Page 35

chapter

seventeen

Joey – Concrete Blonde

FONTANA

The power went out before dinner.

Two brilliant flashes, then total darkness.

A storm rolled in with promised ferocity, tearing at limbs and sending rain pelting the windowpanes like pebbles.

Fontana lit candles and fretted over the cedar elm she and Jaime had planted last week by the gazebo.

By midnight, shivering beneath two blankets, she realized her cottage had grown cold and a little eerie.

A knock startled her, uneven thumps that sent her racing to the door, blanket trailing behind like the train of a dress.

She peeked through the lace-edged curtain and found Kit standing beneath the portico, a yellow rain slicker nearly swallowing him whole.

He held a flashlight before his face, but all she could see in the beam was the glint of metal on his teeth.

Campbell stepped into view, crowding Kit against the door.

He was drenched . Inky strands slicked to his glistening cheeks, a soaked T-shirt clinging to the muscular ridges of his chest. The urge to run her hands over his jaw, slide them into his hair, and let him dampen her to the core was powerful .

Her pink, Jaime-encouraged underwear went up in proverbial flames.

With a trembling hand, she opened the door as the boys laughed and danced on the narrow landing, shaking themselves off like dogs.

“We have a generator! And guest bedrooms!” Kit shouted, spinning the flashlight around her kitchen like a disco ball. “And we know you don’t.”

“I have candles.” She gestured behind her.

“Hear that, kiddo? Light but no heat.”

Campbell stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over her—a lingering, fiery once-over. He paused at her new haircut, his hands flexing at his sides. His eyes darkened, his lips pressing into a firm line.

His golden eyes said yes. His lips said no.

As they stared, sensual memories ricocheted between them, flash vignettes that had spent all week igniting her body.

A deep voice over a crackling phone line, urging her to let go.

Desire scorching a molten path from the Rise to her studio as she obeyed.

Making a sandwich on the same counter he’d set her on before slipping inside.

Mopping a floor he’d inched her across with urgent thrusts.

Waking in a bed he’d occupied, their bodies tangled, then spent.

His scent, impossibly, still clinging to the sheets.

Emptiness filled her when she realized he wasn’t there.

Would never be there.

Fontana’s lips parted, ready to argue. She couldn’t possibly stay with him after?—

“Don’t even,” he warned, moving past her into the studio. His gaze landed on the counter in question, and an exhalation rushed from him. She watched him check the impulse to look back, his shoulders stiffening.

“Kit, blow out the wax blaze in there,” he added, raking a hand through his hair, where it flopped to his brow in a damp slump—somehow managing to look effortlessly, maddeningly sexy.

How typical of Campbell True.

“Did I ask for your help?” she whispered, frowning despite the satisfaction of having it.

“It’s freezing in here. Insulated, this place is not. Your landlord should check that out,” he said with a grin, then went to help Kit extinguish candles.

She heard them laughing, the sound of boys being sarcastic and silly, making light of everything. It warmed her heart to witness their blossoming relationship, even as she understood that a stronger bond meant they’d be leaving her that much sooner.

Kit raced back into the kitchen, holding her coat, which he thrust at her with no expectation of an argument. Campbell followed, clutching a Beech Mountain ski cap Jaime had left behind.

She jammed her arms into the sleeves, fuming. Of all the…

Of course, it was freezing, and there was plenty of room at the Rise, but?—

“Stop thinking,” Campbell said, tugging the ski cap onto her head. Stepping back, he scrutinized, then leaned in to adjust the fit, his fingers grazing her cheek, sending a streak of unadulterated want through her.

Fontana raised a brow, tapping her boot in time with a heartbeat racing from either irritation or yearning, she wasn’t sure which. Her mind was too tangled up in him to form a scathing reply.

He flashed the barest smile, gave a weak shrug, dimples flickering to life. “To protect that dangerous haircut from the rain.”

“But—”

“You have nightmares; I’m an insomniac. The picture-perfect, friendly sleepover.”

“But—”

“I have extra toothbrushes if dental care is what you’re worried about.”

“You know that’s not?—”

“ Please .”

She halted, literally rocking back on her heels. He was asking . Not demanding. Not expecting blind adherence. She searched those incredible eyes for any hint of pretense but found only amusement—and something deeper.

An emotion she was scared to define.

“Not that I sleep well, but I won’t at all, worrying about you over here without heat, without power.” He swiped his fingers across his heart. “Scout’s honor, no ulterior motive.”

She laughed, more like a snort. Charming, Fontana . “You? A Boy Scout?”

“Ah, actually, no.” His laugh was silky, a delicious whisper across her cheek.

His hand settled at the small of her back, guiding her toward the door.

She felt managed, his flirtatious discourse wrapped in an unyielding touch.

Campbell didn’t like to lose, didn’t like to hear no , didn’t like having his directives challenged.

Enticing persuasion was his game. She knew it, but still let herself be played. “They kicked me out the first week.”

“I’m supposed to take a fallen Scout’s word?”

He hummed one of his non-replies, leading her outside and pulling the door shut behind them.

Fontana hesitated, gripping the doorframe, a last-ditch effort against the inevitable. “My keys, Atlanta!”

Rain spit down upon them, silver beads clinging to the tips of his hair, his lashes. His eyes glittered in the beam of light Kit swept over them from his post in the yard. With one of those easy, melting smiles, Campbell etched another X over his heart, then slipped her keys into her front pocket.

When she leaned into him, helpless not to, he let out a low groan and grabbed her hand, tugging her toward the truck parked in her drive.

Even in a deluge, Campbell played the gentleman, opening the door for her, making sure she was safely inside before racing to the driver’s side.

Kit was in the middle, bumping around with excitement, the storm and subsequent disruption in his routine an adventure.

The flashlight’s beam circled the interior as he chattered about nebulous clouds and the odds of being struck by lightning, blissfully unaware of the tension between the adults.

The truck was a late-’60s model, its antiquated gauges lighting up the dashboard, ones she hadn’t seen since her father’s.

She glanced at Campbell as he shifted into gear, the amber glow bouncing off the sharp angles of his face, catching rusty highlights in his hair.

The muscles in his arm and shoulder flexed as he maneuvered down the winding path that snaked between barren fields leading to the Rise.

The windshield wipers squeaked, gravel crunched beneath the tires, and silence stretched between them as her body reacted to being this close to him.

The vehicle looked perfect on the Promise version of Campbell True, much better than the dream machine. The man who loved cotton fields, cameras, and family.

They sat so close, Fontana could smell him, a scent that, in a very short time, she’d come to know. One her body recognized as easily as her mind.

Automatic attraction.

She curled her hands into her coat to keep them from reaching .

“The truck?” she finally asked, surprised by the breathlessness in her voice.

“Mine. Saved up my sophomore year at Duke, bought her from a retiring farmer. Spent two summers restoring, tracking down parts all over the place. John Nelson kept her running for me. I forgot—” Lifting his hand from the glossy wooden wheel, he flicked the rest of the sentence away, the notion perhaps hitting too close.

“She’s part of home,” she finished.

Startled, he pulled his gaze from the road, meeting hers for a fleeting second before looking away. Closing himself off. Emotion slipping away. Gone .

Sliding low in the seat, she kept her boots planted on the floorboard this time, her eyes on the Rise as it emerged—lovely and dreamlike—through the mist. It was the house of her dreams. Sure, steady, striking. She’d been in love with it from the first moment.

She wondered if Campbell felt the same, or if the weight of the past was too heavy a burden, stripping any pleasure away. Memories. Heritage. A commitment he’d run from at the first chance. And would again, no matter what, or who , was there, offering another option, another choice.

If he’s sharing his past, it’d be a first.

Damn that Tammi.

Fontana wasn’t up for the exhausting game of prying words from the most taciturn man alive. Coaxing conversation, propping up their so-called friendship, pretending his revelations actually meant something.

Or taking an enormous risk and proposing a future unlike the one he’d already planned.

She shook her head. No way .

She wasn’t brave enough to fall in love.

FONTANA

Duran Duran provided the breadcrumb trail, she’d later think.

Music floating like a tender breeze down the deserted hallway, luring her to the door of what could only be Campbell’s darkroom.

They arrived at the Rise with a child too amped up to sleep. Two hours of Gin Rummy and snacks by battery-powered lamplight passed before Kit’s eyes began to glaze over, and they could finally pack him into his sleeping bag in the den—the warmest room in the house—yet another adventure in his eyes.

The night had revealed more, another rough facet brought to light.