The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(31)

She squeezed his hand before turning her attention to the pages. “So you think these don’t suck? I still feel like I’m not finding the right voice for the project. Look here, how clinical and stiff.”

“It’s a bit stilted, but there are gems in here when you’ve let your guard down. When you edit, approach it all through that personal filter. Eliminate the distance. Don’t be a narrator. Just be you.”

She sighed and let her head fall back. “It’s exhausting being me.”

“Think about all the fun we’ll have horrifying Mom and Dad by putting this out into the world.” He smirked, which elicited her laughter.

“You’re bad, Logan. Mom tries. She thinks what she’s doing helps us, even if you don’t agree. And you know I don’t wholly disagree with her. It makes me nervous to think about other people seeing these images.” She sighed, pulling the photos closer to study them. “Okay, let me see which go best with these pages.”

While she sorted the pictures and read through his notes, he sat back and thought about his mom—about his family. He’d never understood why Peyton wasn’t more bothered by their parents. Somehow she was able to accept them as they were and be happy enough. Why couldn’t he?

If he didn’t look so much like the rest of them, he’d swear he was adopted.

The rest of them enjoyed the public role of being a Prescott, while he yearned for something greater. He wanted to make a difference to something or someone before he died, and he wanted to do it on his own talent. It wasn’t about money or family prestige; it was about leaving something of real value in his wake.

Then he thought of Claire. A strong yet softhearted woman who, unlike his family, had always remained rooted in things that truly mattered. Who valued courage and integrity over brand and image. Who, because of those values, forced herself to face Peyton for him.

He wanted to do something nice for her as a thank-you. Something selfless to help her reach her own goals and find happiness. He pulled up her website on his phone and scrolled through the gallery, shaking his head. Could he bring himself to do some architectural shoots for her, knowing his peers would frown on him if they found out?



That evening, Logan climbed Claire’s porch steps and knocked on her door. If he’d called ahead, she would’ve put him off with a million excuses. Also, he would’ve been locked into coming. Until five minutes ago, he wasn’t sure the benefit of this move outweighed the potential professional flak. Now he cracked his knuckles and tapped his toes, waiting for her to answer the door.

Within seconds, her eyes and forehead appeared through the windows near the top of the door. She must’ve risen onto her tiptoes. At the moment of eye contact, she dropped down, disappearing from view.

“Logan!” she croaked through the unopened door. “Why are you here? We didn’t have an appointment, did we? I haven’t finished the plans for your apartment yet.”

He stared at the lemon-yellow door. “I stopped by to thank you.”

“Thank me?” A silent pause ensued, broken only by the rumble of the car driving by behind him. “Oh. You spoke to Peyton.”

Why was she hiding from him? “Can you open the door before we finish this conversation?”

Two seconds later, she wedged her body into the narrow crack she’d opened, her cheeks blazing like a fiery summer sun before it dips below the horizon. She clutched the neckline of her fuzzy pink robe with one hand, a king-size Snickers bar dangling from the other. Green snowflake slipper socks completed her ensemble. With a resigned shrug, she muttered, “Hi.”

Everything about her appearance loosened all his muscles as if he’d just exhaled. If it wouldn’t have shocked her, he might’ve lifted her off the ground and twirled her around. “Is that candy bar your way of dealing with the emotional fallout from Peyton’s apology?”

She glanced away, sighing.

“Thank you, Claire. I know speaking with my sister wasn’t easy, but I’m grateful. This afternoon is the first time in months that I’ve seen her look the least bit optimistic.”

“Don’t get too excited.” She peered up at him somberly through her lashes. “I heard her out, but please don’t expect more.”

“I don’t.” Not yet, anyway. He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed slightly. “I’m actually here to do something for you.”

She released her robe, gripping the edge of the door with her hand. “Why does that make my stomach drop?”

He shrugged. She might not quite know what to make of him, yet her eyes filled with curiosity. The intoxicating combination tempted him to prolong the conversation. “Invite me inside and I’ll tell you my idea.”

She closed her eyes, her chin dropped to her chest, then she looked up and waved him in. “Why not?”

He breezed past her and shrugged out of his coat, when he noticed the coffee table littered with empty junk-food wrappers and bags. “Jesus. Did you rob a convenience store?”

She crossed her arms, still clutching her half-eaten candy bar. “You said you came to do me a favor, not make fun of me.”

“True.” He spied some peanut M&M’s. “May I have some?”

She hesitated, as if she couldn’t spare them, although the amount of chocolate and sugar she’d already consumed would’ve put him in a coma. “I guess.”