The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2) - Jamie Beck Page 0,87

chest.

He kissed her head while stroking her back. “Come with me to the gala.”

She traced his collarbone without answering at first. “I thought we were an ‘in the moment’ thing.”

He frowned at the characterization, although he’d been the one to label it so. “Dates, by their nature, are ‘in the moment.’”

“A public date—here in our hometown—will imply more to others, who will then have all kinds of opinions.”

He stilled his hands. “Are you embarrassed by us?”

She propped her chin on her hands, which were now folded across his chest. “No. But when you leave, people will whisper and feel sorry for my being left behind. I don’t need that after what happened with Todd.”

Damn Todd and Peyton. Their affair continued to interfere with his life. “Who cares what people say? This is between you and me. Come with me. We can play footsie,” he teased. “It’ll be fun.”

She giggled, nestling her feet between his. “You’ll be with your family. You don’t need me.”

“I prefer you.” He slid his hands down her back and squeezed her ass.

Her eyes widened at first, then turned somber. “I’ve been cordial to Peyton, but sitting with her for hours at your family event . . .”

He stared at the ceiling, thinking about family and friends, past and present, passion and love. Complications and expectations formed sticky webs. But his heart filtered those out in its focus on Claire just like a large aperture blurs a noisy background from a frame’s real object. No one was more surprised by that than he. “It’s too bad we didn’t meet elsewhere . . . without all the baggage.”

“If we’d met elsewhere, you wouldn’t have given me a second look. It’s our past that linked us.”

“So in a way, we owe Peyton for this.”

Claire remained quiet.

He squeezed her tightly. “I’ll tell you this much. You’re one of my few truly fond childhood memories. It’s been strange being home now, reconciling the good and bad ones.”

“You’re being a bit melodramatic, aren’t you? My memories of you are of a happy-go-lucky boy with a big imagination. Don’t let a few unhappy memories color everything about your past.”

“Fair enough. I do have an odd affection for that museum I grew up in, mostly because of Duck. I actually remembered something of him the other day—of how he used to read aloud to me in his hammock by the shore.”

“That’s sweet.” She kissed his chest. “I wish I’d met him.”

“He was kind. Driven without trying to prove anything to anyone. He just had things he wanted to say.” A messenger of a sort, he thought. “When I was in my dad’s office, I stared at his Pulitzer. Wanting one of my own—unlikely as that is—keeps me up nights. I know that fact shouldn’t make me feel like a failure, but it does.”

“You’re not a failure. You’re working at what you love. You’re a good brother and a good son, despite difficult parents. You’re also a good friend.”

“With great benefits.” He smiled.

“Yes.” She laid her head back on his chest. “But think about what you just said about your great-grandfather. He wasn’t writing to win a prize. The writing itself was his reward. If you want to emulate him, then focus only on stories that mean something to you, regardless of what they mean to others or to some awards committee.”

“Okay, oh wise one.” He held her more tightly, if that was possible, because she had a way of shifting his perspective and making him feel better about himself. He wanted to give her that same feeling, but didn’t know how.

“Go ahead and tease, but if I could play tennis now, even down the road at the public courts, I would and I’d be overjoyed. I loved it that much. I’m lucky I found something else that I really care about. Something that lets me leave beauty and comfort in other people’s lives. Maybe that sounds silly, but it makes me happy.”

“It’s not silly. It’s lovely, Claire. And you do it remarkably well.” He turned over so that she was beneath him, then kissed her. “But just to be clear, you do those things just by being you.”

Her eyes glittered. “Thank you.”

They stared at each other, blanketed by the weight of unspoken sentiment.

“I don’t often beg, but, please, come with me to the gala. Take this small risk . . .” He kissed her. “I promise, nothing bad will happen.”

Chapter Sixteen

Claire adjusted the strap of the new backless cobalt-blue gown she’d bought for the