The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(56)

He set his cup down and turned off the stove. After coming over to give her a quick kiss, he pulled out a kitchen stool for her and forced her onto it. “I thought you might be hungry.”

She remained dazed by the unexpected sight of him cooking—like she’d awakened in some alternate world. Slowly the reality dawned, and the scrutiny of others would follow. “Thank you, but, I mean, why are you still here?”

He poured her a cup of coffee and slid it across the counter. “Where else would I be?”

“Having breakfast with your family.”

“You’re not making any sense. Have some caffeine.” He cut the omelet in half and then plated her half beside buttered toast. “Eat.”

Mindlessly, she obeyed, unprepared for the delightful burst of butter, bacon, and cheese that melted in her mouth. “This is awesome, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He kissed her head and sat beside her, which was when she noticed her media scrapbook on the peninsula.

“What’s this doing here?” She reached for it, but he stuck out his hand to prevent her from taking it.

“I found it on the bookshelf. The spine piqued my interest.” His finger traced along where she’d written “Smoking Guns” in calligraphy, then he opened the binder’s cover. “Quite a collection of news clippings, Claire. Now I understand how you’re so well informed about gun-violence stats. Morbid, though, don’t you think?”

She glowered at him. “You should ask before you snoop into people’s private things.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t look terribly sorry, though. “But now that I’ve seen it, can you tell me about this unhealthy obsession?”

Morbid. Unhealthy. Not the words she’d use to describe her interest in the rapid rise of gun violence. As horrible as these incidents were, she needed to dissect them and try to understand why they kept happening. These clippings helped her search for patterns or explanations to better predict when and where such atrocities might occur. They helped her write persuasive letters to politicians about gun control. They gave her some sense, however illusory, that she could exert some kind of control.

Not that it worked. Not yet, anyway. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“Could this hobby be keeping you from getting past your fear?”

“Facts are facts. Even if I didn’t collect these reports, I’d still see them in the news. Violence is everywhere and getting worse. Any reasonable person should be wary, considering the statistics.” Her appetite fled—a first!

He studied her, his green eyes lit with compassionate determination. “Let’s start a new scrapbook. One filled with pictures of places you want to visit. People you admire or want to meet. Anything positive and life affirming.”

Instantly, she remembered the Lilac Lane League scrapbook, which was in her old bedroom at her parents’ house. It’d been filled with all kinds of hopeful wishes, and look where those got her.

She felt herself tightening into a ball on the kitchen stool. Logan must’ve noticed, too.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin the morning with a lecture. I’m not used to frank conversations with women, so please be patient while I learn the boundaries.” He rubbed her back. “Let’s change the subject. What’s on your agenda today?”

While trying to tamp down her embarrassment at what he’d discovered, she sipped her coffee. “Reality and work.”

“It’s Sunday, and reality is overrated.”

That remark earned him one of her side-eye glances. What must life look like from inside his head? “I got nothing accomplished yesterday.”

“Not true.” He nipped at her shoulder. “We got a lot accomplished yesterday. Let’s not backtrack now.”

In the dark, she’d been bold, but sunlight spilled through the window now, and like a hermit crab on the shore, she needed to duck for cover.

“I have to finish a plan for your home. And I need to talk to Mrs. Brewster.”

“That can wait until tomorrow.”

“I thought you were eager for me to show you sketches?” She pushed the omelet around the plate.

“There are more urgent things I want to see at the moment.” His foot hooked on to her stool, and he tugged it closer. He toyed with the robe’s lapel and caught his lower lip in his teeth. “Are you wearing anything under that robe?”

Instinctively, she batted his hand away. “Logan, be serious.”

“I am. You look enticing in the light coming through the window. How can you expect me to keep my hands to myself?” He ran his hands along her thighs, which sent a shock of heat to her core.

“Please, stop.” It killed her, but she pushed them away. Better a little pain today than a mountain of it later.

He raised his brows. “Really?”

“Yes. I painted outside the lines last night, and I don’t regret that at all, Logan. But I know me. If this were to go on, those lines will blur and I’ll end up hurt. I’m not a fluid kind of girl, and as an only child, I never learned how to share all that well.”

He frowned. “I wouldn’t see other women while we’re together.”

She almost laughed. Didn’t he hear himself? Maybe that sacrifice meant something to him, but it was a far cry from what she’d need to hear to move forward. While the odds of any relationship going the distance were slim for everyone, most people didn’t start out rejecting the idea like he did. And honestly, how could she carry on with him when she hadn’t resolved her feelings about Peyton—a point she’d conveniently ignored last night?