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Then she was gone, striding across the field before he could think of a reply—an apology, anything to cool the fire in those gorgeous baby blues. Her gait was a little off because of her weak ankle, which made him feel like shit all over again.

He turned to find the kids looking on with wide eyes; only his brother’s held any trace of amusement. Kit was used to the Quinn temper. And used to Campbell screwing things up. He jerked his head toward the house. “Kit, take them up. Mary Francis has sweet tea and cookies. I’ll be there soon.”

He went after her, he did.

Slung his camera strap over his neck, pressed the lens into his side, and started to run. Campbell could catch her, no doubt. He’d run track for two years in high school, in addition to football and baseball, God help him.

But if he caught her, then what?

Oh, yeah. Then that .

He came to a stop in the middle of the field, dropped his hands to his knees, and hung his head, releasing a choked exhalation. If he touched Fontana right now—even with so much as a pinky—they were going to go there. In the barn, in the field. No way they’d make it to a bed.

It wouldn’t be gentle. Or sweet.

It would be passionate and powerful. Brutal and remarkable.

Only this time, Campbell was frightened.

Fontana didn’t hate him as much as she had at the start.

At the mill, he’d witnessed a trace of affection and, fuck, sympathy , in her eyes.

Understanding only those who’d experienced trauma themselves could extend.

He’d grabbed it like a drowning man, told her things he’d never told anyone outside his family.

Told her things he’d never told anyone .

She was sharp. She probably had a pretty good line on him at this point.

Talk about naked.

In a way he didn’t like .

FONTANA

The dream came to her in bursts, flickers of luminosity amidst startling pitch-black, like a lightbulb flickering in a faulty socket. She knelt between rows of unharvested corn, her fingers embedded deep in the frosty earth.

Relief tangled with terror. The towering, untouched stalks were excellent concealment.

Whispering an urgent plea, she squeezed Hannah’s hand until her own felt bloodless. Quiet, or he’ll hear us. The crushing power of his boots destroyed everything in their path—cornstalks snapping as easily as the bones in her ankle had.

When she glanced back and found Hannah gone, a scream tore through her.

Waking, Fontana rolled onto her back, gasping into the darkness. She curled her fists around sheets gone damp beneath her. A bead of sweat trailed down her jaw, and she scrubbed it away. She didn’t have to leave.

Not today. Not tomorrow. Not yet.

And even when she did, they were safe. He wasn’t searching for them anymore. He didn’t think about them anymore.

She hoped.

Fontana focused on breathing and let the night comfort her. The whir of the furnace, a branch scraping the window, the hum of the refrigerator. Her home. Her sounds .

Rolling her head, her gaze fell to Henry’s jacket hanging on her closet doorknob. Before she could stop herself, she grabbed the phone on her bedside table, dialing with one hand as she untangled the twisted cord with the other.

He answered on the first ring. Not an ounce of sleep in his voice.

She glanced at the clock. 3:16 a.m.

“Atlanta?”

Campbell’s terse breath shot through the phone. “Hellcat?”

“I’m sorry. It’s so late. But Hannah gets upset if I call about the dream and?—”

“Hold on, slow down.” She heard rustling as he shifted. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. No.” She sighed, pressing the phone to her cheek. “ Yes .” His voice was making her feel better, which was a nightmare in its own right.

“A bad dream?”

She sank onto the mattress, imagining the shade of gold his eyes would be right now. “Not a dream. The dream. The one where he’s searching for me.”

“ Who ?” His voice was razor-sharp. His reaction to her wearing Henry’s jacket popped into her mind. That little show of jealousy shouldn’t have pleased her as much as it did.

“I don’t want to go back there when I’m so done with it, with him . But I can’t leave it behind. Or it’s hard to, I guess. Maybe that’s one reason your plans are shaking me up so much.”

“ Who , Fontana?”

She closed her eyes, realizing it was now or never. “My father.”

He let go of a long, aggrieved sigh. “ Oh, sweetheart .”

The story poured out as he patiently listened, his compassion traveling across the field separating them.

Her father’s drinking, his rage, his abuse. The ankle Fontana broke running from him that hadn’t healed properly. The final straw—when he threatened Hannah. The police, the competency hearing. The monthly reports from the institution she insisted upon receiving.

Proof she no longer had to look over her shoulder. Even though, with his threats, she did.

But she kept that to herself.

They sat in silence when she finished, their muted breaths the only sound. She couldn’t say why she’d chosen Campbell True, of all people, to tell her story. Possibly because he knew what neglect was like.

And because he’d shared his mess of a past with her.

Finally, softly, he said, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know why people have children when they’re incapable of being parents. The damage they leave behind is horrendous.”

“We didn’t exactly win the lottery there, did we?”

“No.” The tone that came across the line was biting. “Do you…want to talk more about it? Since I don’t have those sea-blue eyes of yours to lose myself in, I should be able to focus.”

She shook her head, though he couldn’t see it. This was enough. A big step—or a huge mistake. Time would tell.

Debating, Fontana slid deep beneath the covers, her T-shirt riding high on her belly. She palmed the pulsing thump beneath her breastbone and wondered how far he’d go to comfort her.

“On to a brighter topic,” he said to fill the silence and lighten the mood. “Guess who’s coming in this weekend? Says it’s to work on this exhibit I have in Philly next year, tour Justin’s gallery, that sort of thing, but I think you better hang on to your fiancé if you want to keep him.”

“Dix?” Fontana slapped her feet onto the mattress with a shriek. “Oh my God , he likes Jaime! My prayers have been answered. ”

“You prayed about Jaime meeting a man?”

“Of course.” Men . She rolled her eyes and tucked the phone tighter against her cheek. “So that’s why he wants to go shopping.”

“You lost me.”

“He’ll want a date outfit. And new underwear. He’s obsessed with the stuff. He was really unhappy with mine, so unhappy I now have a drawer full of lacy nothings and—” Fontana pulled the receiver back as a dull whack sounded in her ear.

“Shit. Sorry,” he called, sounding like he was standing at the end of a tunnel. “Dropped the phone.”

Fontana pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to keep from giggling. But another part of her reacted to the hoarseness in his voice, channeling into what he was possibly thinking as a burst of heat zoomed from her brain to her clit.

Go on, chicken, ask . “Atlanta, hey, do you, um, know how to do this?”

“The friend thing? Not really, but I’m trying.”

She slid her hand down her body—breast, tummy, hipbone. “No, the phone thing.”

Silence. A full twenty seconds before he replied, “You trying to get me to fall out of the bed this time?”

She laughed softly, lifted her bottom, and worked her panties off. “The thing you did with your fingers.” She touched herself then, not waiting for him.

He could have gone into radio with that voice—deep, with this gritty edge.

She focused on it as a familiar tingle snaked up her spine.

She could probably come if he were reading a weather forecast, but if he started talking dirty, she was a goner .

“You curled them inside me or something. I’ve tried to recreate it, but… I…can’t quite.”

“Fontana, are you touching yourself? ”

“Yes,” she said, stretching it out until a trail of S’s was left between them.

A harsh exhalation hit her ears. “ Fuck . You don’t play fair.”

“I don’t want to play fair. I want to come.” She moaned, couldn’t stop it. “Can you do it this way? Thinking about me, about us?”

“ Yes .”

“Excellent.”

“Are you kidding? I’m close to embarrassing myself every time I see you.” His breathing caught up to hers, rapid bursts that set her pulse skittering. She wasn’t in this alone. He was as aware of her, as affected.

“Are you touching yourself?” she asked in a husky murmur, the vivid memory of her fingers wrapped around him flooding her mind.

He released a gravelly sound, then whispered, “ Yes .”

Decision made, Fontana did something she’d never done with a man.

She talked.

In graphic detail, she told him everything she’d loved about their night together. Everything she wanted to do to him. Everything she wanted him to do to her.

He responded with marked enthusiasm, murmuring wicked suggestions, urging her to tell him how she was touching herself—the heat, the moisture, the speed. The way her muscles contracted around her fingers. Where her legs were. If she was pinching her nipples.

While he described how hard he was, how he pulsed in his hand, moisture beading on the crown of his cock. He listed the ways he imagined taking her—setting, clothing, position.

Frankly, he consumed.

She’d never experienced anything more erotic in her life.

When she was close, two fingers buried deep, her mind splitting from her body, she whispered, “Will you show me how to touch you? Really show me?”

“I’ll teach you exactly what I like.” He groaned low and long, his breath a harsh rasp in her ear. “I’m so fucking hard right now. If only your hands…were on me. Your lips. Your tongue .”

“Come with me, Campbell Loman.” Back arching off the bed, she closed her eyes. Her skin was on fire, the triangle between her thighs throbbing. She circled her swollen clit, stroking, imitating him as well as she could. The phone dropped, resting in the cradle of her neck. “Like. That. Night.”

She beat him to the finish by a few seconds, but it was close.

Fontana knew this, because he was the kind of guy who made no secret of an orgasm taking him away. Which she appreciated .

Seconds passed as they panted softly, murmuring breathless nothings. Finally, she brought the phone back to her ear, listening with delight as he tried to recover some form of intelligible speech.

Laughing, she ripped the sheet off her overheated body.

It felt wonderful to finally be making up for lost time.

“Rule number one. No giggling during the phone thing, Hellcat.” The line crackled as he brought the receiver close to his mouth. He must have dropped it in the moment. “Could mess with my ego.”

“Like you make up all the rules?”

“I make no rules. Nothing with you is like anything else.”

The smile practically split her cheeks. “You don’t have to sound so discouraged about it.”

He sighed, still sounding a little winded.

“Friends can do the phone thing, right?” she asked, pretty sure her amusement was traveling the distance between them .

“Sure. Of course. Why not?” She heard his sheets rustle in the background. “What is that buzzing?”

“Oh.” Fontana scrounged around until she found it, a vibrating orange glow hidden beneath the comforter. “I have this little toy I pop on my finger when I?—”

“Got it.”

“But I?—”

“Stop now, Quinn, or we’re going to go another round.”

She tapped the vibrator against the phone, then slipped it between her thighs. “Sounds like a plan.”