ten pounds in sweat, thanks to Logan’s weaving through high-speed traffic on the drive into the city. Then she’d dealt with the ridiculous fake-date proposition. If that weren’t enough, the hectic two-block walk from his apartment to Le Singe forced her to navigate uneven sidewalks through crowds of unfriendly strangers while being assaulted by the sounds of angry drivers and the scent of engine fumes and urban decay. And on top of all that, those photographs of Peyton . . . the depth of sorrow in her eyes . . .
Claire refocused on the sweet, cold vanilla ice cream sliding down her throat.
From her seat in the rear corner booth against the wall, shrouded by warm gold-toned walls with wood paneling and vintage mirrors, which reflected twinkling light from the candlelit tables, she enjoyed a full view of the restaurant. Couples and groups of friends drank and laughed around them, helping her to relax. If she didn’t think about where they were, she could almost pretend this was a nice new restaurant in her hometown.
Logan poured her another glass of muscadet, a dry, light French white wine she’d never before tried. When she darted her tongue out to lick a stray bit of whipped cream off her lip, he smiled. “You’re enjoying this meal.”
The crusty, rich croque madame she’d eaten had topped her family’s mac and cheese in the satisfying comfort-food category. And this dessert—there weren’t words. “I am.”
“If nothing else, lunch was worth the trip, right?” He leaned back, long limbed and lazy.
Casual moments like this made it tough to swallow, and not just because the gargantuan bites of pastry and ice cream were lodged in her throat. She felt helpless in the face of her attraction to his nonchalant elegance. If nothing else, being around him had made the trip worth it. “Do you eat here often?”
“Not too often. There are so many restaurants in the city I try not to limit myself.” He gestured around. “But I do love the lighting here. Plenty of interesting shadows. It’d make for some provocative images.”
As usual when he spoke about work, his gaze turned daydreamy. “I’d love to see the world the way you do,” she said on a sigh.
“Oh no. I don’t think you’d like it inside my head.” He chuckled. “It gets a little crazy.”
“Crazy good, maybe. I see the world through glass, but you seem to see it through a kaleidoscope. The way you describe colors . . . like that time you told me that grass wasn’t green. I thought you’d really lost your mind until you made me study it in the sunlight and see the blades that looked gray because of shade, or the ones that looked white in the sun. The yellow and green and blue blades, too. That was the first peek I ever got into seeing the way an artist does.”
“I don’t remember that, but, God”—he grimaced in a self-mocking manner—“it sounds so pompous. You should’ve laughed at me.”
“It wasn’t pompous. We were on the porch steps at Arcadia on a gorgeous summer day before my injury. You’d come home from somewhere and sat with me for a few minutes while I waited for Peyton. I didn’t know what to say, so I talked about the weather—about the clear blue sky. Then you started in on how the ‘sky’ isn’t really blue and how it can be orange and pink and purple at sunset, and then moved on to the grass not being green. It was interesting.”
A pleased smile played at his lips. “Sounds like I was trying to impress you.”
She snickered. “More likely you were bored and searching for something interesting to talk about.”
“You’ve never bored me, Claire.” He stared at her, tapping his thumb on the table. “Who knew a stray comment would make a lasting impression?”
If only he knew how everything he’d done back then had left an imprint. She’d been content to follow him around like a puppy, basking in any bit of interest, lapping up any knowledge he had to share. That hadn’t changed much, she supposed. His attitude—even when bordering on obnoxious—still fascinated her. “You must have so many stories from all the places you’ve gone. The things you’ve seen. What strikes me most, though, is how, even with the most gut-wrenching, graphic images you’ve taken, there is hope. It’s a true gift.”
His previously pleasant smile melted into a solemn expression. “Thank you, Claire. That means a lot coming from you.”
She fidgeted under the weight