by Beck, Jamie
She dabbed at her pasty cheeks, which were as white as the starched collar of the shirt beneath her sweater. When a car horn blared behind them, she jumped in her seat. “No.”
Seeing her visceral reaction to the swarms of pedestrians facing off with cars in the crosswalks drove home for him her deep-rooted fear. “Are you sure?”
“I’m fine.” She opened the door and exited his car without meeting his gaze, slinging her computer bag over her shoulder. She stood with her back against the wall, her eyes scanning the entrance and dark gray skies beyond like a palace guard.
Logan sighed and handed his keys to Fred. “I’ll be leaving again around three or so.”
“Okay, Mr. Prescott.”
Logan peeled Claire away from the wall, though she followed with great reluctance. “We have to go out to the street and walk past one building to enter mine.”
Again she nodded but said nothing. Late-winter winds whipped down the street, yet perspiration dotted Claire’s hairline as she hugged the buildings. Logan walked between her and the street, careful not to outpace her and Rosie. His doorman, Scott, greeted them before Logan escorted her through the small lobby to the elevators.
Once the doors closed, she released an audible sigh. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I know this is challenging.” He smiled, suspecting that she hadn’t quit, puked, or cried because her inner grit refused to give up, especially in front of him. “It won’t be as difficult the next time.”
She shot him an incredulous look. “Next time?”
“I’m an optimist.” He smiled and gestured to the right, once the elevator doors opened. When they reached his unit door, he pulled out his key while saying, “Now, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
As soon as he closed the door behind them, Claire’s shoulders relaxed and the tension around her mouth disappeared. She set her bag on the floor and walked directly to the wall of windows in the living room. She craned her neck and peered down at the street several floors below. “It’s so busy. Is it always this noisy?”
He came to stand beside her, wanting to wrap his arms around her for comfort but knowing that would likely insult her or make her less comfortable. “It quiets down in the middle of the night.”
She gazed up at him, eyes wide. “How do you get any sleep?”
“You get used to it, like white noise.” Of course, it would never be as pleasant as summer nights at Arcadia House with the window open.
“White noise with sirens and horns?” She shook her head and moved from the window, now scanning his furniture. “The light is better than I imagined, even on a gray day like today. Are there any pieces that you want to keep, for comfort or sentimental reasons?”
“Not really. Like I said, I didn’t pick most of it anyway.”
“I can tell. It doesn’t look like you.” She pointed at a blank wall. “Why don’t you display any of your work?”
“It would depress me to see it here, as if it wasn’t worthy of being hung someplace where other people could view it and be moved.”
A soft smile played on her lips.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I always wondered why you quit fashion photography so quickly, but maybe I understand better now.”
“I liked that job for about three minutes. At twenty-two, being surrounded by ‘beautiful’ women sounded like heaven.” He slouched onto a barstool.
“Don’t pretend it was hell, Logan.”
“It sorta was. They might’ve had symmetrical faces and long legs, but nothing about that world felt genuine or interesting. It was impossible to capture any soul.” He waved a hand in disgust. “I hated it.”
“And you’re happier now, traipsing the world in search of heart-wrenching stories?”
“Infinitely.”
“Good.” She smiled at him like she used to before Peyton hurt her, and like a defibrillator, it kick-started his jaded heart. “Can I go check out the bedroom?”
“Be my guest.” He followed her into his room and turned on the light, staying close, allowing a satisfying sexual tension to build.
Her eyes focused on the body-painted wall before she crossed to it as if drawn by a string. She reached out to touch it while licking her lips, but he felt as if she’d touched him. He had a sudden sense of vulnerability as she studied the canvas, such as it was. What did she see, and what did she think it said about him?
“This took some time.” She didn’t face him when she spoke.
“We weren’t in a rush.” He looked down, wishing he hadn’t deflected with a joke. Not when Claire was always so direct and honest.
Her nostrils flared slightly, but otherwise she remained perfectly still. “How did you get the paint off your bodies?”
“Ever practical, aren’t you?” He grinned. “If I thought that way, I’d probably never do half the things I try. As for this, we showered before most of it dried. You’d be surprised how well baby oil and other home remedies work, though.”
Her head had tipped to the right as she continued examining the wall. He suspected she was trying to make sense of the choreography, so to speak.
“I almost hate to cover this up, Logan.” She finally faced him, then caught her breath when she realized how close he’d come.
“Really?” He inclined toward her as he searched the pools of sapphires and diamonds she called eyes. “I thought you hated it.”
She stared back, her expression soft and full of feeling. “It’s the only thing in this whole place that is uniquely yours.”
Her words seeded a joyful ache in his chest. Once again she saw him—understood and accepted him—as he was. He could kiss her now and she’d let him. He sensed it, and he wasn’t often wrong about these things. His insides tightened with his restraint, but if he pushed her too far, she’d become overwhelmed. He’d let this interest stew a bit and enjoy the anticipation. “You make a good point. Let’s keep it.”
“Okay.” She stepped around him and started for the living room again. “I should get started working. I feel fine inside, so go take care of whatever brought you to town while I take measurements and play around with ideas.”
He followed behind her, stopping at the kitchen island. “I don’t have errands in town. I came to grab my tux for the benefit and get the rejects.” He and Peyton had discussed how some of the images she’d previously approved were too whitewashed. The project would be better served by images with more emotional texture.
“Rejects?” Claire frowned in confusion.
“Discarded photographs.”
“Can I see?” She lit up.
“Well . . .” He paused. He had almost no latitude when it came to discussing his sister. “They’re of Peyton.”
“Oh.” She hugged herself. “For the project?”
“Yes. She’s coming around to using grittier images to make a point.”
Claire turned toward the dining area, where the rejects lay scattered across the table he’d dumped them on the last time he’d come home. Before he could warn her off, she’d crossed to the table and picked one up. He studied her reaction from a short distance.
Her body went still except for the way her brows pinched together. Conflict warred in her eyes. She swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the image of Peyton, in a towel, sitting on the leather bench near the window. Daybreak lit his sister’s shoulders and scalp, giving her body a translucent quality except for the red-rimmed eyes staring at the lens.
Moments ticked by until she said, “I can’t believe she let you take this.”
“She didn’t let me. I caught her crying.” He didn’t shy away from Claire’s disapproving gaze. “She thought I was still sleeping when she came out here after a shower. I’d heard her moving around and came to check on her, but she was in a zone. I grabbed my camera and zoomed in before she knew what I was doing. She turned once she heard the first clicks, and that’s when I got that shot.”
“That’s so invasive.” Claire scow
led.
“That’s what I do.” He pointed at the photo. “See? Genuine, raw emotion. The project won’t mean anything if we don’t dig deep.”
Claire’s expression rapidly changed. “Why was she crying?”
He thought about what Peyton had told him that morning. Her story. Her privacy. But he sensed a softening in Claire, and he couldn’t pass up a chance to remind her that Peyton was more than the only horrible mistake she’d made. “She came out to get water, then went to the window. She was watching the street below come to life. Apparently it got her thinking about how, whether she lived or died, it would all keep going on, and so few people cared about her or would miss her.” His voice cracked a bit, but he covered it with a cough. “Of course, you remember how fond she is of finding silver linings in everything. So she ultimately claimed to be grateful not to be leaving a husband or child behind.”
Claire dropped the photo on the table and spun away. Tension tugged at her features. “I shouldn’t pry into her pain, or yours. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. We’re not hiding it. That’s also the point, right? Our inevitable mortality—the choices and values and relationships we prioritize—all of it creates the life we have and the legacy we leave behind.”
Claire blinked at him as if he’d shined a flashlight in her eyes, then crossed to her purse and rummaged for her notebook. “I hope it’s successful, because it’s so personal to you.”
“And to Peyton.”
“Yes.” Claire opened her notebook without meeting his gaze. He could tell she was having trouble settling her thoughts. “Do what you need to do here. I’ll make my notes, then we can go.”
While she walked around the living space, measuring all manner of things, looking at all of his furniture, and writing down notes, he went to the table to reorganize the rejects. He then returned to his bedroom to get his tuxedo, dress shoes, and cuff links, pausing on his way out to take another look at the body-painted wall. It was the only part of this apartment that reflected anything personal about him. What did it say about him that he could live in such impersonal surroundings for so long and hardly notice?
When he returned to the living area, Claire looked up. “Looks like you’ve got your party gear all set.”
He laid the garment bag flat on the dining table. “How about you? Is your dress pressed and ready to go?”
She shrugged. “I’ll pull out a basic black dress. It’s not like I’ve got a date to impress.”
Without hesitation, he teased, “If you go as my date, you’ll have someone to impress. You look great in blues and greens, by the way.”
She blushed like a bed of roses and waved him off. “Stop it.”
“I’m serious.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Be my date and save me from having to flirt with strangers.”
“Because flirting is so hard for you?” She rolled her eyes. “I’m not going as your date.”
“Why not?” He lifted one arm and sniffed. “Do I stink?”
Claire raised a brow above a sly smile. “Only when you overdo it with cologne.”
“Moi? Never.” The playful idea took deeper roots. The idea of that third kiss rushed back, tempting him. “Come on, let’s go together. It’ll be fun. We can go shopping right now for something special. Imagine the shock on people’s faces when we show up arm in arm.”
Her smile vanished. “I’m not interested in shocking people, being your buffer, or sitting at a table with your sister all night.”
“Sorry.” He’d screwed up by making his invitation sound like a joke because he’d been afraid of rejection. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
She snapped her notebook shut. “Are you hungry? I’m suddenly willing to brave the two-block walk to that bistro you mentioned if the crème brûlée is as good as you promised.”
Chapter Nine
Claire greedily dug her spoon into the profiteroles—which she loved even more than crème brûlée—having earned the ice cream–filled pastries drenched in hot fudge and whipped cream today. First she’d lost ten pounds in sweat, thanks to Logan’s weaving through high-speed traffic on the drive into the city. Then she’d dealt with the ridiculous fake-date proposition. If that weren’t enough, the hectic two-block walk from his apartment to Le Singe forced her to navigate uneven sidewalks through crowds of unfriendly strangers while being assaulted by the sounds of angry drivers and the scent of engine fumes and urban decay. And on top of all that, those photographs of Peyton . . . the depth of sorrow in her eyes . . .
Claire refocused on the sweet, cold vanilla ice cream sliding down her throat.
From her seat in the rear corner booth against the wall, shrouded by warm gold-toned walls with wood paneling and vintage mirrors, which reflected twinkling light from the candlelit tables, she enjoyed a full view of the restaurant. Couples and groups of friends drank and laughed around them, helping her to relax. If she didn’t think about where they were, she could almost pretend this was a nice new restaurant in her hometown.
Logan poured her another glass of muscadet, a dry, light French white wine she’d never before tried. When she darted her tongue out to lick a stray bit of whipped cream off her lip, he smiled. “You’re enjoying this meal.”
The crusty, rich croque madame she’d eaten had topped her family’s mac and cheese in the satisfying comfort-food category. And this dessert—there weren’t words. “I am.”
“If nothing else, lunch was worth the trip, right?” He leaned back, long limbed and lazy.
Casual moments like this made it tough to swallow, and not just because the gargantuan bites of pastry and ice cream were lodged in her throat. She felt helpless in the face of her attraction to his nonchalant elegance. If nothing else, being around him had made the trip worth it. “Do you eat here often?”
“Not too often. There are so many restaurants in the city I try not to limit myself.” He gestured around. “But I do love the lighting here. Plenty of interesting shadows. It’d make for some provocative images.”
As usual when he spoke about work, his gaze turned daydreamy. “I’d love to see the world the way you do,” she said on a sigh.
“Oh no. I don’t think you’d like it inside my head.” He chuckled. “It gets a little crazy.”
“Crazy good, maybe. I see the world through glass, but you seem to see it through a kaleidoscope. The way you describe colors . . . like that time you told me that grass wasn’t green. I thought you’d really lost your mind until you made me study it in the sunlight and see the blades that looked gray because of shade, or the ones that looked white in the sun. The yellow and green and blue blades, too. That was the first peek I ever got into seeing the way an artist does.”
“I don’t remember that, but, God”—he grimaced in a self-mocking manner—“it sounds so pompous. You should’ve laughed at me.”
“It wasn’t pompous. We were on the porch steps at Arcadia on a gorgeous summer day before my injury. You’d come home from somewhere and sat with me for a few minutes while I waited for Peyton. I didn’t know what to say, so I talked about the weather—about the clear blue sky. Then you started in on how the ‘sky’ isn’t really blue and how it can be orange and pink and purple at sunset, and then moved on to the grass not being green. It was interesting.”
A pleased smile played at his lips. “Sounds like I was trying to impress you.”
She snickered. “More likely you were bored and searching for something interesting to talk about.”
“You’ve never bored me, Claire.” He stared at her, tapping his thumb on the table. “Who knew a stray comment would make a lasting impression?”
If only he knew how everything he’d done back then had left an imprint. She’d been content to follow him around like a puppy, basking in any bit of interest, lapping up any knowledge he had to share. That hadn’t changed much, she supposed. His attitude—even when bordering on obnoxious—still fascinated her. “You must have so many stories from all the places you’ve
gone. The things you’ve seen. What strikes me most, though, is how, even with the most gut-wrenching, graphic images you’ve taken, there is hope. It’s a true gift.”
His previously pleasant smile melted into a solemn expression. “Thank you, Claire. That means a lot coming from you.”
She fidgeted under the weight of his gaze as it wandered over her face, intent and searching.
“You’re welcome.” She swallowed the last bit of pastry. “Have you decided when and where you’ll go for work next?”
“Karina and I are still in research mode. We like to focus on a granular perspective, but it’s almost impossible to suss out a unique story from here.”
“I’d rather not know too many details because I’ll worry the whole time you’re away. If you’re gone a few weeks, I’ll empty the grocery aisles from all the stress eating.”
“Thanks for caring . . .” He shifted, crossing his feet at the ankles, and tossed back a healthy swallow of wine, his eyes still fixed on her face. A tremor shook her while she waited for him to finish his thought. “Let’s assume today is the start of a new trend in which you gradually get more comfortable going farther distances from Sanctuary Sound. What’s your dream trip? Where would you go, and why?”
She scraped her dish in a desperate bid to get all the hot fudge off the bottom. “I don’t know.”
“Come on, you must have some idea.” He sipped more wine.
She shook her head. “I don’t. I never let myself think about it, I guess. Makes it easier to be happy at home. Where would you suggest I go?”
“Everywhere! A ride down the canals of Venice followed by a private concert by Andrea Bocelli. A trip to Jerusalem to visit the Western Wall and Temple Mount. The bamboo forests of Kyoto. The deltas of Botswana. The lavender fields of France.” He leaned forward while her mind drifted along the river of those ideas. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to visit major cities like Copenhagen, London, and Paris on a massive decor shopping spree.”
Claire smiled. “Is that a hint? Do you want special pieces from those places for your apartment?”
