The Promise of Us

by Beck, Jamie

  “I am being honest. I was just stunned into silence. You’re an artist, Claire. This takes such imagination—vision—and an understanding of color and balance, and personality.” When he rubbed her shoulder, she felt grateful that her elbow was on the table supporting her—otherwise she might’ve melted into a puddle. “Thank you for taking the time to get this so right.”

  She couldn’t contain her smile. “You’re welcome, but we’re not done. There’s an alternate floor plan, and I haven’t shown you the bedroom yet.”

  Logan nixed the second floor plan for the living space. His velvet voice curled around her when he said, “Let’s see the bedroom.”

  She pulled up those images, praying her face didn’t broadcast the fantasies she’d spun while designing the master suite. The charcoal linen headboard she’d selected looked sharp against pale-gray walls. Two square emerald-green pillows trimmed in navy added a pop of color to the mostly white bed linens. A navy rug with splashes of white lent warmth to the otherwise cool space. Clean, crisp, and soothing. The body-art wall, with its charcoal and gray tones, remained intact.

  Logan’s lips parted a tad as he studied the image. “I love it.”

  Her heart filled with satisfaction. “I’m so glad you’re happy.”

  “There’s only one problem.” His serious tone set her back.

  “Oh?” She studied the design, searching for the flaw.

  He then flashed an impudent grin. “I might never get out of that bed.”

  Her chuckle emerged raspy because her throat had gone a bit dry.

  “I never appreciated what a good decorator could do until now. The transformation is stunning.” He raised his glass. “Well done.”

  Despite the compliments, coming up with this design wasn’t the end of her job. Now she had to locate the right fabrics to mimic what she’d conceived. More important, she’d yet to find the personal touches that would make it distinctly Logan’s home. Her mind kept circling around photography and the shore—his passion and his childhood. She just couldn’t come up with the right idea. But she would. She had to.

  “How long will it take until it looks like this?” he asked.

  “It depends on your parameters—stock versus custom order—and so on. Did you want to shop with me, or should I take photos and send them to you?”

  “I don’t have the patience for shopping. Based on this, I trust your taste implicitly. I’m not picky and don’t care about designer labels or custom anything. Whatever is comfortable and works, and the sooner we can do it, the better. I can’t wait to call this place home.”

  She smiled, although that statement fell on her heart like a hammer because his home was nearly one hundred miles away. If she were sly, she’d order handmade furniture from around the world so that it wouldn’t be completed for six to nine months.

  “I’ll get started this week. Steffi will be demolishing Mrs. Brewster’s bathroom, too, so suddenly business is looking up for us. If this keeps up, we’ll be able to rent a small space in town soon.” She drank more of her wine while Logan stared at her in a way that generated combustible heat. But these feelings went so far beyond fleeting passion. A river of gratitude swelled in her heart. “Thank you for hiring me for this job. It’s been a lifesaver, in more ways than one.”

  “Oh?” He leaned closer, widening his feet on the floor, refusing to break eye contact. “In what other ways, Claire?”

  She finished her wine before answering him, letting its warm tickle fan through her limbs. “As much as I griped, going to the city and Rhode Island reminded me of the life I used to take for granted before my injury. I’m not ready to dash off everywhere or throw my scrapbook in the fire, but maybe, in time, I’ll get more comfortable traveling beyond these few coastal communities.” She shrugged at the meager victory. “At least now I want to try.”

  His beautiful eyes shimmered. She’d expected a self-satisfied response, not this heartfelt expression. He reached for one of her hands and held it in both of his. “So I helped you?”

  “You did.” She reached up to touch his cheek with her free hand, then let it fall. “And that’s not all. I’m going to pitch your dad for the chance to decorate his new hotels.”

  “Really?” Logan let go of her hand and sat back, his smile less certain. “I know I suggested that earlier, but I’m not sure you’d like working with him.”

  “I doubt I’d work directly with him much, but a nonresidential project of that magnitude could do wonders for our bank account and rep. At the very least, we’d definitely have the money to lease the retail space I’ve been wanting.”

  “And the travel?”

  “First things first. We have to win the contract. If that happens, I’ll find a way to force myself to go, just like I did with you. Steffi will be with me.” She shrugged. “Can’t hurt to submit a bid, anyway.”

  He tilted his head and folded his arms, appearing to be in conflict with himself. “I thought you didn’t want to get more involved with my family because of Peyton.”

  Claire pictured Peyton, who’d courageously come to face more rejection today. “She and I will never be friends like before, but fate keeps pushing us together—at the upcoming gala, as part of Steffi’s bridal party. It’s obvious that I have to rebuild some kind of relationship with her. For Steffi’s sake, and mine.”

  Without warning, Logan pulled her onto his lap and laid his cheek against her head. “You have no idea how happy this makes me, for everyone’s sake, including ours.”

  Ours. No better word existed in any language. Of course, Logan wasn’t implying any long-term promise. He was firmly an “in the moment” guy. For now, she’d give his philosophy a try to savor each second without projecting ahead to maybes and wishes.

  She kept her cheek resting on his shoulder, nestling against him, glad for the chance to say some things without having to look in his eyes. “I’m sorry about this morning and for ruining what had otherwise been a memorable night.”

  He felt so warm and yet solid at the same time. It still astounded her that, after all these years and dreams, she could be sitting on Logan’s lap at his invitation.

  “Memorable enough to repeat?” He slowly massaged her back and waist, as if waiting for permission to do more. He raised his head, tipping it sideways to catch her eye.

  She turned her face until they shared the same breath. “Yes.”

  He crushed his mouth to hers, gripping her head with one hand while pulling her snugly against him with the other. She could feel him hardening beneath her bottom.

  “Let’s take the wine upstairs.” He nipped at her lower lip. “We’re filling the bathtub with bath salts and hot water while you’re feeling this adventuresome.”

  “That’s a real thing with you, isn’t it.” She kept her arms loosely wound around his neck. Her human life raft.

  “It is.” He kissed her again.

  Yet another way he’d push her out of her comfort zone. No more shrouding her scars under blankets and the cover of darkness. Being naked in a tub would fully expose them. He’d see them turn redder the longer they soaked in hot water. Ugly reminders of lifelong limitations and pain.

  “Trust me,” he urged. “There’s nothing you need to hide from me.”

  She nodded her consent even as she trembled from the thought. Logan rose, keeping her in his arms and carrying her up the stairs to her room.

  While Claire undressed and concealed herself with her robe, Logan went to the bathroom. She found him filling the tub with steaming water and lavender bath salts. He’d even stolen a candle from Steffi’s old room and lit it on the vanity. Its flickering light bounced off the mirror and reflected little beams of euphoria throughout the room.

  Her eyes stung from emotional overload. Here she was—with Logan. And there he was, being romantic and sexy . . . all for her.

  Lacking any self-consciousness whatsoever, he dropped his clothes to the ground and stepped into the tub before gesturing for her to join him.


  She ogled his sinewy perfection while gripping the knot of her robe. The physical disparity between them was wider than the Gulf of Mexico. Yet she’d set this up, determined to break out of her shell. To try a new way. To prove to herself and others that she didn’t need to be coddled or pitied.

  Be bold enough to meet him on his terms.

  With trembling hands, she untied her robe. It drifted to the ground without a sound, leaving her standing in the middle of the bathroom, naked. She kept her hand by her side instead of using it to shield the scars around her hip—a small but surprisingly proud moment.

  He sat and stretched out his legs, his gaze roaming her entire body, lingering a moment on her breasts.

  “Come here, beautiful.” He reached out one arm.

  She stepped into the silky, hot water and laid her back against his chest. Lavender-scented steam calmed her nerves, as did the flickering candlelight.

  He handed her one wineglass while keeping hold of his own. Dipping his free hand beneath the surface of the water, he then caressed her abdomen while planting kisses on her neck between sips of wine.

  The only sounds in the bathroom were the sloshing water and a low hum in her throat. It felt luxurious and brazen to sit in his lap while he explored her body in the scented, soft water. Anticipation pooled low in her abdomen, making her squirm.

  When he emptied his glass, he set it on the floor and she followed suit. In no time, his hands stroked her thighs until his fingers found her center. She arched her back, letting her head fall against his shoulder, and nibbled on his ear while raising her hands overhead to drag through his hair.

  Logan.

  The leaky faucet marked time with its slow drip. Water spilled over the edge of the tub as their bodies rocked together. Once again she was making love with Logan. “Love.” That word threaded through her thoughts and heart like a chain stitch, but she kept it to herself.

  Whether the lavender calmed her or she’d truly come to accept the limitations of this relationship, she wasn’t sure—nor did she care. Not while inside their steamy, candlelit cocoon. Her full heart was enough for now.

  A few mornings later, Logan waltzed into Arcadia’s kitchen, whistling, and grabbed a yogurt from the refrigerator. “Morning, Mom.”

  From the table where she sat with a notepad, she removed her glasses and twined her arms behind her back for a quick stretch. “Where are you rolling in from, my darling son?”

  “Here and there.” Claire had asked him to be discreet for now. He peeled back the foil top and tossed it in the trash. “Nothing to report.”

  One of her perfect brows shot up. “I doubt that. You do have a nice spring in your step, though, so maybe I’ll just leave well enough alone.”

  “Thank you.” He glanced around before digging his spoon into the cup. “Where’s Peyton?”

  “Upstairs.”

  He debated his plan to help Claire for a millisecond. “Dad?”

  “Why?” His mom stared at him, her mouth at half gape.

  He spooned another bite, averting her gaze. “I want to talk to him.”

  “Really?” She put her glasses on and peered at him more closely. “You never want to be in the same room with him if you can avoid it.”

  “I know.” He almost confessed his motive, because an ally would be ideal, but he hadn’t cleared it with Claire. “Is he home?”

  “Can you tell me why you need to see him? If I have to brace for World War Three, I’d like to know.”

  “I come in peace, Mom.” His mother and he had gone years without sharing secrets, and he saw no reason to confide in her now.

  She sipped from her coffee cup, waiting. When he didn’t offer more, she conceded. “He’s in the office. Please don’t rile him up.”

  “I won’t.” He tossed the empty container in the trash and crossed to look over her notebook. “Did you finish the seating chart for the gala?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Where’d you put me?”

  “With Peyton . . .” Her eyes scanned his face as if he were an imposter with his sudden interest in his father and the gala. He might’ve laughed if he hadn’t been working so hard at nonchalance. “And Karina.”

  Shit. He’d forgotten about Karina. He owed her a call to follow up on her interest in going to interview refugees in Lesbos, Greece, too. “How about our friends, like Ryan, Ben, Steffi . . . Claire?”

  “They’re at a table together with the Quinns and Mike Lockwood.”

  “Is it near us?” He strolled to her and glanced over her shoulder to the notebook.

  “It can be.” She sat back, drumming her fingers on the table. “Is there a reason for this request?”

  “You know I’m not a huge fan of this shindig. It’d help to be close to my friends, especially because I’m likely to be leaving for work soon.” Karina had mentioned that a court decision on the refugee-migration thing was expected anytime now. If they were going to go, it’d be best to be there when the ruling came down. “I could be gone for several weeks.”

  “You and your sister are always running far away from home.” She made a moue before she reached out and grabbed his hand. Once again, he froze from the unusual contact. The only explanation he could come up with for her recent behavior was that Peyton’s illness had made her slightly more aware of the fact that she shouldn’t take her kids for granted. “Were we such bad parents that you can’t stand to be around us?”

  Bad? No. A bit neglectful. A bit standoffish. A bit more concerned with how the family “looked” to others than how it actually functioned.

  “I’m not running away from my family.” He offered a reassuring squeeze of the hand, having no interest in a heart-to-heart or in making her feel guilty. “I’m doing what I love. Traveling. Seeing other perspectives. Searching for a new story to tell.”

  She flashed a skeptical smile and dropped his hand. “If you say so.”

  He leaned forward and kissed the top of her head, the sudden affection making her go still, too. “Talk later.”

  What was happening? Claire’s outlook on family must’ve infected him.

  He wandered out of the kitchen and through the entry to the walnut-paneled office with large windows that offered idyllic views of the Sound—his great-grandfather’s personal sanctuary. Duck’s old typewriter remained on a bookcase along with signed editions of his work. His Pulitzer Prize certificate hung on the wall in a handsome gilt frame.

  Logan wanted to win a Pulitzer for photography more than almost anything else in his life. It’d be validation that he deserved the name he bore, and proof that he hadn’t been wasting his time like his dad believed.

  His father looked up from behind the desk and paused. “Did you make a wrong turn?”

  “Good morning to you, too, Dad.” Logan nodded to an empty chair. “May I sit?”

  His father’s wary expression would be comical if it weren’t such a sad statement on their relationship. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Logan cleared his throat. Claire’s warning about repeating bad patterns, and her willingness to try new things, might’ve persuaded him to attempt this fact-finding mission, but he’d have to wade in carefully. “Since I’m here for a while, I thought it’d be nice if we tried to understand each other a little better . . . get along. I know you think I’m a slacker, but I do have goals.” He pointed at Duck’s award. “That right there is one of mine. My photography might not be as lucrative as your work, but that doesn’t make it nonsense. This house is a testament to the value others assign the creative arts.”

  “You know the odds against any creative endeavor breaking through and making money. They don’t call them starving artists for nothing, Logan.” His chair rocked back as he shifted, its hinge squeaking under his weight. “If it weren’t for your trust fund, you’d be living with six people in a walk-up studio.”

  “I make money. Not huge money, but I can comfortably support myself.” He paused. “
But if the trust went away, I’d still pursue my art—even if it meant living in squalor. I’m compelled to do it, whether you understand that or not. You don’t have to agree with that choice, but you could stop treating me, and my passion, with disdain. Is that so much to ask?”

  “You tell me.” His dad rose from his desk, crossed to the antique beverage cart, and opened a bottle of bourbon. He poured two tumblers full and handed one to Logan before taking his seat again. “From where I sit, you’ve shown equal disdain toward me and my business, and taken no more interest in my projects than I have in yours.”

  “Point taken.” Logan sipped the bourbon, sensing he’d be leaving this office with more than he’d bargained for when he’d come in. “Tell me about your vision for these hotels.”

  “Eager to criticize me?” His dad threw back a healthy swallow and set the glass on a coaster.

  “No. I’m being sincere.” Logan drew one foot across the opposite knee, settling in for a longer conversation. “Why does this project excite you?”

  His dad shrugged with an expression that suggested the answer was obvious. “Because I can take something that’s failing and make it a success.”

  “Like you did with the family fortune after Grandpa practically lost this house.” Logan had to admit that had taken courage and tremendous effort.

  “I suppose yes, exactly like that.” He swiveled in his chair and glanced out the windows at the property he’d saved. From Logan’s angle, his dad’s partial profile made him look like he’d been carved in marble. Hard. Intense. Indomitable. His dad turned back to face Logan with a soft sigh. “I’m always sorry that I had to sell off so much of this land to do it, but, ultimately, that call saved this house and secured the funds to build something more for our family. Something that didn’t require talent and luck to maintain, like publishing and pictures. I didn’t inherit a creative gene, but I’m smart, savvy, and not afraid to roll up my sleeves and put in long hours.”

  At first blush, that speech sounded prideful. But its tone hinted at a bit of envy, too. Despite his protests, perhaps his dad would’ve liked to follow in his grandfather’s shoes but couldn’t.