The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(42)
“That’s so invasive.” Claire scowled.
“That’s what I do.” He pointed at the photo. “See? Genuine, raw emotion. The project won’t mean anything if we don’t dig deep.”
Claire’s expression rapidly changed. “Why was she crying?”
He thought about what Peyton had told him that morning. Her story. Her privacy. But he sensed a softening in Claire, and he couldn’t pass up a chance to remind her that Peyton was more than the only horrible mistake she’d made. “She came out to get water, then went to the window. She was watching the street below come to life. Apparently it got her thinking about how, whether she lived or died, it would all keep going on, and so few people cared about her or would miss her.” His voice cracked a bit, but he covered it with a cough. “Of course, you remember how fond she is of finding silver linings in everything. So she ultimately claimed to be grateful not to be leaving a husband or child behind.”
Claire dropped the photo on the table and spun away. Tension tugged at her features. “I shouldn’t pry into her pain, or yours. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. We’re not hiding it. That’s also the point, right? Our inevitable mortality—the choices and values and relationships we prioritize—all of it creates the life we have and the legacy we leave behind.”
Claire blinked at him as if he’d shined a flashlight in her eyes, then crossed to her purse and rummaged for her notebook. “I hope it’s successful, because it’s so personal to you.”
“And to Peyton.”
“Yes.” Claire opened her notebook without meeting his gaze. He could tell she was having trouble settling her thoughts. “Do what you need to do here. I’ll make my notes, then we can go.”
While she walked around the living space, measuring all manner of things, looking at all of his furniture, and writing down notes, he went to the table to reorganize the rejects. He then returned to his bedroom to get his tuxedo, dress shoes, and cuff links, pausing on his way out to take another look at the body-painted wall. It was the only part of this apartment that reflected anything personal about him. What did it say about him that he could live in such impersonal surroundings for so long and hardly notice?
When he returned to the living area, Claire looked up. “Looks like you’ve got your party gear all set.”
He laid the garment bag flat on the dining table. “How about you? Is your dress pressed and ready to go?”
She shrugged. “I’ll pull out a basic black dress. It’s not like I’ve got a date to impress.”
Without hesitation, he teased, “If you go as my date, you’ll have someone to impress. You look great in blues and greens, by the way.”
She blushed like a bed of roses and waved him off. “Stop it.”
“I’m serious.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Be my date and save me from having to flirt with strangers.”
“Because flirting is so hard for you?” She rolled her eyes. “I’m not going as your date.”
“Why not?” He lifted one arm and sniffed. “Do I stink?”
Claire raised a brow above a sly smile. “Only when you overdo it with cologne.”
“Moi? Never.” The playful idea took deeper roots. The idea of that third kiss rushed back, tempting him. “Come on, let’s go together. It’ll be fun. We can go shopping right now for something special. Imagine the shock on people’s faces when we show up arm in arm.”
Her smile vanished. “I’m not interested in shocking people, being your buffer, or sitting at a table with your sister all night.”
“Sorry.” He’d screwed up by making his invitation sound like a joke because he’d been afraid of rejection. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
She snapped her notebook shut. “Are you hungry? I’m suddenly willing to brave the two-block walk to that bistro you mentioned if the crème br?lée is as good as you promised.”
Chapter Nine
Claire greedily dug her spoon into the profiteroles—which she loved even more than crème br?lée—having earned the ice cream–filled pastries drenched in hot fudge and whipped cream today. First she’d lost ten pounds in sweat, thanks to Logan’s weaving through high-speed traffic on the drive into the city. Then she’d dealt with the ridiculous fake-date proposition. If that weren’t enough, the hectic two-block walk from his apartment to Le Singe forced her to navigate uneven sidewalks through crowds of unfriendly strangers while being assaulted by the sounds of angry drivers and the scent of engine fumes and urban decay. And on top of all that, those photographs of Peyton . . . the depth of sorrow in her eyes . . .
Claire refocused on the sweet, cold vanilla ice cream sliding down her throat.
From her seat in the rear corner booth against the wall, shrouded by warm gold-toned walls with wood paneling and vintage mirrors, which reflected twinkling light from the candlelit tables, she enjoyed a full view of the restaurant. Couples and groups of friends drank and laughed around them, helping her to relax. If she didn’t think about where they were, she could almost pretend this was a nice new restaurant in her hometown.
Logan poured her another glass of muscadet, a dry, light French white wine she’d never before tried. When she darted her tongue out to lick a stray bit of whipped cream off her lip, he smiled. “You’re enjoying this meal.”