The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(24)

He tipped his head, wearing an expression she didn’t recognize, and covered her hand again. “I’m pretty sure you can, too.”

Claire’s heart bounded ahead of her brain, thumping like a rabbit’s foot. She didn’t want to read into those words, or into the way he was staring at her now, almost as if he hadn’t seen her for years . . . as if he’d never really seen her before now.

Logan withdrew his hand and poured himself a second glass of wine. The room was too warm, his throat too dry. He didn’t know why he’d confessed those things to Claire, but now he was picturing her covered in paint.

Not that she would figure that out. Once she’d started to study the architectural plans, he became as interesting to her as the chair he sat on. She focused on them so intently he could practically hear her thinking. Her sharp, earnest, determined mind at its problem-solving best. But even better yet, the way she leaned in to get that close look let him examine her soft skin, the perfect curve of her skull, and the rounded tip of her chin. He’d never before paid attention to Claire’s body—other than noticing her limp, of course. Now he noticed and responded in a way he didn’t expect or particularly know how to handle.

His scalp and the back of his neck tingled with hyperawareness. The floral scent of her soap awakened him like smelling salts passed beneath his nose. He held his breath for a second when she tucked her hair behind her ear and traced the lines of his apartment walls with her delicate pointer finger. What would that featherlight touch feel like on his chest or lower on his abdomen?

He blinked, snapping himself back to the business at hand.

“You used to love green. Is that still a favorite, or do you like bolder colors like the purple you’re wearing?” Claire opened her laptop and pulled up a bunch of Pinterest boards.

Hundreds of them, all labeled.

Living Rooms—traditional—cream and taupe.

Living Rooms—transitional—cream and taupe.

Living Rooms—modern—cream and taupe.

Living rooms—art deco—cream and taupe.

Living rooms—rustic—cream and taupe.

And that was just the beginning of the cream-and-taupe combos. She repeated those categories with earth tones, jewel tones, European, antique, and on and on.

He couldn’t believe it. Then again, she had worked in this business for a decade. “Did you do all of these spaces?”

“If I had, I wouldn’t need your money,” she teased. “I’ve collected these images and grouped them together by palette and style so I can get a quick impression of a client’s tastes.” She pushed the screen closer to him. “Scroll through them and tell me which boards appeal or, conversely, which you hate.”

In his work, he hungered for bold color contrast and plays of light and shadow. In his living space, he wasn’t sure. He eliminated every board featuring ultramodern furniture. Rustic styles held some appeal, but not for everyday decor. In the end, he kept circling back to the “transitional/wine” board—bold yet warm—and furniture that looked comfortable but simple. Nothing fussy. No tassels or fringes or nailhead trim. “I like this.”

“Do you?” She smiled like she knew a secret.

A secret he wanted to know. Worse, he wanted to know her secrets. “Why do you suddenly look like I handed you a diamond ring?”

She exited the page, her cheeks glowing as red as a hot kiln. “I do not.”

“Yeah, you kinda do. Did I pick a girlie board or something?”

“No.” She cleared her throat. “These images are rich without being feminine. The style works for a single person or a couple.”

“Good to know my ‘someday wife’ will approve.”

Claire’s expression froze, her smile fading a touch.

“She should. It’s what I would’ve picked for you, in any case.” She turned away and gathered his photographs and drawings. “Let me play around with these for a bit and come up with a general plan, then we can meet again to go over that. In the interim, feel free to send me images you like. Artwork or lamps or whatever. Sound good?”

“Sure.” He took a sip of his wine and relaxed into his seat.

She cocked her head, brows pinched in confusion. “I’ve got nothing more for you at the moment.”

The challenge of holding her attention made him dig in. “Are you kicking me out before we finish the wine?”

“Oh?” She twirled a hank of hair in her finger, reverting to the tongue-tied Claire of their youth. “Don’t you have to meet your girlfriend?”

He leaned forward. “Girlfriend?”

“The woman who called earlier.” Claire smoothed her hand over the envelope of photographs. “Karina?”

Another former friend with benefits, not that Claire needed to know that. He’d already told her too much about his sex life, and none of it had impressed her. He shook his head. “A—she’s a colleague. B—we’re meeting later next week.”

“I thought you worked alone.”

“Not always. Karina’s a journalist who wants to team up on a new project.” She was passionate about shining a light on people in crisis. She’d dragged him to the Caribbean islands, including her parents’ homeland, Puerto Rico, months ago to interview and photograph hurricane victims and tell their stories. It’d been timely but lacked an essential element that would make it a standout piece in a sea of similar reports.