The Promise of Us (Sanctuary Sound #2)(94)
Its design resembled a lariat, but the set was actually meant to relieve stress by giving one’s hands something to play with. The color of its beads reminded him of Claire’s eyes, and kombolói seemed the perfect gift for someone with her constant concerns.
Now he toyed with it as he wandered back to the hotel to grab a shower and a meal.
Claire. Prior to arriving on Lesbos, he’d thought of her often, but then he got swept up in the work, the stories, the pictures, leaving only the wee hours available for missing her. During sleepless nights, he’d stared at the photos he’d snapped of her at the Breakers, wondering if he should send them to her with a note. But what could he say?
Nothing that would comfort her or give her more faith in the world or the goodness of people, although he’d encountered remarkable volunteers who’d come to supply aid to those in need. Even within the camps, many refugees would band together to help each other. But death, illness, and violence went hand in hand in overpopulated, underprepared, sequestered conditions, too.
And the children . . .
Shaking those images loose, he took the hotel stairs two at a time up to his room, eager for a cool shower to wash away his discomfort. Ten minutes later, he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower right before Karina banged on his door.
“Logan . . . are you in there?”
“Hang on.” He jogged to the door in his towel, opened it, and then walked to his suitcase to locate shorts and a T-shirt.
“Did it work?” Her gaze lingered on his abdomen, but he felt no stir of interest from it.
He impatiently snagged his underwear, too. “Did what work?”
“Sleeping, shopping, showering? Did any of it make you feel better about what we’ve learned?” She sank onto his bed and leaned back on her elbows, restlessly fluttering her feet.
“Not really.”
“Me neither.” She tapped her toes on the floor and sprouted a saucy smile as she pointedly looked at his towel. “There’s one S-word we haven’t tried yet. It’s always worked in the past.”
That gratifying human connection had been a sort of ritual for them at this juncture of other projects, but it wouldn’t help today. After being with Claire, his shallow connection to Karina would be too obvious for him to ignore or enjoy.
They were colleagues and sex buddies, but sex wouldn’t fill the space Claire had left in his chest by tunneling in there before pushing him away. In fact, it might make that cavern bigger. The question he couldn’t answer yet was why he’d let her go. Each week since the gala, he’d grown more convinced that only she could fill that gap.
“Sorry, but I’m not up to it.” He shimmied into his underwear beneath the towel, then tossed it aside and finished dressing.
Karina raised her brows and pushed herself upright. “Didn’t see that coming. May I ask why not?”
He supposed he could’ve been more tactful. Sighing, he defaulted to the world’s worst explanation because he hadn’t the mental energy to do better. “It’s not you. It’s me.”
She covered her face while chuckling, then waved both hands in the air. “Spare me the platitudes, Logan. We know each other too well for that. I’m not in love with you. I just need to take the edge off.”
He chuckled, relieved that he hadn’t hurt her feelings. “I’m sure there are plenty of guys who’d happily help you out with that.”
“Probably.” She stood, holding out one hand. “But I’m not up for strangers at the moment. I’m stuck with you. Let’s at least go get a few drinks to celebrate our last day in Greece. I know you wanted to focus on the unaccompanied kids, but we got better information on the long-tail mental-health crisis from our series of interviews with Dr. Passodelis and his patients. Those are the images I want. Do what you want with the others.”
He would. Maybe he’d partner with a gallery and an organization that assisted with refugee adoption to put on an exhibition to raise money and awareness. Perhaps that could lead to the rescue of children like young Aya and to the creation of new families.
Gesturing to the door, he said, “Let’s go. I saw a café on the corner.”
Logan swung open his condo door and rolled his luggage and equipment inside, grateful to bring an end to an interminable flight. He would need a good night’s sleep in his own bed after a month of practical insomnia, but jet lag would likely wreak havoc with his circadian rhythms for some time.
He tossed his keys on the counter, hit the lights, and went still.
Rich midnight-blue walls enveloped him, glowing in the warmth of soft lighting from new brass fixtures. He walked into the sophisticated yet comfortable living room, noting the handsome wool area rug and two square hammered copper planters in the corners, each now home to some kind of miniature citrus tree.
Floating shelves housed an antique camera, a collection of Duck’s first editions, and small pots of ivy. The entire room seemed anchored by the vibrant green sofa, which contained colorful pillows. Only one—a rectangular needlepoint pillow—looked a bit out of place.
He narrowed his gaze, then crossed to lift the pillow off the sofa to read the quote, which he immediately recognized from Duck’s work. “Her love kept him company, even in her absence.” A rush of warmth flooded Logan. He cradled the handmade pillow to his chest, his thumb gently stroking its stitching. Blinking three times, he pinched his nose to quiet the tingling sensation gathering there.