by Beck, Jamie
“I bought this at twenty-three when I was trying to break free of my parents’ influence. Fit in with the whole artsy city vibe.” He snickered at himself. “That furniture . . . Cassie picked it, and I just never got around to changing it.”
“Was Cassie a designer?” She hoped her voice hadn’t sounded as skeptical as she felt, but if Cassie was a designer, she was mediocre at best.
“No. A . . . friend.”
“Like me?”
“No, not like you.” His eyes flickered. “A friend with benefits.”
Claire suspected she now resembled a tomato. Something low in her core pooled with warmth. “Benefits,” he’d said with that soft-as-silk voice. Benefits like touching and kissing and . . .
Lord. If she ended up envying all the women who’d enjoyed Logan’s benefits, she’d hate a good portion of the female population. Then again, the names Cassie and Karina indicated a preference for a hard c sound. Just like “Claire.”
She stifled a snigger, then got back to business, holding out one image that showed black and gray shadows or something on a wall in his bedroom. “What’s this?”
He smirked. “Body paint.”
“What?”
“An artist friend and I got a little wild one night. She wanted to leave an imprint on my room. See the handprint there . . . the foot . . . I think that there might be a breast mark . . .”
Claire clamped her open mouth shut as she tried to imagine leaving an impression of her breasts on any man’s wall. “I assume she’s another friend with benefits, yet you kept this here for how long?”
“Two years, maybe. Who remembers? I like it. It was spontaneous and sexy. A vivid memory. Why would I want to paint over it?”
“So this stays—in the new design, I mean?”
“Sure.”
She frowned. “Don’t other women get offended?”
“Why would they?” He dipped his head, his voice teasing her. “They know I’m not a virgin.”
Everyone knew that, because Kelsey Dewitt had announced it after their junior prom. Claire could still feel that sting. “I don’t think I’d like sleeping in the shadow of my boyfriend’s former lover’s body parts.”
“Well, you’re more conventional than most of the women I know.” He stared into his glass, brows pulled together, before polishing it off. “But you have a point. I suppose I could part with it. It’s just paint. I still have the memory.”
She stared at him, trying to read the lines forming between his brows. “Why do you suddenly want a ‘homey’ place?”
It took him a few seconds to meet her gaze.
“I’m almost thirty-two, and I’ve never lived in a real home.” Before she could mask her surprise, he held up his hand. “I know—boo-hoo, right? But I grew up in one kind of museum and now live in another. For once, it might be nice to come home and have it feel like a place I want to hang out. A place I can just be.”
“Oh.” His plea sounded lonesome, and she knew something about that. It’s why she talked to her plants all the time. She wanted to hug Logan and commiserate, even though she could hardly imagine someone like him being lonely. He wouldn’t lie, though, which made it even more critical that she create a cozy yet trendy home befitting him. “Well, then, I’m sure I can give you what you need.”
He tipped his head, wearing an expression she didn’t recognize, and covered her hand again. “I’m pretty sure you can, too.”
Claire’s heart bounded ahead of her brain, thumping like a rabbit’s foot. She didn’t want to read into those words, or into the way he was staring at her now, almost as if he hadn’t seen her for years . . . as if he’d never really seen her before now.
Logan withdrew his hand and poured himself a second glass of wine. The room was too warm, his throat too dry. He didn’t know why he’d confessed those things to Claire, but now he was picturing her covered in paint.
Not that she would figure that out. Once she’d started to study the architectural plans, he became as interesting to her as the chair he sat on. She focused on them so intently he could practically hear her thinking. Her sharp, earnest, determined mind at its problem-solving best. But even better yet, the way she leaned in to get that close look let him examine her soft skin, the perfect curve of her skull, and the rounded tip of her chin. He’d never before paid attention to Claire’s body—other than noticing her limp, of course. Now he noticed and responded in a way he didn’t expect or particularly know how to handle.
His scalp and the back of his neck tingled with hyperawareness. The floral scent of her soap awakened him like smelling salts passed beneath his nose. He held his breath for a second when she tucked her hair behind her ear and traced the lines of his apartment walls with her delicate pointer finger. What would that featherlight touch feel like on his chest or lower on his abdomen?
He blinked, snapping himself back to the business at hand.
“You used to love green. Is that still a favorite, or do you like bolder colors like the purple you’re wearing?” Claire opened her laptop and pulled up a bunch of Pinterest boards.
Hundreds of them, all labeled.
Living Rooms—traditional—cream and taupe.
Living Rooms—transitional—cream and taupe.
Living Rooms—modern—cream and taupe.
Living rooms—art deco—cream and taupe.
Living rooms—rustic—cream and taupe.
And that was just the beginning of the cream-and-taupe combos. She repeated those categories with earth tones, jewel tones, European, antique, and on and on.
He couldn’t believe it. Then again, she had worked in this business for a decade. “Did you do all of these spaces?”
“If I had, I wouldn’t need your money,” she teased. “I’ve collected these images and grouped them together by palette and style so I can get a quick impression of a client’s tastes.” She pushed the screen closer to him. “Scroll through them and tell me which boards appeal or, conversely, which you hate.”
In his work, he hungered for bold color contrast and plays of light and shadow. In his living space, he wasn’t sure. He eliminated every board featuring ultramodern furniture. Rustic styles held some appeal, but not for everyday decor. In the end, he kept circling back to the “transitional/wine” board—bold yet warm—and furniture that looked comfortable but simple. Nothing fussy. No tassels or fringes or nailhead trim. “I like this.”
“Do you?” She smiled like she knew a secret.
A secret he wanted to know. Worse, he wanted to know her secrets. “Why do you suddenly look like I handed you a diamond ring?”
She exited the page, her cheeks glowing as red as a hot kiln. “I do not.”
“Yeah, you kinda do. Did I pick a girlie board or something?”
“No.” She cleared her throat. “These images are rich without being feminine. The style works for a single person or a couple.”
“Good to know my ‘someday wife’ will approve.”
Claire’s expression froze, her smile fading a touch.
“She should. It’s what I would’ve picked for you, in any case.” She turned away and gathered his photographs and drawings. “Let me play around with these for a bit and come up with a general plan, then we can meet again to go over that. In the interim, feel free to send me images you like. Artwork or lamps or whatever. Sound good?”
“Sure.” He took a sip of his wine and relaxed into his seat.
She cocked her head, brows pinched in confusion. “I’ve got nothing more for you at the moment.”
The challenge of holding her attention made him dig in. “Are you kicking me out before we finish the wine?”
“Oh?” She twirled a hank of hair in her finger, reverting to the tongue-tied Claire of their youth. “Don’t you have to meet your girlfriend?”
He leaned forward. “Girlfriend?”
“The woman who called earlier.” Claire smoothed her hand over the envelope of photographs. “Karina?”
A
nother former friend with benefits, not that Claire needed to know that. He’d already told her too much about his sex life, and none of it had impressed her. He shook his head. “A—she’s a colleague. B—we’re meeting later next week.”
“I thought you worked alone.”
“Not always. Karina’s a journalist who wants to team up on a new project.” She was passionate about shining a light on people in crisis. She’d dragged him to the Caribbean islands, including her parents’ homeland, Puerto Rico, months ago to interview and photograph hurricane victims and tell their stories. It’d been timely but lacked an essential element that would make it a standout piece in a sea of similar reports.
“You sounded excited to catch up.”
“Honestly, I’ve stepped away from big projects these past few months while caring for Peyton and taking her to chemo, so I’m ready to do something for myself again. But the timing isn’t perfect . . .” They’d have to agree on an idea and conduct research before he’d know if any project called to him in that important way he needed.
Claire fell quiet. Her jaw looked tight, her body stiff, as if bracing for an attack. He’d momentarily forgotten about her aversion to all things Peyton or he wouldn’t have brought her up.
Rosie sat propped up against a chair, serving as a reminder of Ben Lockwood’s lecture. Logan had promised not to push her toward forgiveness, but she couldn’t expect him to never mention Peyton’s name in any context. “You’re mad that I mentioned my sister.”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“I was just thinking that she’s very lucky to have you.” Claire glanced at his hair. “You’ve sacrificed a lot to help her. I hope she appreciates it.”
He ran his hand over his head, which still felt so strange. “Looks weird, huh?”
“Not weird. Different. You haven’t had short hair since you were thirteen. Even then, it wasn’t this short.” She reached out, but drew her hand back. “Sorry.”
He tipped his head toward her, wanting to feel her hands on his scalp. “Go ahead. It feels like a brush.”
She stroked her palm across his head twice, softly playing with the short strands. Goose bumps raced down his neck and spine. If she were any other woman, he’d grab her wrist and pull her in for a kiss. If she were any other woman, she’d want him to, too.
She teased, “You’re right. Thick and bristly. Maybe you should use this to paint another wall in your room.”
He scanned her eyes but saw no clear invitation in them. He couldn’t afford to make a misstep now, no matter how strongly the sudden sexual impulse struck.
“It’ll be a year or more before I look normal again.” He smirked. Truthfully, he missed his hair a lot more than he would’ve anticipated. It had been part of his armor as well as a tool of seduction.
“Eighteen months at least.” She smiled. “Of course, your dad must think this is the first time you’ve looked ‘normal’ in years.”
Logan laughed. “You’re right about that.”
“How are your parents?”
He could never answer that question without feeling a slight twist in his stomach. He supposed his parents were happy together. They didn’t argue much. They seemed to value the same kinds of things—appearances, ambition, power. They weren’t bad parents; they just weren’t warm or nurturing.
They had visited Peyton weekly during chemo but hadn’t doted on her as many other parents might’ve under the circumstances. Even now, with Peyton under the same roof, his parents hadn’t rearranged their schedules much to assist her.
“Distant” would be the best word to describe them. He’d never really known them—and probably never would. He didn’t care so much at this point, although, in a sense, even that fact made him sad.
“The same,” he finally answered her question. “He’s buying hotels. Mom’s planning the fund-raiser.”
“Hotels? I thought your dad’s company focused on residential developments and apartments.”
“It does, mostly. Not sure why the sudden change. Actually, I take that back. Ego. He couldn’t resist sticking the Prescott name on seaside hotels. Now we can profit off people’s vacations, too.” Logan didn’t like the sneer in his voice. He could even admit to the hypocrisy of enjoying his trust fund while deriding the company that contributed to its account. “It’s a string of boutique inns. I suspect they’re on the shabby side, so he’ll need to renovate them.”
Claire’s eyes lit even as she sighed. “Fun project.”
Another potential hook. “You should pitch him for that job. It’d make my fee seem meager.”
She shook her head. “I won’t be asking your dad for a job in this lifetime.”
“Just because he and I don’t get along doesn’t mean you shouldn’t use him to grow your company.”
“It’s not that, although I’ve never liked the way he’s always tried to change you.”
He hid behind another gulp of wine. “It’s embarrassing to know that you picked up on that.”
She shrugged apologetically. “I’m observant, and Peyton shared stuff with us. Don’t forget, we were in your house a lot.”
“I remember. Three hellions with ponytails.” He recalled a young Claire, fresh from tennis practice, racing in to join Peyton and Steffi in the sunroom for their scrapbooking, or whatever the hell they were doing with that big quilted binder they’d lugged around. “You’re probably wise to steer clear of my dad. He’s a ballbuster.”
She bristled. “I can take whatever he dishes out.”
“I know exactly how tough you are. I spent plenty of time at your house while you recovered.” Claire’s parents had been the opposite of his. Warm, welcoming, full of smiles and affection. Maybe if he’d grown up in that type of environment, he wouldn’t have been as eager to escape home.
“Yes, Peyton dragged you over all the time.” Claire raised her hand to cover her eyes.
“She never had to drag me. I liked checking in on you.” He drew her hand away from her face. “You inspired me.”
“Did I?” She looked dumbfounded by the idea.
“Hell yeah. A person no bigger than a minute making such a big comeback, always with a determined expression. I wish I’d taken photographs of you then.”
“God, no! I’m at least two heads shorter and way less photogenic than your former subjects.” She waved both hands in front of her face while referring to his early days as a fashion photographer.
“You’re much prettier than any of them—they’re all false eyelashes, egos, and bored expressions. Your face is complex. Your eyes emote before you have a chance to filter your reactions. And the shape from your forehead to the tip of your chin forms a perfect heart.” His thumb itched to trace that line.
She blushed furiously. “Well, I’m glad there aren’t photos of those days. No need to remember that time in vivid detail.”
“I disagree. If I had pictures, you’d see how beautifully single-minded and optimistic you were. How brave.” Logan recalled with crystal clarity her stubborn, quick smile . . . even the way she’d mourned tennis had been dignified. She’d donated all her clothing and gear to kids training for the Special Olympics and often gone to the local tennis center to offer younger kids tips from the sidelines. “Frankly, having watched you come through that with such strength, and seeing you take a leap of faith with this new business venture, I’m shocked that you let the Todd thing drag at you. Of all the people on the planet, he’s the least worthy of your tears or regrets.”
The shooting had killed some of her confidence, and Todd’s rejection had killed more. Logan wanted to bring it all back to life now.
“I’m over Todd, Logan.” Ice encased that vehement tone. She cocked one brow. “Trust me, I’m not wasting tears on him.”
“Just Peyton, then.”
Claire crossed her arms. “You know I don’t want to talk about this.”
“I’m only trying to understand you, not defend Peyton.”
�
�It’s quite simple. I loved Peyton like a sister. Her betrayal hurt me much more than Todd did. Think about how you’d feel if she betrayed you, and then it should be easy to understand me.”
Logan rested his chin on his fist and tried to imagine Peyton screwing him over. “I honestly can’t imagine that. But if she ever hurt me, I know I’d find a way to forgive her. That’s what family does. That’s what love is, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” Claire shot him a perturbed look. “Then why can’t you get along with your dad? He’s been demanding and, at times, demeaning, but he’s never betrayed you. Still, you hold on to bitterness.”
“That’s different.” He closed his hands around the wineglass, the muscles in his forearms tightening.
“Only to you because you’re not ready to make peace. That’s how it is for me with Peyton.”
They stared at each other for a few seconds before he quickly finished his wine and what remained of hers. “You’re right. So maybe we both need to take a hard look in the mirror, then, and be willing to turn the page and start fresh.”
“I’d never trust her again.” Claire’s voice didn’t even sound angry. Just final. Emotion he could work with, but flatness? Finality? Maybe this battle would be harder than he’d thought.
“You could at least let her apologize. How hard can that be?” He knew he’d made another misstep with his abrupt tone.
Claire blew a long, slow breath through her nose and pushed the envelope in front of him. “As much as I’d love to do this project, this conversation is exactly why I originally declined.”
Shit. He grabbed her hand. “I’ll stop. I swear. I’m done. I want you to do this work. Please.”
He kept hold of her hand. Not because he wanted to help his sister, but because he wanted Claire’s imprint on his home.
“You already made and then broke that promise.” She withdrew her hand.
“Sorry. I mean it. I won’t ask again.”
The skeptical look in her eyes had him planning out another argument, but eventually she relented. “Okay. I’ll call you later this week to talk about my ideas.”
“Sounds like you’re kicking me out.” He pushed his chair back and stood.
