The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(44)

“You make it all sound very tempting. I just . . .” She shook her head, frustrated with herself for how deeply she’d buried any impulse for adventure.

“Come on, just tell me which appeals most.” He studied her closely now.

“All those places sound amazing, but if I were to venture far, I’d choose someplace remote, calm, and relaxing, like the Seychelles.” Her whole body flared with heat when she pictured herself sunbathing on the sugar-sand beaches in a cove of cerulean water, surrounded by palm trees and lush mountains, sipping a pretty cocktail and holding hands with Logan. She skimmed the last bit of whipped cream from her bowl with her finger and sucked on it hard.

He flashed a sly grin. “A romantic.”

Embarrassed, she shook her head. “Just practical. Fewer people, less danger.”

“You can’t fool me. Remember the flowers at the Duvall shoot?” He cocked one brow. “You picked a honeymoon location because you’re a romantic, not because you’re afraid.”

The waiter set the check on the table, giving her a break from this conversation. Claire grabbed for her purse, but Logan waved her off.

“My treat. I insist.”

“Thank you.” She kept her purse clutched against her abdomen while thinking of talk of romance and honeymoons. Was she a romantic? Since Todd, she’d seen love only as another enemy that could hurt her.

After Logan signed the receipt, he slipped his credit card back into his wallet and polished off the final drops of muscadet. With a quick glance toward the front door, he turned to her wearing a concerned expression. “You ready?”

She braced for the buzz of traffic and the multitudes of people ambling around in long winter coats that could conceal all kinds of weapons. With Rosie in one hand, she slid out of the booth. “Let’s go.”

When they reached the front of the restaurant, heavy sleet greeted them.

“We’re going to get soaked.” Logan looked at Claire, then tugged at the top of her coat, adjusting her scarf to cover her head and hug her neck. “Better.”

He raised the collar of his coat and opened the door. “After you.”

She stepped into the weather, almost grateful that it had thinned the pedestrian traffic, although cars now sloshed through icy puddles, spraying gritty water onto the sidewalk.

“Any chance you can jog?” Logan asked as he wrapped one protective arm around her shoulders and hunched against the sleet, keeping as close to the buildings as possible, hedging toward any cover the various awnings might offer.

“I can try.” Miraculously, the concentration it took to jog with an aching hip and not trip over Rosie kept her mind from dreaming up scary scenarios until they arrived at his apartment again.

The doorman let them in, at which point Logan released her shoulders but then clasped her hand and strode toward the elevator.

She tried not to stumble or make a show of gaping at their hands but—Oh. My. God. He’d intertwined his fingers with hers . . . like a boyfriend. If she hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn the sun broke through the clouds behind her. She wiped the stupid grin off her face, but that smile simply burrowed deep inside her chest and hummed.

Logan didn’t seem to notice anything until the elevator doors closed. His brows quirked when he realized he had her hand in his, as if he was as surprised as she. He flashed a crooked grin and then, with his free hand, brushed back a bit of her wet bangs. “You look pretty with these wet tendrils and colorful scarf. Can I take some pictures before we go?”

“God no!” She laughed. The elevator doors opened, and she reluctantly withdrew her hand to shake out the wet scarf.

“Why not?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Please, Logan. I’m not photogenic at the best of times, let alone when I look like a drowned kitten.”

“You’re crazy. Your face has a fantastic shape and curves, and those eyes.” He opened the door to his unit, then stopped short and caught her by the arm. He tipped up her chin and stared at her, his voice huskier than normal. “There’s such depth and fire in your eyes, Claire. Let me capture that.”

She swallowed hard, wishing he wasn’t Peyton’s brother. That he wasn’t a documentary photographer who traveled the world on a whim. That he wouldn’t always be chasing his own demons to prove something to himself and the world.

Reluctantly, she shook her head and glanced at the darkened wall of windows now spattered with icy rain. “We don’t have time. The roads will get worse if this weather keeps up. Can you grab your tux and those rejects so we can go?”

Logan sighed. “You make me sad.”

She let that remark settle on her heart while he gathered his things. In the next room was evidence of the kind of woman who wouldn’t deny him much, unlike her, who couldn’t even allow him to take her picture. She didn’t like how that made her feel about herself, yet she couldn’t seem to change.

“I’m sorry . . .” Every muscle in her chest tensed with discomfort.

“About what?”

“Being me. Being”—she motioned around herself with her hands—“so tightly wound. I’m sure you could’ve made better use of your day without me.”

He set his hands on her shoulders. “Stop it. I’ve enjoyed our day. We’re good for each other, Claire. I pull you out of your shell, and you pull me out of mine.”