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The gears ground as he shifted, jerking the car into motion. “Buckle your belt,” he whispered, making a quick U-turn to circle back to Prescott’s, leaving his damned ma’ams and down-home charm in the dust they kicked up.

Without protest, she slid into the seat, the upholstery butter-soft and slick beneath her bottom, the luxurious scent of leather mingling with the sun-warmed fragrance of the man next to her.

Her heels hooked on the dashboard before she realized what she was doing, and her cheeks heated.

She hadn’t meant to throw them up there.

A bad habit from riding in her father’s pickup, liquor bottles and King James’ bibles bounced around the floorboard, leaving little room for her feet.

After enduring a long moment of scrutiny, Atlanta tilted his head, his indolent smile vanishing.

His eyes were definitely brown, Fontana concluded—dark as peat moss, surrounded by an unusual ring of violet, maybe even a hint of amber radiating from the edges.

His aviators sat on the console between them, discarded.

As their gazes locked, a staccato beat quickened in her chest, an answering tickle stirring in her belly.

Awareness, long dormant, pulsed like the vibration from a speaker through her.

She was leaning, her body closing in, when the car shook, rumbling over the centerline reflectors.

“ Jesus ,” he whispered, whipping his attention back to the road.

Fontana dropped her head against the seat, wondering if leaping from a speeding vehicle was survivable. One long, sultry stare, and she’d been ready to crawl into his lap. Grind more than gears.

Soundless, they rolled into a sprawling lowland, swallowed by vast fields of collard greens, spent corn, and narrow plots of turned soil waiting for soybeans.

Cattle munched lazily beside tin-roofed barns, jagged lines of barbed wire closing them in.

Snarls of bramble sheltered mailboxes squashed as if they’d taken a direct hit from a bat.

Breathing deeply, she watched the endless breadth of near twilight glide by, the air ripping into the open car, a welcome smack against her face.

She loved it here. Needed it here. But fear was always— always —so close.

And Fontana was learning it was a Southern tradition to say everything was fine when everything was not .

Anxiety she’d have to walk off starting to thrum through her, Prescott’s dangling yellow sign appeared on the horizon like the answer to a prayer.

The car bounced over a shallow pothole as Atlanta pulled into the gravel lot.

Rummy, the resident mutt, dashed through the open bay door, barking and yipping, his backside sporting a pink bald spot.

They exited the car the moment the engine stalled—Fontana heading for the office, Atlanta toward the payphone on the side of the building.

The smell of gasoline and grease hit her as she stepped inside the garage, the squeal of a hoist drowning out the dull thump of Alice in Chains.

Shoving an oil caddy aside, she turned down the volume on the boombox sitting atop a shelving unit and went to one knee beside Mrs. Stimple’s Chevy Caprice.

She and Mrs. Stimple were paying the garage’s bills, that’s for sure.

Fontana tapped the toe of Tim Prescott’s enormous work boot, and he slid out from beneath the car.

The conversation was brief. Her Jeep was a piece of shit.

A new engine was a good idea; a new car, a brilliant one.

He’d take a look at it and give her a call tomorrow, but he wasn’t a miracle worker.

Blood from a turnip, etcetera, etcetera.

And he’d lock her equipment in the garage for the night.

Because, flat out, she couldn’t afford to replace even one shovel.

She rounded the building, determined to thank Atlanta without a hint of a sneer.

She’d been rude to someone simply offering help.

Her childhood had taught her not to trust, but that didn’t mean she had to paint every man with her father’s brush.

Lots of people had comforts she’d never known—and might never know—and she needed to get over it.

The poor kid blues. So what if thoughts about how many landscaping projects it would take to keep Hannah in college and pay the bills kept her up at night?

She wasn’t special for having the same worries as everyone else.

With his long body slouched against a brick wall bearing a faded Esso advertisement, phone tucked between his cheek and broad shoulder, she took in the sight of her savior as she halted by the payphone.

It wouldn’t hurt to look, though, and if she were honest, she rarely cared to.

Another jolt of heat mixed with ire shot through her; the man would be drop-dead gorgeous no matter the clothes, no matter the setting .

Stepping from the shower, finishing a marathon, digging a ditch.

He was just one of those people.

Without glancing her way, he sighed. “No need. I removed the scratches from the negative.” Flicking the phone’s change slot, he ran a hand through his hair, the unruly waves immediately tumbling back.

Fontana couldn't stop herself from watching the movement, recording the orange stain on his knuckle, the fine, dark hairs spilling past a neat blue cuff. “Make sure you check the drive on the Widelux. The motor fired twice, gave me a charming double exposure. The book cover’s due on the 13th.”

A photographer .

A tingle of unease rippled through her, unrelated to how enticing he was, James-Dean-ing it over there. Her mind churned, trying to fit the pieces of the puzzle together. She was missing something.

“I’ve got to run, Dix. I’ll check in tomorrow.

Hmm? No, no, haven’t seen him yet. I got sidetracked.

Only a couple of miles away.” He straightened, a deliberate shift as his gaze tripped back to her.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do. Convince them to move to Atlanta?

What else? That, or leave an eleven-year-old kid alone with John Nelson? ”

Fontana dug her elbow into brick as black edged her vision. She dropped her head to her clenched fist and drew a breath that barely cut through the fog in her mind. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Unaware, he continued his conversation, unbothered, not sensing her disquiet.

“The only bright spot in this mess is that there’s already a buyer lined up for the Rise.

Someone’s waiting in the wings to take it all, including, if you can believe it, that decrepit shanty out back.

Though, I’ll have to evict some impoverished single mother or something. ”

Fontana was stalking across the gravel lot before she had time to rationalize, her anxiety swelling into full-blown panic. This sensation would take more than a long walk to shake off.

She’d known, deep down, that nothing safe could last.

Knees shaking, she braced herself against his car and got a good look—too good—into the back seat. Hulking black camera. Metal box holding more cameras, lenses. Silver tripod. Igloo cooler.

Hadn’t Kit once told her that photographers needed to keep their film cool?

Fontana’s lids lowered as her stomach churned. With trembling hands, she gripped the window ledge, warm chrome biting into her palms.

“Hellcat, you okay?” She heard his footfalls crunching over gravel, then the heat of his body as he closed in. It was never easy battling with someone who smelled like this side of heaven. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

She blinked as his simmering gaze locked onto hers. Suddenly, the resemblance hit her. Eyes, definitely the eyes. The full upper lip. The nose... oh , crap if Kit didn’t have his nose.

“Campbell. Campbell True,” she whispered.

Surprise had his shoulders lifting, spine locking, the color draining from his cheeks.

Fontana braced her hand on his car and laughed raggedly, the shuddering movement pulling her closer to him when she wanted to be anywhere else—on the moon, in hell.

“You don’t have to worry about how to evict your impoverished tenant, Mr. True.

I got the message...loud and clear. And if it makes you feel any better, I’m not a single mother.

Just a working-class girl with a sister in college. ”

Campbell peeled himself off the car and took a stumbling step back. She bet it was as graceless a move as he ever allowed himself to make. “I’m sorry, I?—”

“Don’t be sorry,” she said, cutting him off. At the knees with a machete if she could have. “Be a decent brother to Kit. Lord knows he needs someone.”

Finished in more ways than one, Fontana headed back into Prescott’s before he could reply, or worse, much worse, reach for her. When she was weak enough to possibly accept his touch. “Or is that too much to ask for someone as unconcerned as you?”