The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2) - Jamie Beck Page 0,47
put it that way, she sounded weak. Her fear of going someplace eight million people wandered on a daily basis. She set her forehead to the steering wheel and pictured herself walking down a busy sidewalk.
“I don’t know. I . . .” She paused. If she refused, he’d no longer think of her as that brave young woman who’d once inspired him. Worse, though, was the unpleasant acknowledgment that, in some important ways, she no longer was. “I’ll try.”
All at once, she couldn’t catch her breath. Despite the remnants of snow outside, the air inside the car turned as hot and arid as a clay court in Phoenix.
“You have no idea how happy you just made me, Claire. My smile might crack my face. See you in the morning!”
After they hung up, she forced herself to inhale deeply and blow air out slowly until her breathing returned to something approaching normal. Manhattan. She hadn’t been there in sixteen years. Her heart pumped blood through her veins with such force she swore she felt it sliding through her limbs.
She clutched Rosie as she made her way up the porch steps and into her house. After she dropped her grocery bags to the floor, she looked around her quaint little home, sensing that, after today, nothing would ever be the same.
“Claire, are you going to throw up?” Logan cast a glance at her while pulling his car up to the parking attendant. Had he pushed her too soon?
She dabbed at her pasty cheeks, which were as white as the starched collar of the shirt beneath her sweater. When a car horn blared behind them, she jumped in her seat. “No.”
Seeing her visceral reaction to the swarms of pedestrians facing off with cars in the crosswalks drove home for him her deep-rooted fear. “Are you sure?”
“I’m fine.” She opened the door and exited his car without meeting his gaze, slinging her computer bag over her shoulder. She stood with her back against the wall, her eyes scanning the entrance and dark gray skies beyond like a palace guard.
Logan sighed and handed his keys to Fred. “I’ll be leaving again around three or so.”
“Okay, Mr. Prescott.”
Logan peeled Claire away from the wall, though she followed with great reluctance. “We have to go out to the street and walk past one building to enter mine.”
Again she nodded but said nothing. Late-winter winds whipped down the street, yet perspiration dotted Claire’s hairline as she hugged the buildings. Logan walked between her and the street, careful not to outpace her and Rosie. His doorman, Scott, greeted them before Logan escorted her through the small lobby to the elevators.
Once the doors closed, she released an audible sigh. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I know this is challenging.” He smiled, suspecting that she hadn’t quit, puked, or cried because her inner grit refused to give up, especially in front of him. “It won’t be as difficult the next time.”
She shot him an incredulous look. “Next time?”
“I’m an optimist.” He smiled and gestured to the right, once the elevator doors opened. When they reached his unit door, he pulled out his key while saying, “Now, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
As soon as he closed the door behind them, Claire’s shoulders relaxed and the tension around her mouth disappeared. She set her bag on the floor and walked directly to the wall of windows in the living room. She craned her neck and peered down at the street several floors below. “It’s so busy. Is it always this noisy?”
He came to stand beside her, wanting to wrap his arms around her for comfort but knowing that would likely insult her or make her less comfortable. “It quiets down in the middle of the night.”
She gazed up at him, eyes wide. “How do you get any sleep?”
“You get used to it, like white noise.” Of course, it would never be as pleasant as summer nights at Arcadia House with the window open.
“White noise with sirens and horns?” She shook her head and moved from the window, now scanning his furniture. “The light is better than I imagined, even on a gray day like today. Are there any pieces that you want to keep, for comfort or sentimental reasons?”
“Not really. Like I said, I didn’t pick most of it anyway.”
“I can tell. It doesn’t look like you.” She pointed at a blank wall. “Why don’t you display any of your work?”
“It would depress me to see it here, as if it wasn’t worthy of being