The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2) - Jamie Beck Page 0,4
sister, and she regretted her actions, missed her friend, and wanted to atone. Seeing her suffer so much these past months—contemplating her mortality and begging to make amends in case she died—made him desperate to help her earn Claire’s forgiveness.
“Can I come in, or should I freeze my ass off out here on your porch?” he joked, shoving his hands in his coat pockets.
“Sorry!” Steffi smiled and backed up. “Come in. I, uh, I—”
A noise from the left caught his attention, but the living room was empty. And inviting.
Logan whistled, his eye noting the shadowy crisscross pattern cast by the French door mullions. The hot spot of honey-colored light glinting off the oval mirror on the corner elevation. The contrast of coarse and soft textures of the fabrics. “Picture-perfect, Steffi.”
A massive river rock fireplace anchored the room, but its refinished beams drew his eyes up. The L-shaped navy sofa absorbed most of the floor space. Coral-colored mix-and-match pillows filled the sofa’s corners—but his attention fixed on the needlepoint one displaying Ryan’s, Steffi’s, and Emmy’s names written in the shape of a heart.
“I assume Claire designed all this?” The room practically glowed with warmth and love—two things noticeably absent from his condo. Not that he needed those. Life lived in the moment couldn’t thrive inside the picket-fence trappings of the suburbs. Spending a single afternoon with his parents proved that fact of life.
“She did.” Steffi’s expression changed as she cleared her throat. “She’s great with personal touches, like that handmade pillow.”
“Not a surprise.” He recalled that Claire had always been thoughtful and attentive to details, like with the gift she’d given him for his sixteenth birthday—Lee Child’s Persuader. She’d wrapped the book in a desk blotter–size monthly calendar page, circled his birthdate in red marker, and tied the package in a red ribbon, leaving it for him on his bed. Her short note had revealed that she’d spied him reading Jack Reacher novels at the library, presumably because his parents sneered at anything other than literary fiction.
It’d been disquieting to be so unaware of being watched, yet somehow sweet at the same time. Most of the women he’d known in his life never knew him—or even attempted to know him. They’d been more interested in his face, his money, and his name. Claire had always been different from most women.
He strode into the cozy space—a sort of foreign concept to him, given the formal places he’d called home. He fingered the chenille sofa, then went to the fireplace to inspect the framed photographs on display, which were sure to be the sort of uninspired candid snapshots taken with smartphones. It perturbed him when people didn’t bother to capture interesting images. He didn’t get a chance to let his critical eye go to work because motion to his right drew his attention . . . to Claire.
He gripped the mantel.
She’d always been cute with that shy smile, but something had changed. Gold highlights. A longer, angled bob that brushed her shoulders. Its lighter color didn’t suit her skin tone as well as her natural shade, although it didn’t look bad. Her eyes remained the same, thank God.
Most would call her irises blue. He would not. Setting aside the enlarged jet-black pupils, Claire’s irises were an ever-changing medley of arctic blue, turquoise, and cobalt—with occasional streaks of white to make them glitter—rimmed in navy. A quick assessment proved them as round and kind as ever, but not as trusting.
She remained stiffly seated beside Rosie, the souvenir of a psychopath. That old cane had been a talisman of strength and survival after an unfortunate mass shooting at the Yankee Crossing Outlets killed her promising tennis career. Better the death of that dream than a literal one, though.
Having one of its own become a victim of random violence had shaken their small town, which had then rallied around the McKennas. Although Claire had been fifteen at the time, he’d never once caught her feeling sorry for herself despite being forced to walk away from a top tennis ranking in her division. Never seen her break down or give up while relearning to walk. In her quiet way, she’d shown more mettle than he’d ever been required to muster.
Her bravery had moved him in ways his sixteen-year-old self hadn’t fully understood. To this day, that uneasy awe remained with him, affecting the rhythm of his heart.
“Claire.” He nodded, oddly tongue-tied. He’d hoped to run into her soon, but on his terms, not hers. Not unprepared. He