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He did a two-fisted shove off the wall, swaying the slightest bit when he stood. “Can’t wait to hear this.”

“You’ll love it.” Fontana smiled, all knowing, and his stomach took another dive as he imagined hauling her up the stairs to his childhood bedroom and not letting her leave for days. “You’re going to show me this calming place.”

When she held out her hand this time, he took it.

FONTANA

This was a foolish idea.

When foolish ideas weren’t her norm. Something about the man striding across a weed-choked lot behind a dilapidated mill stirred her up. Like a storm, he brought change and force, momentum and excitement. An electric spark muscling through the air.

She wasn’t the same person when he was around.

The problem was, she liked this Fontana better.

They’d taken her Jeep because she’d only had one glass of champagne.

Which led to him finding his book on her floorboard, ready for its return to the library.

So now he clutched it in one hand, a flashlight in the other, a backpack slung over his broad shoulder, and his ever-present camera hanging from a strap about his neck.

She carried a blanket and an old boombox he’d gotten from somewhere at the Rise.

The perfect midnight picnic.

She hoped he had alcohol in the backpack.

Although she had no idea where his safe place was, she couldn’t leave him sitting on that wall, utterly lost, collar twisted, one of his cuffs folded at an odd angle. Something about the entire scene brought to mind what he must have looked like as a boy, listening to his parents’ fight inside.

As always, his vulnerability drew her in like nothing else could.

“Does this thing work?” She shook the boombox, a little rattled from holding his hand earlier. Her palm still tingled.

It wasn’t her imagination—she could still smell his citrusy scent on her skin.

“Circa 1985, and yes, it works.” Campbell took a sharp right when they reached the crumbling brick wall surrounding the mill, following along its outer perimeter.

The flashlight’s beam bounced with his steps, he checked often to make sure she could see well enough, that she didn’t trip.

Less danger for her if he went first, etcetera.

He was a gentleman, his kindness hidden beneath layers of wit and sarcasm.

As she followed, she tried to avoid studying him, but it was hard not to.

A full moon lit him, blanched and soft, revealing the tense set of his mouth, the dent between his brows.

He looked gorgeous and formidable, his jeans faded except for bright blue seams. The hole this time was on his hip, big enough to slip her pinky in if she had a mind to.

He’d tucked a well-made white dress shirt into those ragged jeans, and the opposing combo was sexy, devastating.

Hiking boots she recognized from his bio picture were on his feet.

He hadn’t gone back to those slick loafers that didn’t really suit him.

Considering the baseball fiasco, he wouldn’ t like the comparison, but Campbell moved like an athlete.

Graceful for such a tall guy. Sure-footed.

At some point growing up, his arms had probably been too long for his body, his nose too big for his face.

Or maybe he’d been this good-looking from day one. She could imagine that, too.

At odd times during the day, the fascinating thing he’d done with his fingers arrived like a fast-moving train at the station of her brain. He’d known exactly how to make her come.

Then the train unloaded, sending pulses scattering all over her body. She’d touched herself way too often in the past week trying to replicate his touch.

But there was no comparison.

How dangerous was it now to remember? When the rock-hard muscles shifting underneath his soft denim were completely within reach?

Yoga-breathing through her lust, she sidestepped rocks, stray branches, and discarded lumber, wondering about the history of this place and his connection to it. Wondering what color underwear one chose to wear to their birthday party.

“Awfully quiet back there, Hellcat.”

“Fear of trespassing, Atlanta.”

Good response, Fontana. She sounded cool. Collected. In control.

He halted at a section of the wall that had given up the fight and propped his hands on his hips.

Someone had boarded it up—half-assed at best. Lifting his leg, Campbell kicked, sending wood flying.

He shot the flashlight’s beam through the splintered hole while she secretly swooned.

“That’ll do,” he murmured, making a chivalrous motion with his book that signaled she enter the serrated doorway first. He smiled, a flash of white teeth and mischief. “Not trespassing, I swear.”

“How do you figure?” she asked, pivoting to step through the gap without catching her dress on a splinter.

“I own it,” he whispered in her ear, his breath a moist, searing invitation.

Fontana stopped so abruptly that he bumped into her, his body a hot press against her back. “Own this ?” If she was breathless, it was due to shock, not because he’d touched her. Or because she was recalling that finger move again.

He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a grunt, then circled around her and loped, his camera banging against his hip, into the shadows. “Hey, every Southern gentleman needs a worthless cotton mill.”

When she reached the building, she paused at the threshold of a doorway without a door. This place is massive , she thought, tilting her head back to take it in.

And stunning . Nothing worthless about this.

Windows with stylish black-gone-gray metal frames and fastenings, row upon row of leaded glass leaking moonlight onto planks that ranged from espresso to caramel. Exposed brick. Beamed ceilings. The builders had clearly used whatever was available during construction.

It should have been an architectural disaster—the haphazard mix—but instead, it was a glory.

It smelled like an abandoned structure, notes of damp and decay, but there were hints of maintenance, too. Someone took begrudging care of this place, and she guessed it was the man standing across from her.

She turned in a slow circle, scanning every corner. “How old?”

“Built in 1887 by my great-grandfather. Mother’s side. Back then, they were producing denim and flannel.” His footfalls echoed, the flashlight beam bouncing as he popped it against his thigh. “Closed in the ‘70s, when the textile market went down the tubes. ”

“And since then?”

He disappeared into a room at the end of the hall.

Fontana followed, a gasp slipping from her lips as she stepped inside.

The space was small and warm, crowned with a glass ceiling.

A greenhouse . Snowy light blanketed the floor—caramel planks here—and sparked off the bracketed windows.

“This is the place,” she breathed, already imagining the scent of earth and blossoms.

Lilies would love this room.

He tilted his head, amused, dancing the flashlight’s beam across her chest.

“Your calm place.” She set the boombox down and unfurled the blanket before he could change his mind and rush them out, a case of nerves now that he’d shared this with her. She was coming to know this was entirely possible with Campbell True.

“Or, if it isn’t, it should be,” she said, settling into a cross-legged sit.

Hiding his smile with a quick duck of his head, he went to one knee, propped the flashlight so the beam shot to the ceiling, then pulled wine, cheese, and crackers from the backpack.

Two mismatched plastic cups and a cassette tape followed.

His book and camera were placed like chaperones between them.

The boombox apparently had newer-than-1985 batteries as a song, haunting and unfamiliar, crackled from the speaker.

“I don’t know this one,” she whispered as the melody echoed through the space.

“ Sunday Kind of Love ,” Campbell said, falling into a sprawl on his side of the blanket. While murmuring the lyrics, he poured wine and extended a cup to her, a pained expression working its way over his face.

She took a leisurely sip. “What’s that look for?”

“A kick in the teeth for my youthful naiveté.” He glanced at the ceiling, his laugh one with an edge. “I used to think Etta James was telling me that everyone would eventually get off the lonely road. Saturday’s about casual love, fledgling love, but Sunday—Sunday love’s the real deal.”

He softly sang the next line about a “certain kind of lover,” sending goosebumps over her skin.

Of course, his voice was as solid as the rest of him.

Their gazes locked. His eyes went dark, smoothing out the gold, and Fontana wondered what she was doing here when she’d sworn off the man. Maybe he had reservations too, because he looked away first, spinning his book around and flipping through the pages.

Fontana carefully arranged her skirt. Flashing her panties was the last thing she needed. Though, for once, they were pretty sexy. Jaime had insisted on black lace, just in case.

Taking a sip of wine, she let her head fall back, still unable to get over the glass ceiling. She sat close enough for Campbell’s unique scent, peppery and striking, to drift her way. It paired well with the wine. “This place is amazing.”

“It’s a ballast around my neck,” he muttered with a furious page swipe. “Choking me.”

“Why maintain it then? It’s obvious you have.” She shrugged, knowing she was poking an angry bear. Hannah often wouldn’t talk until Fontana poked—and poked hard . “Just let it rot.”

“I fucking should.” Another angry page turn.

Then he halted, running his finger over an image of a snow-capped mountain.

Tapping twice, he frowned and shook his head.

She guessed he would change something in the photograph if he could.

“I don’t know where the door went. I have security in twice a week.

A regular contractor on call for repairs to keep this place from folding in on itself. Who steals a door ?”