The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(41)

“Not really. Like I said, I didn’t pick most of it anyway.”

“I can tell. It doesn’t look like you.” She pointed at a blank wall. “Why don’t you display any of your work?”

“It would depress me to see it here, as if it wasn’t worthy of being hung someplace where other people could view it and be moved.”

A soft smile played on her lips.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

“I always wondered why you quit fashion photography so quickly, but maybe I understand better now.”

“I liked that job for about three minutes. At twenty-two, being surrounded by ‘beautiful’ women sounded like heaven.” He slouched onto a barstool.

“Don’t pretend it was hell, Logan.”

“It sorta was. They might’ve had symmetrical faces and long legs, but nothing about that world felt genuine or interesting. It was impossible to capture any soul.” He waved a hand in disgust. “I hated it.”

“And you’re happier now, traipsing the world in search of heart-wrenching stories?”

“Infinitely.”

“Good.” She smiled at him like she used to before Peyton hurt her, and like a defibrillator, it kick-started his jaded heart. “Can I go check out the bedroom?”

“Be my guest.” He followed her into his room and turned on the light, staying close, allowing a satisfying sexual tension to build.

Her eyes focused on the body-painted wall before she crossed to it as if drawn by a string. She reached out to touch it while licking her lips, but he felt as if she’d touched him. He had a sudden sense of vulnerability as she studied the canvas, such as it was. What did she see, and what did she think it said about him?

“This took some time.” She didn’t face him when she spoke.

“We weren’t in a rush.” He looked down, wishing he hadn’t deflected with a joke. Not when Claire was always so direct and honest.

Her nostrils flared slightly, but otherwise she remained perfectly still. “How did you get the paint off your bodies?”

“Ever practical, aren’t you?” He grinned. “If I thought that way, I’d probably never do half the things I try. As for this, we showered before most of it dried. You’d be surprised how well baby oil and other home remedies work, though.”

Her head had tipped to the right as she continued examining the wall. He suspected she was trying to make sense of the choreography, so to speak.

“I almost hate to cover this up, Logan.” She finally faced him, then caught her breath when she realized how close he’d come.

“Really?” He inclined toward her as he searched the pools of sapphires and diamonds she called eyes. “I thought you hated it.”

She stared back, her expression soft and full of feeling. “It’s the only thing in this whole place that is uniquely yours.”

Her words seeded a joyful ache in his chest. Once again she saw him—understood and accepted him—as he was. He could kiss her now and she’d let him. He sensed it, and he wasn’t often wrong about these things. His insides tightened with his restraint, but if he pushed her too far, she’d become overwhelmed. He’d let this interest stew a bit and enjoy the anticipation. “You make a good point. Let’s keep it.”

“Okay.” She stepped around him and started for the living room again. “I should get started working. I feel fine inside, so go take care of whatever brought you to town while I take measurements and play around with ideas.”

He followed behind her, stopping at the kitchen island. “I don’t have errands in town. I came to grab my tux for the benefit and get the rejects.” He and Peyton had discussed how some of the images she’d previously approved were too whitewashed. The project would be better served by images with more emotional texture.

“Rejects?” Claire frowned in confusion.

“Discarded photographs.”

“Can I see?” She lit up.

“Well . . .” He paused. He had almost no latitude when it came to discussing his sister. “They’re of Peyton.”

“Oh.” She hugged herself. “For the project?”

“Yes. She’s coming around to using grittier images to make a point.”

Claire turned toward the dining area, where the rejects lay scattered across the table he’d dumped them on the last time he’d come home. Before he could warn her off, she’d crossed to the table and picked one up. He studied her reaction from a short distance.

Her body went still except for the way her brows pinched together. Conflict warred in her eyes. She swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on the image of Peyton, in a towel, sitting on the leather bench near the window. Daybreak lit his sister’s shoulders and scalp, giving her body a translucent quality except for the red-rimmed eyes staring at the lens.

Moments ticked by until she said, “I can’t believe she let you take this.”

“She didn’t let me. I caught her crying.” He didn’t shy away from Claire’s disapproving gaze. “She thought I was still sleeping when she came out here after a shower. I’d heard her moving around and came to check on her, but she was in a zone. I grabbed my camera and zoomed in before she knew what I was doing. She turned once she heard the first clicks, and that’s when I got that shot.”