The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(22)

“Good idea,” she stuttered, having mentally tripped over the image of his naked torso entwined with linens and pillows.

“You seem tense.” He tilted his head. “How about we open some wine?”

“Oh, uh . . .” It’s not a date, Claire. Not. A. Date. “I didn’t . . . I mean . . . sure, I think I’ve got a bottle.”

“Just one?” he teased.

She made bug-eyes before realizing that he was joking. “Come to the kitchen.”

She could feel him slowing his stride behind her to accommodate her much shorter legs and limp, so she sped up, which emphasized her off-kilter gait. Far from the runway strut of the women he hung out with most days.

When they got to the kitchen, he took a seat at the breakfast bar while she uncorked a bottle of cabernet and poured him a glass.

With an impish grin, he tucked his chin and looked at her through his thick lashes. “I don’t drink alone.”

“Oh, all right.” She poured a little for herself, paused, then added more.

“To the beginning of a productive partnership.” He raised his glass to clink against hers.

Wine with Logan. Another first. Not quite the romantic dinners she used to pretend they’d share, but an evening alone. No Lockwoods, no Peyton.

No buffers.

When she didn’t say anything, he added, “And to getting to know each other again through this endeavor. I usually work with writers, so it’ll be a welcome change to work with someone else with a visual artistic bent.”

She gulped more than half her glass while reminding herself that, despite the flirtatious twinkle in his eye, he hadn’t come here for romance. And, even if, by some miracle, he had any interest in her after a lifetime of not noticing her, it would be moot. She couldn’t be with any man whose beloved sister was her mortal enemy. A tad overstated, but basically the facts. Prescott family dinners were not in her future. Period.

“So let me see what you’ve brought.” She ambled toward the dining table. “Come spread it out here, where I’ve got my laptop and notebook.”

He complied, unfolding a printed copy of his unit’s floor plan for her and then arranging the two dozen photographs he’d printed, obviously taken when he’d been entertaining friends. Beautiful and exotic-looking men and women in small clusters, talking, drinking, laughing . . . living. The images monopolized Claire’s attention. She sat beside him, leaning forward to study each photograph before moving on to the floor plan.

“There are a lot of windows, but you’ve taken these all at night with artificial lighting. I can’t really tell how the sun hits the space. Do other buildings or balconies block the light?” She turned to face him and hitched a breath when she realized how close their faces were. Close enough to kiss.

She hesitated there, mesmerized. At this short distance, he would see every bit of panic in her eyes.

“Maybe you should come see for yourself.” He reached out, then retreated and balled his hand on his thigh.

Claire shifted backward to avoid touching him. “I told you already, I’m not going to New York.” Even as she said the words, she suspected he didn’t believe her. “And just to be clear, this”—she gestured between them and the photographs—“is separate from whatever I do or don’t do with Peyton. So please don’t try to inflict guilt.”

“Claire, even if I wanted to make you feel guilty—which I don’t—how could I? You’ve never hurt a soul.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I know you want me to talk to your sister.”

“I’d love that, but I don’t want you to feel guilty. Feel compassion, maybe. Take the high road. Turn the other cheek. Forgive and forget . . . I don’t know.” He flashed a melancholy smile. “I’m sure there are a bunch of sayings that fit the bill.”

“Look at me, Logan.” No matter how blotchy her neck and face had to be right then, she meant for him to understand that she was as serious now as when she’d been determined to walk again. “I’ll never, ever forget.”

They stared at each other in silence until Logan reached for her hand. He kept his eyes on hers as he pressed her knuckles to his cheek. She bit the inside of hers as heat flooded every inch of her body.

“I hear you,” he said. “I’ll try not to push—not about Peyton, and not about New York.”

“Thank you.” Claire withdrew her hand and curled it against her chest, focusing on breathing steadily. Their conversation had veered into unprofessional territory. Boundaries needed to be maintained, or she’d lose her head and her heart. She flipped her notebook open and clicked the top of a ballpoint pen. “So let’s talk about your tastes.”

His brows shot up. “I thought I hired you for your taste.”

“To a point, yes, but your home has to reflect your personality, not mine.” We’re not a couple, after all.

“I’m curious about your instincts. What do you see for me?”

For an artist, his lack of particularity about his home shocked her. Then again, from what she’d heard throughout the years, he’d spent little time there until Peyton got sick. He’d always been running. Away from his dad? Toward a destiny? Perhaps both? She wasn’t sure. She also wasn’t sure if he knew that answer.