by Beck, Jamie
He might have a black eye from that last quip. “Touché.”
“I’m not interested in keeping score of which one of us can say more hurtful things to the other. Relationships aren’t a game to me. It’s why I invest in mine, like with Ben, who also values family and the familiar. To me, that’s more valuable than collecting a bunch of superficial friends, experiences, and lovers around the world. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I assume you can find your way out.”
She rounded the corner quickly, and he heard a bedroom door close a moment later. He yanked his coat off the back of his chair and took his cup to the sink. Until this moment, he’d always felt a little sorry for Ben Lockwood, who’d, from Logan’s perspective, gotten stuck running his dad’s business in this tiny town. For the first time, he envied the man for the way Claire clearly respected him.
He dragged himself toward the front door. Clutter littered the living room. Dozens of family photographs taken at holidays and birthdays displayed in mismatched frames. An entire shelf full of school projects. A bookcase filled with books so worn the spines were nearly illegible. A basket with yarn and knitting needles sat beside the sofa, where needlepoint pillows like the one he’d seen at Steffi’s were strewn. A stack of Popular Mechanics magazines hogged the coffee table.
None of these items came from any exotic locale, yet all of them wove a story of a family life rich with love and happiness. Maybe Claire had a point. Maybe his way of life wasn’t so great, after all.
He gave the room one last look before closing the door behind him, zipping up his jacket and trudging through the snow with the uneasy image of Ben and Claire burning a hole in his stomach.
Chapter Eight
Claire barreled into her house and fell back against the front door, desperate to loosen her belt. When she reached her bedroom, she viewed her body in profile in the mirror, smoothing her hand over her distended abdomen.
Thanks to her argument with Logan, she’d eaten at least a full third of Gram’s cake, plus a quart of milk to wash down the chocolate, all on top of a lumberjack portion of mac and cheese. She could easily pass for four months pregnant now. Too bad her twenty-month bout of abstinence meant a baby wasn’t—and, at this rate, might never be—the cause of her potbelly.
She yanked her belt off and chucked it into the corner before flinging herself backward onto her bed with a great sigh.
Logan’s criticisms wouldn’t fade, mostly because they might be a little bit true. Had Todd been so intrigued by Peyton’s lifestyle because he’d felt stifled by Claire’s? Had the shooting and Claire’s parents ingrained her with fear for so long that she’d stopped thinking for herself?
Still, her palms grew damp at the thought of putting herself in an epicenter of chaos. The muscles in her shoulders and core clenched as if bracing for another bullet. If she closed her eyes, she could still hear the eerie echo of shots from that rifle, sense the confused panic in the crowd, smell the blood . . .
She rubbed her face with her hands, pushed herself upright, and toed off her shoes. Those recollections helped no one, so she searched for something more pleasant to consider. Her library copy of Educated lay on her nightstand.
If her stomach weren’t about to explode, she’d make herself a cup of tea and nestle into bed for an hour or two of reading, like always. Until now, with Logan’s words ringing in her ears, she’d looked forward to that ritual. Instead, she found herself battling new restlessness about a life that had become a repetitive cycle of overeating, a book on her nightstand, and an empty bed. He was right—it would grow tedious for most others.
The William Tell Overture interrupted her pity party. Upon hearing Steffi’s ringtone, she fished her phone out of her purse. “Hey, what’s up?”
“You never called to tell me about the Duvall photo shoot.”
“Oh, sorry. It went fine.” She played with the fringe of one of the throw pillows, unable to believe that the photo shoot had happened that morning when it seemed like days ago.
“You sound disappointed. Do you think the reshoots are a waste of time?”
“No, that’s not it. I mean, I haven’t seen the images, but I’m sure they’ll be great. Ignore me. I’m grumpy because my stomach is about to burst.”
“Uh-oh. Did Logan do or say something to prompt a binge?”
Claire closed her eyes, frowning. “My mom and I baked a bunch of stuff for Gram’s birthday. I might have overindulged . . .”
“Your metabolism is a thing of wonder. If I ate like you, I’d easily be twenty pounds overweight.” She paused. “Are you sure nothing else is bothering you?”
“I guess I’d hoped you were calling about a new job.”
“No, although I’ve emailed our former clients and asked them to write a review on our Yelp page and tag us in pictures they post of the work on Facebook and Instagram.”
“Good idea.” Claire sighed and slid back to rest against the headboard. “I’ve put together materials to hit up Mrs. Brewster one last time. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Fingers crossed. Speaking of design plans, how is Logan’s condo design coming along?”
“Fine.” Kind of a lie. She’d never been so stuck on a project in her entire career. Her crush clouded her judgment, making her doubt herself. He claimed to want something cozy, yet the examples he’d pointed out—Steffi’s and her homes—had too much feminine appeal for a bachelor pad.
“I’d expect more enthusiasm given the nice budget you’ve got. You get a full do-over there, although I did like the rug in the living room. Not that I have your eye, of course.”
Claire wouldn’t admit that she couldn’t get a true sense of that rug and its colors from the photographs.
“I just haven’t hit on the perfect design yet.” And perfection had never been more important than with this job, which Logan would associate with her for years to come. They might be different as night and day, but part of her wanted him to think of her as his equal. If not in adventure, than at least in talent. “I’m working on it, though. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried, just curious. In other news, Benny is still wasting time with Melanie. I wish he’d find someone his own age and settle down.”
“I feel sorry for Melanie. She obviously likes him more than he likes her.”
“You should date Ben. Then we could be sisters!”
“Ben is as much my brother as yours.” Claire laughed, although it seemed a shame. If only they were attracted to each other, life could be so perfect. “Talk tomorrow, okay? I’m bushed.”
“All righty. Good night.”
Claire hit “End,” then scrolled through her email. Logan’s name and the subject line “MY BAD” leaped out at her, prompting a sharp intake of breath.
Claire,
I’m sorry I hurt your feelings today, something I’d never intentionally do. I’ve no right to judge you for the things that make you happy, but you’re wrong to say we can’t be friends. We have a lot in common with our history and our creative eye, so I hope you don’t really feel that way. As you pointed out, I don’t have many real friends and I’d hate to miss the chance to find one in you. Please forgive me and let’s start anew.
I’m working on editing the Duvall images tonight, so prepare to be awed.
Good night,
Logan
She reread the note three times, each time the knot in her chest squeezing harder. Closing her eyes, she replayed the look on his face at the Duvalls’ when he’d begged to join her and her mom that afternoon, and then his expression later when they’d argued. She thought about the project he’d coaxed Peyton into, the flash of heat that lit his eyes from time to time when teasing her, and the hint of bitterness whenever the conversation involved his father.
Logan had matured into an intense, complicated, sometimes selfish, yet surprisingly tender man. Her weakness for him—an unsettling, reckless attraction—handed him the power to crush her heart to bits at the same time he made it soar.
Risks. Life and happiness always came down to calculated risks. Until now, she hadn’t been willing to take any. Where does one start when so out of practice?
Could she be his friend, truly, when she’d always yearn for more? When her heart would twist with jealousy of any other woman in his life?
She hit “Reply” and began tapping out a minimal response so he couldn’t read between the lines and learn all the secrets in her heart.
Logan,
I’m sorry for the things I said, too. Let’s call it even. Speak with you soon.
Claire
She went to brush her teeth and change into the red-and-black-plaid pajamas with the elastic waistband. She snapped it against her gut, muttering, “Stupid cake baby.”
When she tossed her jeans in the hamper, she heard her phone ping.
Logan, again.
Even-steven works for me. Of course, brace yourself for when I win our bet, because you’ll be at my mercy, and I never give up the upper hand.
She gulped as the place between her legs ignited. What was he planning, and what foolish, lonely pieces of her heart hoped that he won?
He won. That panicked refrain replayed in Claire’s head even as she returned Mary Wagner’s call to schedule a date and time for a photo shoot. It continued—like a distant siren—while she worked her way through page after page of online sites, searching for inspiration for Logan’s apartment.
When she couldn’t take another minute of quiet, she headed to Stuart’s Market for replenishment. Claire parked in the handicap space near the door and grabbed a full-size cart. A dangerous sign that she might not exercise the best control.
She’d been healthy for two days now to make up for the night of Gram’s birthday, so she hit the candy aisle first, then palmed a family-size box of Fruity Pebbles. Chicken. Store-made clam chowder. Grapefruit seltzer water. Finally, she forced herself to the produce aisle. Bananas. Pears. She even tossed a bag of fresh spinach in her cart to offset the neon cereal and Twizzlers.
She was eyeing the weird-looking starfruit while pushing her cart when she banged into another cart. She said, “Sorry,” just before looking up, straight into Mrs. Prescott’s pale-blue eyes. “Oh! Hello, Mrs. Prescott.”
Rarely did Darla Prescott do domestic chores. Must be a special occasion.
Mrs. Prescott beamed at her before grabbing Claire’s shoulders and pumping out a round of air-kisses. “Claire! What a pleasant surprise. Logan has been singing your praises. And Peyton was very happy to speak with you last week.” She clapped her hands to her heart. “You look wonderful, dear. Did you change your hair?”
Claire figured her face matched the shade of the pomegranates in Mrs. Prescott’s cart. “I got some highlights.”
She smoothed her own golden locks and winked. “We blondes do have more fun.”
“We’ll see.” Claire forced a blithe tone and grin although she could not be less comfortable than if she had a gun to her head. And that was saying something.
“Speaking of fun, I didn’t see your RSVP to the fund-raiser. I know why you didn’t come last year”—she paused dramatically—“but now that you’re working with Logan and some time has passed, I hope you’ll join us again. Although it’s past the deadline, I’ll make an exception for you.”
Claire tightened her grip on her cart, wishing she could disappear into another time and place. There’d be no easy way to decline this personal appeal, and she couldn’t afford to have Mrs. Prescott turn against her in this small town.
“I don’t really have the money to spare this year . . .” Humbling as that confession was, it was easier than showing up to a Prescott event and having to deal with Peyton—and everyone else watching her deal with Peyton—for hours.
“Oh, come now. Surely Logan’s paying you a nice commission. And the foundation really counts on locals to help promote the cause. Besides, you can network your little butt off, hobnobbing with all the guests. Play your cards right and you’ll walk out with a few new projects in your pocket.”
Logan must’ve inherited his talent for manipulation through pointed logic from his mother. Claire couldn’t deny the truth in Mrs. Prescott’s claims. She and Steffi could work the party for leads. Ben would be there, hopefully without a date. She could impose upon him to run interference with Peyton. And she did always love seeing Logan in a tux. “Good point. Guess I’d better send a check and scare up a cocktail dress.”
“Wonderful! I’ll make some introductions for you, too. Just interrupt me when you see me. You know how busy I get once the party begins.”
“Thank you.” Those words chafed her throat on their way out. Another Prescott she’d have to thank when all she’d wanted for the past year or so was to wipe that name from her memory. “Take care.”
Claire steered her cart around Mrs. Prescott and dive-bombed the checkout line, grabbing a pack of gum, a small bag of M&M’s, and a People magazine while waiting to pay her bill. She ripped open the M&M’s with her teeth and started guzzling them before she got to the car.
On the drive home, Logan called. Two Prescotts in ten minutes?
“Hello?”
“Claire, it’s Logan. Checking in to see how it’s going with my design.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Where are you now?”
She hesitated, unwilling to get roped into meeting him anywhere. She needed to regroup. “On my way home from the market. I just bumped into your mother, actually. She extended a personal invitation to attend the gala.”
“Did she?” He paused. “Well, now I have one reason to look forward to that night.”
She almost ran the stop sign, then slammed on the brakes. “Oof.”
“What just happened?”
“Nothing. Just . . . nothing.” She closed her eyes and slapped her cheek. Focus!
“Have you heard from the Wagners yet?” His coy tone made her stomach flutter.
She hung her head and sighed before admitting defeat. “Today, actually. I planned to call you later.”
“Why do I think you might’ve put that off a bit longer?” The little chuckle in his voice caused another quiver in her core.
“Can you meet me there tomorrow morning?”
“No, actually, I need to run to the city tomorrow.”
“Oh.” The crashing disappointment flashed like a yellow traffic light, warning her that she’d better work harder to kill her feelings where Logan Prescott was concerned. “Well, send me a few dates that you’re available, and I’ll set it up.”
“I will, but let’s circle back a sec. You haven’t said much about my design. Are you having trouble?”
“No,” she said, realizing too late that her overly bright voice might’ve given away the truth.
“Liar.”
She grimaced. “I’m not lying. I’m just . . . a little stuck. Haven’t hit the right note yet.”
“Gee, I wonder why.” He sniggered.
Did he suspect her crush on him made her unable to do her job? How utterly unprofessional. For once in her life, she wished she were more sophisticated. “Oh? Enlighten me.”
“You need to see the space, Claire. Come with me tomorrow. You’ll get a better feel for everything when you’re there, and I’ll have you back before dinner.”
“I can’t go to Manhattan.” Her knuckles turned white on the steering wheel, although part of her did want to visit his home. The two-dimensional images had only whetted her appetite. She wanted to touch the things he touched, hear what he heard, smell what he smelled.
“I could claim this as my prize, you know, but I’d rather not feel like a bully. Please come. I promise I won’t leave your side. You’ll be perfectly safe.”
Thankfully, she arrived at her house and parked her car before accidentally running over some kid on a bike, or Bubba, the neighbors’ dog. Her heart raced. She flexed her hands to bring blood to her fingertips.
“Claire? Are you there?”
“Yes.” She exhaled slowly.
“I know you’re anxious, but I swear the most horrifying thing you’ll see is my ugly furniture. In fact, I should rethink the invitation and preserve my mystique.”
She laughed. “Hate to break it to you, but your image was blown when you coughed up those photos.”
Neither said anything for a moment. It seemed as if he was waiting to see if she’d accept the challenge.
“There’s a wonderful bistro near my place that serves the best crème brûlée.” His low voice sounded as rich and alluring as that dessert. “It’ll be a reward for facing your fear.”
When he put it that way, she sounded weak. Her fear of going someplace eight million people wandered on a daily basis. She set her forehead to the steering wheel and pictured herself walking down a busy sidewalk.
“I don’t know. I . . .” She paused. If she refused, he’d no longer think of her as that brave young woman who’d once inspired him. Worse, though, was the unpleasant acknowledgment that, in some important ways, she no longer was. “I’ll try.”
All at once, she couldn’t catch her breath. Despite the remnants of snow outside, the air inside the car turned as hot and arid as a clay court in Phoenix.
“You have no idea how happy you just made me, Claire. My smile might crack my face. See you in the morning!”
After they hung up, she forced herself to inhale deeply and blow air out slowly until her breathing returned to something approaching normal. Manhattan. She hadn’t been there in sixteen years. Her heart pumped blood through her veins with such force she swore she felt it sliding through her limbs.
She clutched Rosie as she made her way up the porch steps and into her house. After she dropped her grocery bags to the floor, she looked around her quaint little home, sensing that, after today, nothing would ever be the same.
“Claire, are you going to throw up?” Logan cast a glance at her while pulling his car up to the parking attendant. Had he pushed her too soon?