by Beck, Jamie
Peyton tensed. “‘All this’ will never be behind me, Mom. My future involves many checkups and always wondering if a few mutant cells are attacking some other part of my body. I’ll be aware of every little health hiccup for the rest of my life, however long or short that might be. If I can live with that, I suppose I can handle strangers I’ll never meet seeing me look like a bald, boiled lobster.”
Logan reached out to rub his sister’s back, knowing she hadn’t quite gotten comfortable with this idea. At least he could always count on her to defend his plans in the face of parental disapproval, though. “Attagirl.”
“What can I say? I’m feeling optimistic today.” She slid onto a seat beside him.
“What brought about this change?” he asked.
Peyton leaned forward with her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand. “I spoke with Claire.”
“Really?” Their mother took another sip of wine, her concerned expression replaced by one of satisfaction. “How’d you manage that?”
“I didn’t.” Peyton smiled at him. “Logan did.”
The look on his sister’s face lifted his heart in a way he hadn’t felt in all the months since she’d gotten sick. And yet an unexpected twinge tempered his joy. As much as he welcomed the first hint of light in his sister’s eyes, he suspected that conversation had depleted Claire. Not that she’d let anyone see behind her stoicism.
“Logan did?” their mom asked. “I don’t understand.”
“Logan’s hired Claire to redecorate his place in Chelsea and asked her to let me apologize. She didn’t feel comfortable denying his request while taking his money.”
When she put it that way, it sounded awful. A little too much like something his parents might do, frankly. He’d been a tad manipulative, but he’d acted in the best interest of both women.
“So it went well?” he asked, distracted by the idea he’d told himself only what he wanted to believe in order to get what he wanted.
Peyton shrugged. “She came to Thai Basil to get takeout and stopped by my table. She accepted my apology, but she’s not ready to be friends.”
“It’s a start.” Their mom tapped her fingernail against the wineglass, her mind already churning ahead. “Claire has always been a class act. It’s nice that she did it in public. When others see you two speaking, it’ll take some of the heat off you. Everyone loves the McKennas. The whole neighborhood defends and protects Claire because of her injury. Your affair with Todd really hurt the family name.”
“Mom,” Logan grumbled. “Not helpful.”
“What? Can’t we speak truths in this house?” She waved him away.
Truth. Was there such a thing, or did everyone view situations differently and derive their own truths? This was the kind of debate he’d enjoy with friends, but it would die right here on the kitchen floor if he posed that question to his mom.
She broke the silence. “Since no one wants to help me plan the gala, I’ll slink back to my office to work alone while you two do this. Before you shop this project outside these walls, we should have a family meeting and talk about the right kind of PR.”
She blew them an air-kiss and strolled away, taking the bottle of wine with her.
Logan shook off the PR remark and turned to his sister. “I’m happy Claire forgave you. That’s the first step.”
“She didn’t forgive me. She accepted my apology. But at least we looked each other in the eye and spoke for the first time in more than a year.” She bumped shoulders with him. “Thanks for applying your charming-but-not-too-subtle pressure on her even though I asked you not to. Now I don’t have to panic if I see her again. We can be civil, if nothing else.”
Peyton might be satisfied, but he wanted more for her, and for Claire. He wanted to mend that relationship so neither of them felt pain anymore. They’d both suffered enough. Slinging his arm around her shoulders, he kissed her temple. “Anything for you.”
She squeezed his hand before turning her attention to the pages. “So you think these don’t suck? I still feel like I’m not finding the right voice for the project. Look here, how clinical and stiff.”
“It’s a bit stilted, but there are gems in here when you’ve let your guard down. When you edit, approach it all through that personal filter. Eliminate the distance. Don’t be a narrator. Just be you.”
She sighed and let her head fall back. “It’s exhausting being me.”
“Think about all the fun we’ll have horrifying Mom and Dad by putting this out into the world.” He smirked, which elicited her laughter.
“You’re bad, Logan. Mom tries. She thinks what she’s doing helps us, even if you don’t agree. And you know I don’t wholly disagree with her. It makes me nervous to think about other people seeing these images.” She sighed, pulling the photos closer to study them. “Okay, let me see which go best with these pages.”
While she sorted the pictures and read through his notes, he sat back and thought about his mom—about his family. He’d never understood why Peyton wasn’t more bothered by their parents. Somehow she was able to accept them as they were and be happy enough. Why couldn’t he?
If he didn’t look so much like the rest of them, he’d swear he was adopted.
The rest of them enjoyed the public role of being a Prescott, while he yearned for something greater. He wanted to make a difference to something or someone before he died, and he wanted to do it on his own talent. It wasn’t about money or family prestige; it was about leaving something of real value in his wake.
Then he thought of Claire. A strong yet softhearted woman who, unlike his family, had always remained rooted in things that truly mattered. Who valued courage and integrity over brand and image. Who, because of those values, forced herself to face Peyton for him.
He wanted to do something nice for her as a thank-you. Something selfless to help her reach her own goals and find happiness. He pulled up her website on his phone and scrolled through the gallery, shaking his head. Could he bring himself to do some architectural shoots for her, knowing his peers would frown on him if they found out?
That evening, Logan climbed Claire’s porch steps and knocked on her door. If he’d called ahead, she would’ve put him off with a million excuses. Also, he would’ve been locked into coming. Until five minutes ago, he wasn’t sure the benefit of this move outweighed the potential professional flak. Now he cracked his knuckles and tapped his toes, waiting for her to answer the door.
Within seconds, her eyes and forehead appeared through the windows near the top of the door. She must’ve risen onto her tiptoes. At the moment of eye contact, she dropped down, disappearing from view.
“Logan!” she croaked through the unopened door. “Why are you here? We didn’t have an appointment, did we? I haven’t finished the plans for your apartment yet.”
He stared at the lemon-yellow door. “I stopped by to thank you.”
“Thank me?” A silent pause ensued, broken only by the rumble of the car driving by behind him. “Oh. You spoke to Peyton.”
Why was she hiding from him? “Can you open the door before we finish this conversation?”
Two seconds later, she wedged her body into the narrow crack she’d opened, her cheeks blazing like a fiery summer sun before it dips below the horizon. She clutched the neckline of her fuzzy pink robe with one hand, a king-size Snickers bar dangling from the other. Green snowflake slipper socks completed her ensemble. With a resigned shrug, she muttered, “Hi.”
Everything about her appearance loosened all his muscles as if he’d just exhaled. If it wouldn’t have shocked her, he might’ve lifted her off the ground and twirled her around. “Is that candy bar your way of dealing with the emotional fallout from Peyton’s apology?”
She glanced away, sighing.
“Thank you, Claire. I know speaking with my sister wasn’t easy, but I’m grateful. This afternoon is the first time in months that I’ve seen her look the least bit optimistic.”
“D
on’t get too excited.” She peered up at him somberly through her lashes. “I heard her out, but please don’t expect more.”
“I don’t.” Not yet, anyway. He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed slightly. “I’m actually here to do something for you.”
She released her robe, gripping the edge of the door with her hand. “Why does that make my stomach drop?”
He shrugged. She might not quite know what to make of him, yet her eyes filled with curiosity. The intoxicating combination tempted him to prolong the conversation. “Invite me inside and I’ll tell you my idea.”
She closed her eyes, her chin dropped to her chest, then she looked up and waved him in. “Why not?”
He breezed past her and shrugged out of his coat, when he noticed the coffee table littered with empty junk-food wrappers and bags. “Jesus. Did you rob a convenience store?”
She crossed her arms, still clutching her half-eaten candy bar. “You said you came to do me a favor, not make fun of me.”
“True.” He spied some peanut M&M’s. “May I have some?”
She hesitated, as if she couldn’t spare them, although the amount of chocolate and sugar she’d already consumed would’ve put him in a coma. “I guess.”
“Let’s sit.” He gestured toward the living room.
She chewed a hunk of the Snickers bar and plopped onto the sofa.
He sat beside her and palmed a few M&M’s. When she wedged herself into the corner, he turned his body to face her. Her gaze dropped to his knee, which he’d planted two inches from hers.
“I browsed your website. The colors, fonts, and function work well, but the gallery photos . . . well, those look unprofessional, like you or Steffi used your iPhone and uploaded them.”
“We did.” She broke another chunk off the shrinking Snickers bar and popped it into her mouth, mumbling, “We’re on a budget.”
“I know, so let me retake those photos. Better lighting and angles—artfully framed architectural shots—will give your site more polish and reflect your professionalism. No need to announce your meager budget to the world with amateur photography.”
That slight smile tugging at the corners of her lush mouth would taste like chocolate and caramel now.
“That’s quite an offer, but it’ll lead to more strings.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to feel obligated to deal with Peyton on a regular basis because you’ve helped me again. You don’t owe me anything. I heard Peyton out because you hired me as a favor, so we’re even.”
She balled up the wrapper and tossed it onto the accumulating pile, then motioned for him to hand her some M&M’s.
“I hired you because you’re good at your job, not as a favor. Shooting your projects for free is my thank-you . . . no strings. Honestly, it’ll give me something to do while I’m hanging out in town.” When she seemed skeptical, he added, “I could use an excuse to get out of the house. Otherwise my mom will drag me into all the last-minute gala BS.”
“God forbid you help her with that,” she teased, popping a green M&M in her mouth.
He shifted his body, edging closer. Fuzzy robes weren’t sexy, yet Claire’s cozy pajamas lured him nearer, as if proximity would pass on her comfort by osmosis. “You think that sounds like fun?”
“Of course I do. People around here look forward to that party all year. It’s a great cause and a chance to dress up.”
“I suppose I never looked at it that way.” The literacy fund-raiser was a snooze fest compared with his typical A-list parties in New York. But maybe there was more value in it than he’d ever wanted to acknowledge.
“You’ve probably never looked at a lot of things the way the rest of us do. You might have a love-hate relationship with your last name, but most people would kill for the doors it opens.”
“You’re seeing all the benefits and none of the downside. Trust me, when you’ve got my name, you’re never sure whether people are just using you as a stepping-stone to some other goal.”
Instead of mocking him, she regarded him with compassion. “That’s sad.”
Normally, Logan reflected only what he wanted people to see, but Claire’s knowing gaze might as well have been a microscope lens. “It’s the way of the world, I suppose. Guess I’ve become a cynic.”
Her responding shallow smile proved she saw his retreat for what it was.
“Don’t expect me to feel too sorry for you. The name, the money, the looks . . .” She blushed, twining the robe’s sash around her fingers.
He watched her fingertips turning white. Still harboring that childhood crush on him? Sweet, but he wanted her to find him attractive for reasons other than his face now.
“And yet none of that has convinced you to take me up on my current offer.” He stretched his arm along the back of the sofa, effectively surrounding her from the tip of his fingers to his knees, all of which itched to touch her.
“I don’t even know if our clients would let us back into their homes.” She hugged her knees to her chest, then popped two more pieces of candy in her mouth.
“Now there’s where my name will come in handy.” He flashed a playful grin. “What Sanctuary Sound resident wouldn’t want Logan Prescott taking photographs of his or her home?”
She laughed so hard she almost choked. “You’re bad, Logan.”
He leaned close enough to smell something other than chocolate and peanuts. Something soft and light, like lilac. “I like you this way, Claire.”
“What way?” One of her brows rose.
“This whole ‘take no prisoners’ attitude seasoned with an occasional wisecrack . . . it’s diverting. Keeps me on my toes.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Believe it or not, that’s not my goal.”
“Prove it. Accept my offer.” A triumphant smile worked its way through his whole being. “Come on, you can be my assistant. It’ll be fun.”
“Can you even take those kinds of pictures? I thought you were a street photographer.”
He scoffed, easing away. “It’s much harder to capture great images in the moment than it is to stage them. Trust me, I can shoot a kitchen or a bathroom.”
He wanted to do this with her. Say yes. When she pressed herself deeper into the cushions, he added, “Don’t underestimate the value of a professional website for grabbing customers’ attention and selling services.”
Her head bobbed from side to side as if weighing the pros and cons of dealing with him more than she’d already agreed to. “I’ll call our clients.”
He released his breath in a whoosh. “They’ll all say yes.”
“All?” Her strawberry-blonde hair shimmered under the lamplight when she shook her head at him. Thick, silky hair that would feel great sliding through his fingers. “Now you’re being cocky.”
“Maybe.” He smirked. “We could make a bet, unless you’re a chicken.”
She stared at his outstretched hand and bit her lip. When she clasped it, she did so with the healthy caution a snake handler does a python. “What do I get when you lose?”
He gazed into eyes as deep and blue as the Sound on a cloudless day, wanting to dive right in and not come up for air. “Whatever you want.”
The flush rose up her neck like mercury in a thermometer. “How do you know I won’t take advantage of you?”
“I’m not worried, because I’m sure I’ll win.” He broadened his grin, still holding on to her hand, wishing she’d use it to pull him into a kiss.
“How do I know you won’t take advantage of me?” She raised one brow.
He squeezed her hand, refraining from tugging her to his chest. “You don’t.”
Chapter Seven
“The flowers gave these shots a nice punctuation.” Logan placed his camera in its case and began disassembling the tripod. “Good call.”
“Thanks.” Claire dragged her gaze away from him to glance at the cut-glass vase she’d filled with fragrant white lilies, fuchsia snapdragons, bells of Ireland, and pink peonies. With an uninte
ntional sigh, she said, “I love the romance of fresh-cut flowers.”
He paused, flashing her a quick smile. “I meant that the pop of color is a great contrast against all this white tile and marble.”
She turned away for a second, closing her eyes as if that would somehow erase the fact that she’d just blabbered about romance while he’d been focused on the work. Maybe she should mention that she’d picked an arrangement that also paired nicely with the “Brittany Blue” cabinets . . . not that he’d care about that.
In any case, the Duvalls’ master bedroom and bathroom renovation might be one of Claire’s favorite projects to date. Its massive glass shower stall, complete with a built-in bench seat and ledges for soap and shampoo, could easily fit two people. His-and-her vanities flanked opposite walls. And the giant white soaker tub situated in an alcove beneath a large arched window added a romantic old-world touch to the renovated room.
There it was again. Romance on the brain.
Spending the past hour in this intimate space with Logan had produced many fantasies. Heart-pounding, hot flash kinds of daydreams that forced her to fan herself whenever he wasn’t looking. Not that she would’ve traded this afternoon for anything. Time alone with Logan would quickly become addictive if she didn’t keep reminding herself that he had his own agenda and, soon enough, he’d be gone. Still, while he was here, she couldn’t quite bring herself to push him away.
He snapped the bag shut and started to remove the scrim he’d put in the windows to diffuse the sunlight reflecting off the marble surfaces and mirrors. “Too bad we didn’t have real movement in these frames, but without a human element, there wasn’t much I could do about that.”
The tension of stifled creativity rolled off him.
“Thank you for doing this for us, Logan. I’m grateful.” More than grateful. After years of picturing him at work, her now bearing witness to him pacing the floor, considering angles, and setting up shots added new data to her mental dossier. Images she’d be able to revisit once she reached the safe space of her bedroom.
Before today, she’d always envisioned him working with more swagger, his formerly long hair falling across his brow, a half smirk of a smile as he chose his shots, flirty banter with anyone on the set. In reality, he’d focused on the task to the point where she’d felt invisible except for when he’d asked her if she had a preference for what to feature, or if she could move something from one place to another.
