
He liked playing with Claire. She looked cute when she turned pink and her eyes lit up with challenge. Then again, that call must’ve been hard for her to make. His offer had put her in a difficult spot, as he’d known it would. She’d done the right thing even though it had to hurt, just like she always did. He admired the hell out of her for that while choosing to ignore what his behavior said about him.
His hands and nose were frozen, so he ducked back inside to find Peyton. If Claire could muster courage over and again, surely his sister could this once, too.
When he returned to the living room, she had stacked some rejects in one pile and was stuffing the keepers into the portfolio they were using to keep organized.
He clapped his hands together. “You’ve decided?”
“We’ll keep going forward. I’ll work from my journal today and see how far I can get.” She hugged her knees to her chest. “If I were less ambivalent, it would improve the tone of the writing. I haven’t found my voice for this project.”
He got that. Some projects flowed like a good dream, while others required a lot more plotting, planning, and pep talks to mine the passion. “You will.”
She shrugged. “Who called?”
Long ago, he and Peyton had made a pact with each other that included a promise never to lie. Even though he was sure a white lie might be the better call at the moment, he kept his word. “Claire.”
Her eyes went wide. “Why?”
“I offered her the chance to redecorate my apartment in Chelsea, and after some thought, she said yes. Not that she had much choice, given the current financial state of her and Steffi’s business.”
“I’m happy for Steffi’s sake, but don’t use this job to pressure Claire.” Peyton pointed her index finger at him. “Do not fight my battle for me. That’ll only make it worse.”
He slung an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry. I’ve got this under control.”
Logan lifted the thick manila envelope off the passenger seat and exited his car. From the sidewalk, he studied Claire’s Craftsman-style home, with its wide front porch, complete with a swing. He envisioned it in spring, imagining what flowers would pop up after the snow melted. What types of plants and grasses—in shades from green to yellow to blue—might frame the home? Would a pitcher of lemonade sit beside that swing, with Claire lying there reading a book while jazz played through an open window? The daydream filled him with nostalgia, like the whole world would slow down when you crossed the threshold.
His family’s life had always been hectic and big. In his youth, he’d wander the streets of town, hopping from one friend’s home to another, aware of the easy vibe and closer spaces within their four walls. Families who played board games while mothers cooked meatloaf. In those hours, he’d get to try on a lifestyle he’d never known, seeking answers the way a young girl dresses up in her mother’s pearls to learn how it feels to be a woman.
An unexpected bout of flutters arose as Logan trotted up the porch stairs and knocked on the door. For most of his life, Claire had been an adorable sweetheart of a girl who made him feel good about himself. But she’d changed.
Thinking back, he’d first noticed it when he’d run into her in town this past fall. He’d kept thinking about her after that brusque encounter on the street. Kept looking for her in town and checking his phone for messages, and not only because he wanted to help his sister. His heart had practically come to a standstill when he’d seen her name on his screen earlier.
The door opened. Claire looked prim as ever. Dark jeans. An extra-long powder-blue sweater with two box pockets on its front, pulled over a cream-colored turtleneck. Tasseled suede loafers. A single pearl in each ear. And Rosie in her left hand. That’s what everyone else would see, anyway.
He noted the catch in her breath. The curve of her heart-shaped face and the bow of her upper lip. The sprinkling of freckles across her nose and the tops of her cheeks. And those eyes. Always those guileless eyes.
“Punctual. That’s a nice surprise.” Her cheeks flushed by the time she finished speaking, and her gaze wandered away until it landed near her feet.
Oddly, this aroused him. Good God, would he start blushing next?
Chapter Five
Focus, Claire. For Pete’s sake, get it together.
But this was new territory. Logan had never been to her home—not as an adult. He’d been to her parents’ house back in the days when she and the Lockwoods and Prescotts had all run around together. It didn’t help to admit that she hadn’t gained much confidence around him since then, or that she couldn’t speak at the moment because her mouth felt like she’d just devoured a box of saltines.
Black jeans hugged his thighs, while a purple dress shirt spruced up the gray T-shirt underneath. The thick tread of his funky black ankle boots squeaked against the porch planks as he tried to knock the snow free. He looked exactly how she’d picture him dressed for a date, so he had to have plans after their meeting. A pinprick of jealousy pierced her stomach, spoiling the moment.
This girlish infatuation should fade now that they were both adults and working together. In no
time at all, he’d go from being that unattainable boy of her childhood fantasies to a regular guy—one with flaws, like all the rest. “Come on in.”
“Thanks.” He wedged himself between her and the doorframe, brushing against her on his way inside, then patted her shoulder like she was some preppy elfin bouncer. “Sorry.”
“No problem.” Miraculously, she hadn’t melted into a puddle even though her insides turned to liquid in his presence. The brief contact made her body hum, raising another threat to keeping upright.
She leaned on Rosie and fought the urge to tug at her sweater, which she’d worn to appear nonchalant. It had taken four attempts to find an outfit that complemented her coloring without being an obvious attempt to look pretty.
She held her breath while Logan glanced around her living room, his gaze resting on a pillow, then a frame, and then the potted African violets lining the window. She’d bought them and the oxalis after Steffi moved out so other living things could fill the house.
“Another home run, Claire.” When he smiled, she blinked as if looking straight at the sun. She missed the halo of long golden locks that used to frame his face. This edgy new look didn’t quite match his personality, especially not the tender reason why he’d cut it. “Now I’m more excited to see how you’ll transform my place.”
“Thank you for the opportunity.” Her gaze fell while she screwed up the courage to apologize for her prior behavior. “I know I wasn’t exactly gracious when you offered me this job.”
“That’s one way to put it.” He grinned.
Another bloom of heat filled her face. “It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the compliment. I just . . . well . . . issues.”
He waved away her apology. “Believe it or not, I understand. I never meant to be cavalier about what happened with Todd. And if I didn’t make it clear, I am very sorry that you got hurt. You certainly didn’t deserve that.”
He stood still, head tipped, a soft expression on his face. She believed his sincerity, which soothed her raw defenses like aloe.
“Thank you.” At least that part was over. She would act normal now, although nothing about this situation came close to her normal. Any time spent alone with Logan in the past had mostly been a happy accident. To have him choose to spend time with her—to collaborate on redecorating his home—made her feel like the floor beneath her had fallen away.
He raised a manila envelope into the air. “Shall we get started?”
She shot her hand out, eager for a change of subject, and for a peek at his home. Finally, some detail about an intimate part of his life. A place where he kicked off his shoes, cooked for himself, slept . . .
“Good idea,” she stuttered, having mentally tripped over the image of his naked torso entwined with linens and pillows.
“You seem tense.” He tilted his head. “How about we open some wine?”
“Oh, uh . . .” It’s not a date, Claire. Not. A. Date. “I didn’t . . . I mean . . . sure, I think I’ve got a bottle.”
“Just one?” he teased.
She made bug-eyes before realizing that he was joking. “Come to the kitchen.”
She could feel him slowing his stride behind her to accommodate her much shorter legs and limp, so she sped up, which emphasized her off-kilter gait. Far from the runway strut of the women he hung out with most days.
When they got to the kitchen, he took a seat at the breakfast bar while she uncorked a bottle of cabernet and poured him a glass.
With an impish grin, he tucked his chin and looked at her through his thick lashes. “I don’t drink alone.”
“Oh, all right.” She poured a little for herself, paused, then added more.
“To the beginning of a productive partnership.” He raised his glass to clink against hers.
Wine with Logan. Another first. Not quite the romantic dinners she used to pretend they’d share, but an evening alone. No Lockwoods, no Peyton.
No buffers.
When she didn’t say anything, he added, “And to getting to know each other again through this endeavor. I usually work with writers, so it’ll be a welcome change to work with someone else with a visual artistic bent.”
She gulped more than half her glass while reminding herself that, despite the flirtatious twinkle in his eye, he hadn’t come here for romance. And, even if, by some miracle, he had any interest in her after a lifetime of not noticing her, it would be moot. She couldn’t be with any man whose beloved sister was her mortal enemy. A tad overstated, but basically the facts. Prescott family dinners were not in her future. Period.
“So let me see what you’ve brought.” She ambled toward the dining table. “Come spread it out here, where I’ve got my laptop and notebook.”
He complied, unfolding a printed copy of his unit’s floor plan for her and then arranging the two dozen photographs he’d printed, obviously taken when he’d been entertaining friends. Beautiful and exotic-looking men and women in small clusters, talking, drinking, laughing . . . living. The images monopolized Claire’s attention. She sat beside him, leaning forward to study each photograph before moving on to the floor plan.
“There are a lot of windows, but you’ve taken these all at night with artificial lighting. I can’t really tell how the sun hits the space. Do other buildings or balconies block the light?” She turned to face him and hitched a breath when she realized how close their faces were. Close enough to kiss.
She hesitated there, mesmerized. At this short distance, he would see every bit of panic in her eyes.
“Maybe you should come see for yourself.” He reached out, then retreated and balled his hand on his thigh.
Claire shifted backward to avoid touching him. “I told you already, I’m not going to New York.” Even as she said the words, she suspected he didn’t believe her. “And just to be clear, this”—she gestured between them and the photographs—“is separate from whatever I do or don’t do with Peyton. So please don’t try to inflict guilt.”
“Claire, even if I wanted to make you feel guilty—which I don’t—how could I? You’ve never hurt a soul.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I know you want me to talk to your sister.”
“I’d love that, but I don’t want you to feel guilty. Feel compassion, maybe. Take the high road. Turn the other cheek. Forgive and forget . . . I don’t know.” He flashed a melancholy smile. “I’m sure there are a bunch of sayings that fit the bill.”
“Look at me, Logan.” No matter how blotchy her neck and face had to be right then, she meant for him to understand that she was as serious now as when she’d been determined to walk again. “I’ll never, ever forget.”
They stared at each other in silence until Logan reached for her hand. He kept his eyes on hers as he pressed her knuckles to his cheek. She bit the inside of hers as heat flooded every inch of her body.
“I hear you,” he said. “I’ll try not to push—not about Peyton, and not about New York.”
“Thank you.” Claire withdrew her hand and curled it against her chest, focusing on breathing steadily. Their conversation had veered into unprofessional territory. Boundaries needed to be maintained, or she’d lose her head and her heart. She flipped her notebook open and clicked the top of a ballpoint pen. “So let’s talk about your tastes.”
His brows shot up. “I thought I hired you for your taste.”
“To a point, yes, but your home has to reflect your personality, not mine.” We’re not a couple, after all.
“I’m curious about your instincts. What do you see for me?”
For an artist, his lack of particularity about his home shocked her. Then again, from what she’d heard throughout the years, he’d spent little time there until Peyton got sick. He’d always been running. Away from his dad? Toward a destiny? Perhaps both? She wasn’t sure. She also wasn’t sure if he knew that answer.
“I’m not sure.” As a teen he’d been fun-loving—an adventurer, a boy with a keen eye for detail and a unique way of seeing thin
gs. Everything she knew of him more recently came from the stories she’d hear and from brief encounters whenever he’d visit his parents, which wasn’t often. “Your adult life is something I know only from a distance. I’ve no idea what makes you feel comfortable.”
“Hang on.” He grimaced and shifted his weight while holding up a finger and tugging his phone out of his pocket. “Hey, Karina, I’m in a meeting. Can this wait until a little later?”
Karina must be the woman he’d dressed up to impress. A new girlfriend, or had they been dating for a while? One of the tall, willowy women in the photos, with long, strong legs and no cane? Claire forced a smile to cover the intense envy that soured her stomach.
“Maybe. We’ll discuss it more when we meet up.” He nodded with a grin. “Promise.”
More silence. Did Karina have a smoky or feminine voice? Whatever the tone, Claire doubted Karina stuttered around Logan like she did. She chugged her wine, causing Logan’s expression to shift, his wide eyes now resembling jade medallions.
“You too. Bye.” He shoved the phone in his back pocket. “Sorry.”
Her cheeks prickled as she struggled to recall what they’d been discussing before her mind had wandered.
“So you were asking me what makes me comfortable.” He rubbed his chin with a shrug. “I like what you did for Steffi and Ryan, and what you’ve done here. Something homey.”
“But your work is bold and intense, like your clothes.” She crossed her arms. Her one big regret about her self-imposed travel ban was that she’d never been to one of his gallery openings. She’d only ever seen his work online or in magazines. She sifted through his apartment photos again. “You chose Chelsea as a home base, not New England. Even these pictures show somewhat industrial interiors and stark furnishings. The modern kitchen and this bit of exposed ductwork bear out my assumptions. Same with the huge plateglass windows.”
