The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(37)
Claire shot out of her chair and grabbed Rosie, her mouth fixed in a harsh line, jaw tight. “Thank you for taking the photographs today, but as pedestrian as it must seem to you, I need to freshen up before we get my gram. I’ll call you if I hear from the Wagners. Otherwise, I’ll be in touch once I’ve got design options ready for your place.”
She took two steps before he caught her by the arm.
“Claire, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.” He gripped her chin and saw a shimmer in her eyes. “Shit. Call me an ass, but don’t cry.”
She jerked free, blinking back her tears. “It’s a good reminder of why we can’t be true friends, Logan. Even if we took Peyton out of the equation, you expect me to see the world as you do—with far-flung adventures and body paints—but I’m content with a quiet, comfortable life near my family. Besides, we don’t all have trust funds that enable us to globe-trot.”
He might have a black eye from that last quip. “Touché.”
“I’m not interested in keeping score of which one of us can say more hurtful things to the other. Relationships aren’t a game to me. It’s why I invest in mine, like with Ben, who also values family and the familiar. To me, that’s more valuable than collecting a bunch of superficial friends, experiences, and lovers around the world. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I assume you can find your way out.”
She rounded the corner quickly, and he heard a bedroom door close a moment later. He yanked his coat off the back of his chair and took his cup to the sink. Until this moment, he’d always felt a little sorry for Ben Lockwood, who’d, from Logan’s perspective, gotten stuck running his dad’s business in this tiny town. For the first time, he envied the man for the way Claire clearly respected him.
He dragged himself toward the front door. Clutter littered the living room. Dozens of family photographs taken at holidays and birthdays displayed in mismatched frames. An entire shelf full of school projects. A bookcase filled with books so worn the spines were nearly illegible. A basket with yarn and knitting needles sat beside the sofa, where needlepoint pillows like the one he’d seen at Steffi’s were strewn. A stack of Popular Mechanics magazines hogged the coffee table.
None of these items came from any exotic locale, yet all of them wove a story of a family life rich with love and happiness. Maybe Claire had a point. Maybe his way of life wasn’t so great, after all.
He gave the room one last look before closing the door behind him, zipping up his jacket and trudging through the snow with the uneasy image of Ben and Claire burning a hole in his stomach.
Chapter Eight
Claire barreled into her house and fell back against the front door, desperate to loosen her belt. When she reached her bedroom, she viewed her body in profile in the mirror, smoothing her hand over her distended abdomen.
Thanks to her argument with Logan, she’d eaten at least a full third of Gram’s cake, plus a quart of milk to wash down the chocolate, all on top of a lumberjack portion of mac and cheese. She could easily pass for four months pregnant now. Too bad her twenty-month bout of abstinence meant a baby wasn’t—and, at this rate, might never be—the cause of her potbelly.
She yanked her belt off and chucked it into the corner before flinging herself backward onto her bed with a great sigh.
Logan’s criticisms wouldn’t fade, mostly because they might be a little bit true. Had Todd been so intrigued by Peyton’s lifestyle because he’d felt stifled by Claire’s? Had the shooting and Claire’s parents ingrained her with fear for so long that she’d stopped thinking for herself?
Still, her palms grew damp at the thought of putting herself in an epicenter of chaos. The muscles in her shoulders and core clenched as if bracing for another bullet. If she closed her eyes, she could still hear the eerie echo of shots from that rifle, sense the confused panic in the crowd, smell the blood . . .
She rubbed her face with her hands, pushed herself upright, and toed off her shoes. Those recollections helped no one, so she searched for something more pleasant to consider. Her library copy of Educated lay on her nightstand.
If her stomach weren’t about to explode, she’d make herself a cup of tea and nestle into bed for an hour or two of reading, like always. Until now, with Logan’s words ringing in her ears, she’d looked forward to that ritual. Instead, she found herself battling new restlessness about a life that had become a repetitive cycle of overeating, a book on her nightstand, and an empty bed. He was right—it would grow tedious for most others.
The William Tell Overture interrupted her pity party. Upon hearing Steffi’s ringtone, she fished her phone out of her purse. “Hey, what’s up?”
“You never called to tell me about the Duvall photo shoot.”
“Oh, sorry. It went fine.” She played with the fringe of one of the throw pillows, unable to believe that the photo shoot had happened that morning when it seemed like days ago.
“You sound disappointed. Do you think the reshoots are a waste of time?”
“No, that’s not it. I mean, I haven’t seen the images, but I’m sure they’ll be great. Ignore me. I’m grumpy because my stomach is about to burst.”
“Uh-oh. Did Logan do or say something to prompt a binge?”
Claire closed her eyes, frowning. “My mom and I baked a bunch of stuff for Gram’s birthday. I might have overindulged . . .”