The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2) - Jamie Beck Page 0,25
It had taken four attempts to find an outfit that complemented her coloring without being an obvious attempt to look pretty.
She held her breath while Logan glanced around her living room, his gaze resting on a pillow, then a frame, and then the potted African violets lining the window. She’d bought them and the oxalis after Steffi moved out so other living things could fill the house.
“Another home run, Claire.” When he smiled, she blinked as if looking straight at the sun. She missed the halo of long golden locks that used to frame his face. This edgy new look didn’t quite match his personality, especially not the tender reason why he’d cut it. “Now I’m more excited to see how you’ll transform my place.”
“Thank you for the opportunity.” Her gaze fell while she screwed up the courage to apologize for her prior behavior. “I know I wasn’t exactly gracious when you offered me this job.”
“That’s one way to put it.” He grinned.
Another bloom of heat filled her face. “It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the compliment. I just . . . well . . . issues.”
He waved away her apology. “Believe it or not, I understand. I never meant to be cavalier about what happened with Todd. And if I didn’t make it clear, I am very sorry that you got hurt. You certainly didn’t deserve that.”
He stood still, head tipped, a soft expression on his face. She believed his sincerity, which soothed her raw defenses like aloe.
“Thank you.” At least that part was over. She would act normal now, although nothing about this situation came close to her normal. Any time spent alone with Logan in the past had mostly been a happy accident. To have him choose to spend time with her—to collaborate on redecorating his home—made her feel like the floor beneath her had fallen away.
He raised a manila envelope into the air. “Shall we get started?”
She shot her hand out, eager for a change of subject, and for a peek at his home. Finally, some detail about an intimate part of his life. A place where he kicked off his shoes, cooked for himself, slept . . .
“Good idea,” she stuttered, having mentally tripped over the image of his naked torso entwined with linens and pillows.
“You seem tense.” He tilted his head. “How about we open some wine?”
“Oh, uh . . .” It’s not a date, Claire. Not. A. Date. “I didn’t . . . I mean . . . sure, I think I’ve got a bottle.”
“Just one?” he teased.
She made bug-eyes before realizing that he was joking. “Come to the kitchen.”
She could feel him slowing his stride behind her to accommodate her much shorter legs and limp, so she sped up, which emphasized her off-kilter gait. Far from the runway strut of the women he hung out with most days.
When they got to the kitchen, he took a seat at the breakfast bar while she uncorked a bottle of cabernet and poured him a glass.
With an impish grin, he tucked his chin and looked at her through his thick lashes. “I don’t drink alone.”
“Oh, all right.” She poured a little for herself, paused, then added more.
“To the beginning of a productive partnership.” He raised his glass to clink against hers.
Wine with Logan. Another first. Not quite the romantic dinners she used to pretend they’d share, but an evening alone. No Lockwoods, no Peyton.
No buffers.
When she didn’t say anything, he added, “And to getting to know each other again through this endeavor. I usually work with writers, so it’ll be a welcome change to work with someone else with a visual artistic bent.”
She gulped more than half her glass while reminding herself that, despite the flirtatious twinkle in his eye, he hadn’t come here for romance. And, even if, by some miracle, he had any interest in her after a lifetime of not noticing her, it would be moot. She couldn’t be with any man whose beloved sister was her mortal enemy. A tad overstated, but basically the facts. Prescott family dinners were not in her future. Period.
“So let me see what you’ve brought.” She ambled toward the dining table. “Come spread it out here, where I’ve got my laptop and notebook.”
He complied, unfolding a printed copy of his unit’s floor plan for her and then arranging the two dozen photographs he’d printed, obviously taken when he’d been entertaining friends. Beautiful and exotic-looking men and women in small clusters, talking, drinking, laughing . . .