The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(15)

Logan didn’t care what Claire said. He heard a hint of a softening. Long time. If ever. Equivocal words. Proof that she wasn’t as hard and cynical as she’d led him to believe just before she’d landed on her ass in the snow.

The friend he’d known still existed somewhere beneath the distant gaze and layers of clothes—at the moment she was dressed like Nanook of the North. He couldn’t deny admiring—enjoying, even—her candor. But just now she’d given him an opening, however narrow. Logan never let any opening go. “Don’t suppose you’ve given more thought to decorating my apartment? I could also introduce you to other people in the city with bare walls and money to burn.”

She hesitated. Good. The opening kept widening.

“I don’t see how it would work, Logan. Putting aside the whole Peyton situation, I’m not inclined to go to the city.”

“Seven fifty, Logan,” Betsy interjected.

“Keep the change,” he said, tossing her a ten-dollar bill. He returned his attention to Claire. “You have a thing against Manhattan?”

“I have a thing against danger.” She tipped her head toward Rosie.

She’d remained a hometown girl, but he hadn’t realized she avoided all urban areas. At first blush, it made sense, but her logic was flawed. Yankee Crossing wasn’t, in and of itself, a dangerous or even urban locale, and yet she’d been shot there.

“I’ve lived in New York for years without injury.” At least not physical injury. Wounds to the soul were an issue open to debate. “It’s not that dangerous.”

“Any place with crowds can be dangerous.” She stared at him, calm and assured, leaving no opening whatsoever.

He could work with that, though. He didn’t need her to go to New York. Hell, he didn’t even need to have his apartment redone. He just needed to spend time with her. Wear her down, little by little, until she had enough sympathy for Peyton to be willing to extend some forgiveness. “Well, what about floor plans and photographs? If you had dimensions and images, could you work with that?”

A responding spark flickered in her eyes, like sunlight hitting a sapphire. Curiosity. Suspicion. Even a dash of excitement. Her response ignited a little unexpected curiosity in him, too.

But her white-knuckle grip on Rosie also spoke volumes. “It’s not ideal. I couldn’t get a true feel for the space without physically seeing it.”

He understood that, of course. Space, light, the feel of the area—these things all mattered in any good design or photo. But a perfect apartment wasn’t his ultimate goal. “But it is possible.”

She crossed her arms now, the little paper bag dangling from her fingers. “You could easily hire someone in the city instead of playing games with me.”

“Games? Why can’t I help an old friend keep her new business going? We are old friends, aren’t we?” He’d known her since before her braces had been removed. Played volleyball in the side yard of Arcadia with her and others on warm summer nights in middle school. Even traveled with a group of friends to Yale to watch her win a sectional championship mere months before the shooting that changed everything.

“Exactly. Old friends, which means I know you, so I know what you’re really about.”

He couldn’t help but smile. She did know him. He’d always liked that best about her. He wouldn’t sully their past by denying it now.

Instead, he tore a page from her playbook of avoidance. “I’ve got a budget of fifty grand to spend on new living room, dining room, and bedroom furniture and whatnot. That should provide a nice fee. I don’t care what the split is, as long as the place looks and feels like me when you’re finished. And of all the designers out there, I doubt any know me as well as you—as you’ve pointed out.”

Few, if any, women had ever paid as much quiet attention to him as Claire used to.

“Fifty . . . I . . . that’s . . .” She clamped her mouth shut. He doubted she noticed her toe tapping at this point.

“I won’t push, but I hope you say yes. It’d be nice to pool our creative forces on a project, wouldn’t it?” He meant that despite his ulterior motives.

Her eyes clouded with spinning thoughts, and he found himself holding his breath, waiting for her response. “Thank you. I’ll think about it.”

Yes. She might not know it yet, but he’d just won the first battle in the war for forgiveness. He didn’t even feel bad about it. Claire would be better off when he was done. Her business would be intact, and she’d be unburdened by the resentment that weighed her down. A bonus would be if he could get her to come to the city, just once. An adventure to break her free from her self-imposed prison.

He’d enjoy seeing the city through her eyes.

“You know where to find me.” He hoped that sounded nonchalant.

“I doubt I’ll have to go looking. Seems certain I’ll be bumping into you wherever I go.”

He grinned. “Lucky me.”

She opened her mouth but then closed it again. He found himself wishing to know what she’d almost said. Funny, because he often found himself bored with what most people said. “Bye, Logan.”

Between her parka, her cane, her purse, and her bag, she barely fit through the narrow door.

When he turned to grab his and Peyton’s coffees, he noticed Claire’s tea. “Thanks,” he mumbled to Betsy as he balanced the third cup in his hands and took off after Claire.