The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(66)

Her eyes stung from emotional overload. Here she was—with Logan. And there he was, being romantic and sexy . . . all for her.

Lacking any self-consciousness whatsoever, he dropped his clothes to the ground and stepped into the tub before gesturing for her to join him.

She ogled his sinewy perfection while gripping the knot of her robe. The physical disparity between them was wider than the Gulf of Mexico. Yet she’d set this up, determined to break out of her shell. To try a new way. To prove to herself and others that she didn’t need to be coddled or pitied.

Be bold enough to meet him on his terms.

With trembling hands, she untied her robe. It drifted to the ground without a sound, leaving her standing in the middle of the bathroom, naked. She kept her hand by her side instead of using it to shield the scars around her hip—a small but surprisingly proud moment.

He sat and stretched out his legs, his gaze roaming her entire body, lingering a moment on her breasts.

“Come here, beautiful.” He reached out one arm.

She stepped into the silky, hot water and laid her back against his chest. Lavender-scented steam calmed her nerves, as did the flickering candlelight.

He handed her one wineglass while keeping hold of his own. Dipping his free hand beneath the surface of the water, he then caressed her abdomen while planting kisses on her neck between sips of wine.

The only sounds in the bathroom were the sloshing water and a low hum in her throat. It felt luxurious and brazen to sit in his lap while he explored her body in the scented, soft water. Anticipation pooled low in her abdomen, making her squirm.

When he emptied his glass, he set it on the floor and she followed suit. In no time, his hands stroked her thighs until his fingers found her center. She arched her back, letting her head fall against his shoulder, and nibbled on his ear while raising her hands overhead to drag through his hair.

Logan.

The leaky faucet marked time with its slow drip. Water spilled over the edge of the tub as their bodies rocked together. Once again she was making love with Logan. “Love.” That word threaded through her thoughts and heart like a chain stitch, but she kept it to herself.

Whether the lavender calmed her or she’d truly come to accept the limitations of this relationship, she wasn’t sure—nor did she care. Not while inside their steamy, candlelit cocoon. Her full heart was enough for now.



A few mornings later, Logan waltzed into Arcadia’s kitchen, whistling, and grabbed a yogurt from the refrigerator. “Morning, Mom.”

From the table where she sat with a notepad, she removed her glasses and twined her arms behind her back for a quick stretch. “Where are you rolling in from, my darling son?”

“Here and there.” Claire had asked him to be discreet for now. He peeled back the foil top and tossed it in the trash. “Nothing to report.”

One of her perfect brows shot up. “I doubt that. You do have a nice spring in your step, though, so maybe I’ll just leave well enough alone.”

“Thank you.” He glanced around before digging his spoon into the cup. “Where’s Peyton?”

“Upstairs.”

He debated his plan to help Claire for a millisecond. “Dad?”

“Why?” His mom stared at him, her mouth at half gape.

He spooned another bite, averting her gaze. “I want to talk to him.”

“Really?” She put her glasses on and peered at him more closely. “You never want to be in the same room with him if you can avoid it.”

“I know.” He almost confessed his motive, because an ally would be ideal, but he hadn’t cleared it with Claire. “Is he home?”

“Can you tell me why you need to see him? If I have to brace for World War Three, I’d like to know.”

“I come in peace, Mom.” His mother and he had gone years without sharing secrets, and he saw no reason to confide in her now.

She sipped from her coffee cup, waiting. When he didn’t offer more, she conceded. “He’s in the office. Please don’t rile him up.”

“I won’t.” He tossed the empty container in the trash and crossed to look over her notebook. “Did you finish the seating chart for the gala?”

“Yes, why?”

“Where’d you put me?”

“With Peyton . . .” Her eyes scanned his face as if he were an imposter with his sudden interest in his father and the gala. He might’ve laughed if he hadn’t been working so hard at nonchalance. “And Karina.”

Shit. He’d forgotten about Karina. He owed her a call to follow up on her interest in going to interview refugees in Lesbos, Greece, too. “How about our friends, like Ryan, Ben, Steffi . . . Claire?”

“They’re at a table together with the Quinns and Mike Lockwood.”

“Is it near us?” He strolled to her and glanced over her shoulder to the notebook.

“It can be.” She sat back, drumming her fingers on the table. “Is there a reason for this request?”

“You know I’m not a huge fan of this shindig. It’d help to be close to my friends, especially because I’m likely to be leaving for work soon.” Karina had mentioned that a court decision on the refugee-migration thing was expected anytime now. If they were going to go, it’d be best to be there when the ruling came down. “I could be gone for several weeks.”