The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(74)

Her exhausted expression made him ease up. “You don’t have to decide today. He’s not closing on the projects for several weeks, and he’s not making design a priority item.”

She craned her neck and kissed him. “Thank you for trying to help, but Steffi also has reservations about trying to manage a project of that scale. For now, we’ll stay focused on growing locally.”

“Okay.” He stroked her jaw and then trailed his fingers down her neck and over her breast. “But do I deserve a reward for my good intentions?”

She smiled, reaching out to unbutton his shirt. “I think I can come up with something to make you happy.”

“I’m certain of it.” He’d been damn happy all week. Quiet dinners followed by tender nights. The warmth of her body beside his, and the gentle smile that greeted him each morning and had him making up reasons to stick around town longer than planned.

He kissed her deeply. She still tasted like chocolate, which was no shock given her rough day. He started undressing her in the living room.

When she didn’t protest, liquid lightning shot through him. She worked quickly to shed his clothes, too, until they fell back onto the sofa in a tangle of arms and legs and hot, wet kisses.

“Claire,” he whispered.

They locked gazes as he moved inside her. Breaths mingling, hearts thumping, darkness settling around them until the only thing he could see was the soul in her eyes staring back at his.

His composure slipped until she reached up and joined her lips with his in an intense kiss that simultaneously bent and stopped time.

He rolled over so she could sit astride him. Her hair bounced, her cheeks flushed, and her well-kissed lips turned crimson as she rode the swell of emotion building inside him until it crested and broke apart, leaving him shuddering beneath her.

For a few quiet minutes, he held her. She shivered, so he pulled a throw blanket over her shoulders and then ran his fingers through her damp hair.

“Claire?”

“Hm?” she asked, her head still plastered against his chest.

He kissed her head while stroking her back. “Come with me to the gala.”

She traced his collarbone without answering at first. “I thought we were an ‘in the moment’ thing.”

He frowned at the characterization, although he’d been the one to label it so. “Dates, by their nature, are ‘in the moment.’”

“A public date—here in our hometown—will imply more to others, who will then have all kinds of opinions.”

He stilled his hands. “Are you embarrassed by us?”

She propped her chin on her hands, which were now folded across his chest. “No. But when you leave, people will whisper and feel sorry for my being left behind. I don’t need that after what happened with Todd.”

Damn Todd and Peyton. Their affair continued to interfere with his life. “Who cares what people say? This is between you and me. Come with me. We can play footsie,” he teased. “It’ll be fun.”

She giggled, nestling her feet between his. “You’ll be with your family. You don’t need me.”

“I prefer you.” He slid his hands down her back and squeezed her ass.

Her eyes widened at first, then turned somber. “I’ve been cordial to Peyton, but sitting with her for hours at your family event . . .”

He stared at the ceiling, thinking about family and friends, past and present, passion and love. Complications and expectations formed sticky webs. But his heart filtered those out in its focus on Claire just like a large aperture blurs a noisy background from a frame’s real object. No one was more surprised by that than he. “It’s too bad we didn’t meet elsewhere . . . without all the baggage.”

“If we’d met elsewhere, you wouldn’t have given me a second look. It’s our past that linked us.”

“So in a way, we owe Peyton for this.”

Claire remained quiet.

He squeezed her tightly. “I’ll tell you this much. You’re one of my few truly fond childhood memories. It’s been strange being home now, reconciling the good and bad ones.”

“You’re being a bit melodramatic, aren’t you? My memories of you are of a happy-go-lucky boy with a big imagination. Don’t let a few unhappy memories color everything about your past.”

“Fair enough. I do have an odd affection for that museum I grew up in, mostly because of Duck. I actually remembered something of him the other day—of how he used to read aloud to me in his hammock by the shore.”

“That’s sweet.” She kissed his chest. “I wish I’d met him.”

“He was kind. Driven without trying to prove anything to anyone. He just had things he wanted to say.” A messenger of a sort, he thought. “When I was in my dad’s office, I stared at his Pulitzer. Wanting one of my own—unlikely as that is—keeps me up nights. I know that fact shouldn’t make me feel like a failure, but it does.”

“You’re not a failure. You’re working at what you love. You’re a good brother and a good son, despite difficult parents. You’re also a good friend.”

“With great benefits.” He smiled.

“Yes.” She laid her head back on his chest. “But think about what you just said about your great-grandfather. He wasn’t writing to win a prize. The writing itself was his reward. If you want to emulate him, then focus only on stories that mean something to you, regardless of what they mean to others or to some awards committee.”