Page 47 of The Player Next Door

He sighed and sat down on the end of the narrow twin bed. “I’m not scared. I just don’t like loud noises. Or sudden things.”

“So, you hate fireworks, I take it.”

“Loathe them,” he said, a small smile returning to his face. “Anyway, this is, um, my childhood bedroom.”

Clare nodded, turning slowly. “I assume you spent all of high school sneaking girlfriends up here.”

He smirked and she felt better seeing that. Confident Logan was a lot easier for her to handle than the nervous man she had spent the last forty minutes with. She spotted a book on his low bookshelf and pulled it off, crowing with delight. “Please tell me this is your high school yearbook.”

“Oh god, no, don’t look at that.”

“Well, now I have to,” she said, sinking into his desk chair. She flipped through it, stopping at a page that had half a dozen candids, several of them featuring Logan in a band T-shirt. “John Mayer, huh?”

“Shut up,” he muttered, and when she met his gaze across the room, they both grinned.

She narrowed her eyes. “Hold on. Why do I get the sense you were prom king?”

A smug look spread across his face. “Because I was.”

“I would have hated you in high school, you know.”

“And I would have ignored you, and we both would have been wrong, wouldn’t we?” he retorted. He shrugged, a little abashed. “And anyway, it wasn’t like I campaigned for it or anything. Just happened.”

“That’s worse. You know that, right?I was so popular it just happened, is not something normal people get tosay. Good lord, who even are you?” she grumbled. She closed the yearbook and swiveled the chair, eyes landing on a framed photo tucked away on the gable windowsill. It was of a child’s chubby hand, pressed against a white, feathery wing like they were clumsily picking the chicken up. Clare cocked her head to the side. “Is that you?” she asked, pointing.

Logan followed her gaze and walked over, picking it up thoughtfully. “Yeah, that’s me. My mom took it. She was self-taught, but some of her stuff was really good.”

“So that’s where you get your talent from?”

Logan sat on the edge of his bed, still examining the picture. “I guess. Dad said she loved any and all art and tried every medium at least once. Apparently, she was best at photography and worst at pottery.”

Clare smiled softly. “She sounds like fun.”

“That’s what everyone says.” He shrugged, a shadow crossing his face. “I wouldn’t know personally, though.”

Clare nodded and hesitantly pushed herself out of the chair to perch next to him on the bed. “That must be really hard,” she said, resting her hand on his forearm. “I have no idea what it’s like, but I’m sure it’s hard.”

He lifted and dropped one shoulder, eyes still on the photo. “I just—I don’t have much of her. Some photos of us as a family, and then the stuff she made herself, like this. That’s all.”

A piece of the Logan puzzle fell into place for Clare. “Is that why you don’t like sharing your art with people? Because it’s what you share with her?”

He was silent for a long time. The rumble of thunder drew nearer, but he didn’t flinch. If anything, he seemed to shift closer to her. “Yeah, I think—yeah,” he said, closing his eyes and letting his head droop between his shoulders. “I never really thought about it like that, but you’re right.”

Clare lifted her hand from his arm and placed it on his back, rubbing in a small circle. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but—would she want you to? Keep it secret like this?”

“It’s not a secret, I just don’t tell anyone about it,” he said wryly.

Clare bit back a grin. “But for real, wouldn’t she want you to show the world what you can do?”

“It’s not like I’m going to be in the MoMa,” he protested. “Or even the Walker.”

“Being in Minnesota’s premier art museum would be awesome, but something doesn’t have to be internationally renowned to be worth it. It could just be a hobby. For fun, not profit.”

Logan leaned into her, his body long and warm next to hers. Warmth blossomed in her veins, and he leaned his temple against hers, his hand coming to rest on her thigh.

“You do things to me, Thompson,” he said in a low voice.

“Good things?” she said, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice.