The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2) - Jamie Beck Page 0,75

the “Return” key, paralyzed by a bout of nerves.

“I want to walk you through two potential floor plans and a color scheme I chose.” She pressed the key, and her favorite living room image filled the screen.

She studied the design, trying to see it through fresh eyes. The virtual staging depicted navy-blue walls. Two square brown leather LC2 chairs with brass frames flanked an emerald-green tuxedo-style sofa. Beneath an ivory-and-gray coffee table lay a cream-and-navy rug. Embellished throw pillows in the corners of the sofa pulled all the colors of the room together. Mock art and lighting options gave some sense of how the space could look when finished.

When he didn’t say anything, she reached for her wine before continuing. “It may seem a bit much at first glance, but give the palette a minute to grow on you. It’s very current and handsome.” Like you, she wanted to add, but didn’t. “I’m thinking we play with texture, like mohair, velvet, and tabby, which can be masculine. We could also add texture to one wall with some picture-frame molding, but painted in navy so the pattern doesn’t jump out or look too busy.”

His gaze roamed the screen.

Sweat dotted her back. He’d asked her to design something just for him, but his silence suggested she’d totally missed the mark. He hated it. Her stomach turned rock hard. “Logan?”

She breathed through the knot tightening in her gut.

He turned to her as a wide smile emerged. “If you would’ve told me to buy a jewel-toned green sofa, I’d have balked. But seeing all this, it’s sophisticated and warm. Spectacular. Exactly the kind of place I’d want to spend my free time.”

The praise cascaded over her like warm water. She let loose a whoosh of air as the buzz of his approval breathed new life into her body.

“I’m so relieved. When you were quiet, I got nervous.” She laid her hand on his forearm to command his attention. “You know it won’t hurt my feelings, though, if you don’t like something. You need to be honest with me because it’s your house, not mine.”

“I am being honest. I was just stunned into silence. You’re an artist, Claire. This takes such imagination—vision—and an understanding of color and balance, and personality.” When he rubbed her shoulder, she felt grateful that her elbow was on the table supporting her—otherwise she might’ve melted into a puddle. “Thank you for taking the time to get this so right.”

She couldn’t contain her smile. “You’re welcome, but we’re not done. There’s an alternate floor plan, and I haven’t shown you the bedroom yet.”

Logan nixed the second floor plan for the living space. His velvet voice curled around her when he said, “Let’s see the bedroom.”

She pulled up those images, praying her face didn’t broadcast the fantasies she’d spun while designing the master suite. The charcoal linen headboard she’d selected looked sharp against pale-gray walls. Two square emerald-green pillows trimmed in navy added a pop of color to the mostly white bed linens. A navy rug with splashes of white lent warmth to the otherwise cool space. Clean, crisp, and soothing. The body-art wall, with its charcoal and gray tones, remained intact.

Logan’s lips parted a tad as he studied the image. “I love it.”

Her heart filled with satisfaction. “I’m so glad you’re happy.”

“There’s only one problem.” His serious tone set her back.

“Oh?” She studied the design, searching for the flaw.

He then flashed an impudent grin. “I might never get out of that bed.”

Her chuckle emerged raspy because her throat had gone a bit dry.

“I never appreciated what a good decorator could do until now. The transformation is stunning.” He raised his glass. “Well done.”

Despite the compliments, coming up with this design wasn’t the end of her job. Now she had to locate the right fabrics to mimic what she’d conceived. More important, she’d yet to find the personal touches that would make it distinctly Logan’s home. Her mind kept circling around photography and the shore—his passion and his childhood. She just couldn’t come up with the right idea. But she would. She had to.

“How long will it take until it looks like this?” he asked.

“It depends on your parameters—stock versus custom order—and so on. Did you want to shop with me, or should I take photos and send them to you?”

“I don’t have the patience for shopping. Based on this, I trust your taste implicitly. I’m not picky and don’t care about designer labels or custom anything. Whatever is comfortable and works,