The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2) - Jamie Beck Page 0,45

the note three times, each time the knot in her chest squeezing harder. Closing her eyes, she replayed the look on his face at the Duvalls’ when he’d begged to join her and her mom that afternoon, and then his expression later when they’d argued. She thought about the project he’d coaxed Peyton into, the flash of heat that lit his eyes from time to time when teasing her, and the hint of bitterness whenever the conversation involved his father.

Logan had matured into an intense, complicated, sometimes selfish, yet surprisingly tender man. Her weakness for him—an unsettling, reckless attraction—handed him the power to crush her heart to bits at the same time he made it soar.

Risks. Life and happiness always came down to calculated risks. Until now, she hadn’t been willing to take any. Where does one start when so out of practice?

Could she be his friend, truly, when she’d always yearn for more? When her heart would twist with jealousy of any other woman in his life?

She hit “Reply” and began tapping out a minimal response so he couldn’t read between the lines and learn all the secrets in her heart.

Logan,

I’m sorry for the things I said, too. Let’s call it even. Speak with you soon.

Claire

She went to brush her teeth and change into the red-and-black-plaid pajamas with the elastic waistband. She snapped it against her gut, muttering, “Stupid cake baby.”

When she tossed her jeans in the hamper, she heard her phone ping.

Logan, again.

Even-steven works for me. Of course, brace yourself for when I win our bet, because you’ll be at my mercy, and I never give up the upper hand.

She gulped as the place between her legs ignited. What was he planning, and what foolish, lonely pieces of her heart hoped that he won?

He won. That panicked refrain replayed in Claire’s head even as she returned Mary Wagner’s call to schedule a date and time for a photo shoot. It continued—like a distant siren—while she worked her way through page after page of online sites, searching for inspiration for Logan’s apartment.

When she couldn’t take another minute of quiet, she headed to Stuart’s Market for replenishment. Claire parked in the handicap space near the door and grabbed a full-size cart. A dangerous sign that she might not exercise the best control.

She’d been healthy for two days now to make up for the night of Gram’s birthday, so she hit the candy aisle first, then palmed a family-size box of Fruity Pebbles. Chicken. Store-made clam chowder. Grapefruit seltzer water. Finally, she forced herself to the produce aisle. Bananas. Pears. She even tossed a bag of fresh spinach in her cart to offset the neon cereal and Twizzlers.

She was eyeing the weird-looking starfruit while pushing her cart when she banged into another cart. She said, “Sorry,” just before looking up, straight into Mrs. Prescott’s pale-blue eyes. “Oh! Hello, Mrs. Prescott.”

Rarely did Darla Prescott do domestic chores. Must be a special occasion.

Mrs. Prescott beamed at her before grabbing Claire’s shoulders and pumping out a round of air-kisses. “Claire! What a pleasant surprise. Logan has been singing your praises. And Peyton was very happy to speak with you last week.” She clapped her hands to her heart. “You look wonderful, dear. Did you change your hair?”

Claire figured her face matched the shade of the pomegranates in Mrs. Prescott’s cart. “I got some highlights.”

She smoothed her own golden locks and winked. “We blondes do have more fun.”

“We’ll see.” Claire forced a blithe tone and grin although she could not be less comfortable than if she had a gun to her head. And that was saying something.

“Speaking of fun, I didn’t see your RSVP to the fund-raiser. I know why you didn’t come last year”—she paused dramatically—“but now that you’re working with Logan and some time has passed, I hope you’ll join us again. Although it’s past the deadline, I’ll make an exception for you.”

Claire tightened her grip on her cart, wishing she could disappear into another time and place. There’d be no easy way to decline this personal appeal, and she couldn’t afford to have Mrs. Prescott turn against her in this small town.

“I don’t really have the money to spare this year . . .” Humbling as that confession was, it was easier than showing up to a Prescott event and having to deal with Peyton—and everyone else watching her deal with Peyton—for hours.

“Oh, come now. Surely Logan’s paying you a nice commission. And the foundation really counts on locals to help promote