opened her eyes and peered across the table. Steffi had fallen silent while sipping her cocoa, but her constipated expression snagged Claire’s attention.
“What are you thinking?” Claire dropped her hands to the table.
Steffi shook her head, waving one hand. “Nothing.”
“Don’t lie. Is there another problem I’m not aware of?”
“No.” Steffi inhaled, held her breath, then exhaled slowly. “I know of one project that would make a sweet profit and let you really stretch your talent. ‘Sky’s the limit’ kind of budget.”
Excitement lifted Claire’s spirit, straightening her spine. Anything that accelerated plans to open a retail outlet merited her attention. “Sounds amazing. What’s the catch?”
Steffi hesitated.
“Never mind. You won’t take it, so let’s move on.” Steffi spooned whipped cream into her mouth. “Oh! Molly says that Mrs. Brewster is thinking of remodeling her master bath.”
Mrs. Brewster’s late husband had left her comfortably well off, but you’d never know it. She clipped every coupon available to humanity—Claire had been behind her at the grocery store more than once. She put only two dollars in the collection basket at church each week, despite having enough money to leave more. And she gave out bite-size candy at Halloween. Bite-size!
“We can’t rely on Ryan’s mom as our major source of leads, and Mrs. Brewster spending big bucks on a remodel sounds improbable. Betcha she pretended to be interested so she could get the inside scoop about our business from Molly.” Claire leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Don’t make me beg. If you have a solution, I won’t dismiss it out of hand, I promise. I’m not an idiot. We need income. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep the doors open.”
Steffi went still, her chin just above the mug held midair. “Whatever it takes?”
Claire’s hair stood on end, but she motioned “Let’s have it” with both hands.
Steffi hesitated. “How would you like to redecorate a high-end condo in Chelsea?”
“In the city?” Her entire body prickled painfully at the thought of putting herself in the midst of that chaos and danger. She’d already been one madman’s random victim. Manhattan teemed with crazy people, not the least of whom were the ones who drove their cars like heat-seeking missiles. “Who’d hire us instead of any of the premier designers there?”
Steffi met Claire’s gaze. “Logan.”
Claire’s tongue seemed to swell and turn sticky. Work with Logan . . . Her blood thickened like warm syrup. Tingles and terror all at once—a sensation she both loved and loathed. Her own brand of crazy. Maybe she did belong in New York, after all. “No.”
“You just said you’d do whatever it takes.”
“Not that. Never that.” Claire didn’t need to look into a mirror to know that her fair, lightly freckled cheeks now looked like someone had smeared them with ripe strawberries.
“As I suspected.” Steffi shrugged nonchalantly, as if she hadn’t just pulled the pin from a grenade and dropped it on the table. “So that leaves us a little tight until something else comes up. In terms of our social media presence, I just read an article . . .”
Claire heard Steffi talking, but the words ran together like white noise because Claire’s brain was still stuck on the idea of working with—no—for Logan Prescott. His obvious ploy made her want to laugh. Did he really think he could buy her forgiveness for his sister? Well, Claire would never, ever forgive Peyton. Not even if he paid her a million dollars to renovate his condo.
The very condo Peyton had moved into while undergoing chemo because Todd had dumped her when she got sick. Given how Todd had treated Claire, his leaving Peyton shouldn’t have shocked her. Either way, it served Peyton right for breaking a cardinal rule of friendship.
Eyes closed, Claire pressed her palm to her hot cheek, silently asking for forgiveness for yet another bitter thought.
“Claire? Did you hear anything I said?” Steffi turned her hands out in question.
“Sorry.” She rubbed the scowl from her forehead. “I’ll find another way to turn up new leads. Working with Logan is a hard no.”
“Too bad. You’d have so much fun decorating his place. I’m sure he’d let you do whatever you wanted. Anything would be better than how it looks now. Guess he never cared before, since he was rarely around to enjoy it.”
Only a Prescott would own a million-dollar property that sat vacant as often as it was occupied.
Their family’s legacy stemmed from their great-grandfather’s famed body of literature. The Prescott mystique—and coastal home here in town—was like something out of