The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2) - Jamie Beck Page 0,27

your work is bold and intense, like your clothes.” She crossed her arms. Her one big regret about her self-imposed travel ban was that she’d never been to one of his gallery openings. She’d only ever seen his work online or in magazines. She sifted through his apartment photos again. “You chose Chelsea as a home base, not New England. Even these pictures show somewhat industrial interiors and stark furnishings. The modern kitchen and this bit of exposed ductwork bear out my assumptions. Same with the huge plateglass windows.”

“I bought this at twenty-three when I was trying to break free of my parents’ influence. Fit in with the whole artsy city vibe.” He snickered at himself. “That furniture . . . Cassie picked it, and I just never got around to changing it.”

“Was Cassie a designer?” She hoped her voice hadn’t sounded as skeptical as she felt, but if Cassie was a designer, she was mediocre at best.

“No. A . . . friend.”

“Like me?”

“No, not like you.” His eyes flickered. “A friend with benefits.”

Claire suspected she now resembled a tomato. Something low in her core pooled with warmth. “Benefits,” he’d said with that soft-as-silk voice. Benefits like touching and kissing and . . .

Lord. If she ended up envying all the women who’d enjoyed Logan’s benefits, she’d hate a good portion of the female population. Then again, the names Cassie and Karina indicated a preference for a hard c sound. Just like “Claire.”

She stifled a snigger, then got back to business, holding out one image that showed black and gray shadows or something on a wall in his bedroom. “What’s this?”

He smirked. “Body paint.”

“What?”

“An artist friend and I got a little wild one night. She wanted to leave an imprint on my room. See the handprint there . . . the foot . . . I think that there might be a breast mark . . .”

Claire clamped her open mouth shut as she tried to imagine leaving an impression of her breasts on any man’s wall. “I assume she’s another friend with benefits, yet you kept this here for how long?”

“Two years, maybe. Who remembers? I like it. It was spontaneous and sexy. A vivid memory. Why would I want to paint over it?”

“So this stays—in the new design, I mean?”

“Sure.”

She frowned. “Don’t other women get offended?”

“Why would they?” He dipped his head, his voice teasing her. “They know I’m not a virgin.”

Everyone knew that, because Kelsey Dewitt had announced it after their junior prom. Claire could still feel that sting. “I don’t think I’d like sleeping in the shadow of my boyfriend’s former lover’s body parts.”

“Well, you’re more conventional than most of the women I know.” He stared into his glass, brows pulled together, before polishing it off. “But you have a point. I suppose I could part with it. It’s just paint. I still have the memory.”

She stared at him, trying to read the lines forming between his brows. “Why do you suddenly want a ‘homey’ place?”

It took him a few seconds to meet her gaze.

“I’m almost thirty-two, and I’ve never lived in a real home.” Before she could mask her surprise, he held up his hand. “I know—boo-hoo, right? But I grew up in one kind of museum and now live in another. For once, it might be nice to come home and have it feel like a place I want to hang out. A place I can just be.”

“Oh.” His plea sounded lonesome, and she knew something about that. It’s why she talked to her plants all the time. She wanted to hug Logan and commiserate, even though she could hardly imagine someone like him being lonely. He wouldn’t lie, though, which made it even more critical that she create a cozy yet trendy home befitting him. “Well, then, I’m sure I can give you what you need.”

He tipped his head, wearing an expression she didn’t recognize, and covered her hand again. “I’m pretty sure you can, too.”

Claire’s heart bounded ahead of her brain, thumping like a rabbit’s foot. She didn’t want to read into those words, or into the way he was staring at her now, almost as if he hadn’t seen her for years . . . as if he’d never really seen her before now.

Logan withdrew his hand and poured himself a second glass of wine. The room was too warm, his throat too dry. He didn’t know why he’d confessed those things to Claire, but now he was picturing her covered