The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2) - Jamie Beck Page 0,22
exactly what I already see. The passages you’ve written so far are moving. Think of the women who might find strength in that. Think of the money we could donate to research from the proceeds.”
When they’d started the project, they’d discussed making it a memoir and donating 50 percent of any income to the National Breast Cancer Foundation. He’d been saving parking tickets and prescriptions and other memorabilia, thinking they might juxtapose those things with the photos and narrative. He might even contribute from his own journal, as a family member and caretaker.
“You seem to forget that I’m basically a self-centered, vain person, not someone who’s ever been out to inspire or save others,” she muttered. “Ask anyone.”
“Stop it. Most of us are self-centered and vain now and then. You aren’t unique. And maybe you never tried to inspire or save people before, but now you have an opportunity to do just that. To turn this suffering into something good.” Logan paused, his thoughts shifting to a particular redhead who’d been on his mind for days. She hadn’t called to take him up on his offer. He could hardly believe it. “Look at Claire. She overcame her setbacks and went through recovery like a champ. People admire her for it, and they’ll admire you, too.”
“I think it’s pretty well established that I’m not, and have never been, Claire.” Peyton’s pale eyes flickered.
“How do you know? You’ve never been tested until now. You can be like her.” He hugged her. “You’ve already inspired me.”
“You’re too kind.” She reached up and rubbed his head. “I can’t wait for the wig made from your gorgeous hair.”
“It feels weird to shampoo now.” He raked his hands over his bristly hair, missing the silky length of it. “And I hate that Dad likes it.”
Peyton smiled for the first time all morning. “Unintended consequences.”
Didn’t he know it. How unfortunate that doing something for a good reason could result in a negative consequence. He closed his eyes, hoping to purge the image of his father’s approving expression. “Did hell freeze over?” the man had muttered at dinner that night. Logan had bitten his tongue so hard he couldn’t eat.
“Okay, enough stalling. Pick a few and let’s move on.” He sat on the edge of the coffee table, but then his phone vibrated. He tugged it free from his pocket. Claire. A zing traveled through his chest. He looked at Peyton. “Excuse me, I’ll be back in a few.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Must be a woman. Karina, perhaps?”
He frowned. “I’ve told you, I work with Karina. We aren’t a thing.”
“You were a thing.”
“For about a second.” He waved his sister off as he crossed the room, heading toward the French doors that led to the flagstone patio. “Hello?”
“Logan, it’s Claire. McKenna.”
As if he didn’t know her voice. He opened the doors and stepped outside. A frigid blast of wind swept up the lawn from the Sound, which sparkled with sunlight as if someone had scooped up handfuls of rhinestones and scattered them across the water.
He tucked his free hand beneath his armpit, shivering. He could turn back or be glad the bracing weather would keep him sharp. He’d need to be sharp to reel Claire in. “Good morning, Claire.”
He shouldn’t tease her. At least, not until he was sure she’d called to accept his offer. Another smile tugged at his mouth as he prepared for matching wits with her again.
“I suppose you know why I’m calling.” Her voice tightened as if she were being walked down a plank at knifepoint.
“I hope so.” He did, and not just for his sister’s sake.
Ever since he’d seen her at Steffi and Ryan’s place, he’d thought about how much nicer it would be to come home to someplace with style and warmth. His run-in with Claire since that day had only piqued his interest. Something about her was different now. Her hair, of course. But something else had him pumped up by the mere sound of her voice . . . something he still couldn’t identify but wanted to figure out.
“Before I commit, I need to see the layout and some photographs. Just to make sure I can give you what you’re looking for.”
“Okay.” In his twisted mind, her innocent words took on a double meaning. He frowned. Claire wasn’t his type. She would demand things. Expect things. Deserve them, too. He didn’t have that to give. Hadn’t ever been interested in traditional relationships and roles. He had his art to pursue.