Page 36

Campbell had dealt cards while casually explaining the generator’s shortcomings.

Its fuel level (inadequate for more than a brief outage), its size (too small a voltage or wattage for a true emergency), and the need to unplug everything but the refrigerator to avoid overloading it.

Listening, she’d realized how capable he was, when she’d never had anyone to rely on.

Her father had been useless in a crisis. A flat tire was more than he could handle. Paying the power bill? Impossible.

Campbell caught her watching, recognized she was trying to crack him open like a nut.

He wasn’t cooperating .

So, here she was standing before a closed door at two in the morning, trying to work up the nerve to invade this remarkable man’s space and bring more of him into the light.

Taking a deep breath, she shifted from heel to toe, raised her hand, and knocked. A moment passed, stretched into two. She chewed her lip. This really isn’t a good idea, Tana.

Then the door opened, and he was there.

He’d thrown on a Duke sweatshirt and his glasses since the card game, his hair now a tangled mess from his hands. The ever-present toothpick was tucked between his lips.

And, of course, he wore that impassive look that gave away absolutely nothing.

No cooperation whatsoever.

“What a surprise,” he said dryly, gesturing with the metal clip in his hand. “ Entré. ”

She stepped into an entryway draped in dark curtains, crowding into him when he didn’t move aside.

Her gaze lifted to his, but it was too dark to read his eyes—especially behind glass.

He hesitated, though, holding the contact, shoulder to hip.

Heat pulsed between them, a silent warning about the dangers curiosity could bring.

Without a word, Campbell reached around her, and she heard the quiet snap of the door closing.

She glanced around as he swept the sheet aside and stepped into the room. He shot her a heated glance, then jerked his shoulder toward the entrance. “Darkrooms have to be light-tight.”

The light-tight room was illuminated by large bulbs suspended from the ceiling, each glowing as red as a raccoon’s eyes. The sharp scent of chemicals filled the air, stinging the back of her throat and making her swallow. She coughed as her eyes adjusted to the dim amber glow.

Music poured from the same boombox he’d taken to the mill, now drifting into the stylings of XTC. “You were expecting me?”

Again, he gave her that you’re-trying-to-read-me look. “Peeling an onion,” she thought she heard him whisper as he flipped a switch, setting an exhaust fan into motion.

Fontana circled the room without touching a thing. She could tell he was tracking her every move, watchful silence, loaded and ready to spring.

Shelves stacked with paper, trays of solution, an easel, X-ACTO knives, canisters. Snips of brown-edged negatives littered the floor. A massive piece of equipment dominated one corner, while black sheeting was taped over the room’s lone window.

Shocking, but he’d actually brought his class here.

Luca had told her about it, saying it was the coolest place—the coolest day —of his life.

It was a space unlike any she’d ever seen. Subdued yet harsh, crimson-gold, shadow layered upon shadow. It lent a hushed intimacy to a night that needed no further push toward passion. Campbell fit in perfectly, cast in coppery relief as he clipped photos to a clothesline.

He worked methodically, calmly proficient, sure of his place, those beautiful pianist’s fingers moving with practiced ease. Pleasure rippled through her as she watched his sweatshirt ride high, baring a ridge of flexing abdominal muscle.

The room was as compelling as its owner.

She paused at a table cluttered with photos, reached to touched, then hesitated.

“You can look at them.” He pointed with the toothpick. “They’re dry.”

Fontana glanced back and caught his gaze dropping to her chest—to the nipples straining against the T-shirt he’d let her borrow. They pebbled as if he’d run his tongue across them.

She felt claimed, wrapped up in him and his world .

In the stack, she found photos of her garden, the gazebo, the mill.

The grain silo. A tumbling shack John Nelson had told her was at least a hundred years old.

The old barn. Neighboring fields, stripped bare except for the last stubborn sprigs of cotton.

A bird’s nest balanced precariously on a pine limb.

He’d roamed the land, seemingly intent on capturing it before he let it go.

She held up a photo, tapping the pointed edge against the table. “This field has unbelievably healthy soil. Slightly sandy, a silt and clay mix. And the pH is spot-on, 5.6 or so. Would be perfect for cotton.”

He paused mid-motion, his hand hovering near the clothesline. “Cotton,” he whispered, as if he’d never heard the word before, his fingers curling into a fist.

“Jaime and I played around with testing. I’ve advised a couple of farmers, so I knew what to look for. John Nelson wanted to know.”

Campbell clipped a photo to the line with a sharp snap of his wrist. “I just bet he did.”

“These are stunning. So much variation. I mean, black and white…” She shrugged, searching for the right words, knowing photographs were so much more than two simple colors.

He turned to face her, bracing his hands on the table and leaning against it. The barest hint of a smile crossed his face, though she sensed the amusement was aimed at himself. “Split filter printing. Multiple filters and separate exposure times create a broad tonal range.”

At her questioning shake of the head, he laughed softly. “All those variations of black you’re seeing.”

She nodded. “ Ah …”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

She shrugged, her gaze dropping to his photographs.

“Me either.” He gripped the dangling cord on his hoodie and gave it a quick tug. “Your hair. ”

She lifted a hand to run her fingers through it, but he pushed off the table, the sudden movement stopping her.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s?—”

Tilting her head just enough to catch him from the corner of her eye, she waited.

“Beautiful,” he finished.

Fontana’s breath caught as all the things she wanted to say hovered in her throat, locked in place by fear and uncertainty. “What’s the big boy for?” she asked instead, jacking her thumb toward the metal beast in the corner as the darkroom’s temperature seemed to skyrocket.

“An enlarger. It projects an image from negative to paper.” He walked to the piece, trailing a teasing finger along a glass plate.

“A Meopta. I used one years ago during a semester abroad. This one’s a 1960s version.

Czech.” He gave his hoodie string another tug.

“Like the truck, I prefer the old stuff.”

“You’re not comfortable with me here, are you?”

He glanced at her, wistfulness softening the edges of his gaze.

Amber light washed over him in a gorgeous tide.

She’d never seen him betray even a hint of shyness, and his reticence was oddly charming.

She wanted to strip away the layers of caution wrapped around him, but how could she when she had her own—just as powerful, just as terrifying, just as real—to face?

“The darkroom is my passion.” He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “Most of my work goes to a creative team now, after I take the shots. Color’s a bitch to develop, too time-consuming. And digital is coming on the scene. It’s probably going to upend everything. Frankly, maybe it already has.”

“There are other things you could work on. Other passion projects to even the playing field.”

He twisted a knob on the enlarger, sending the metal and glass head gliding up and down. “Have you been talking to John Nelson or something?”

She let out an aggrieved breath. “This is friendly advice, Campbell. That’s it.”

“Listen.” He shoved a negative strip into a slot, fiddling with a grip on the side. “Excuse me for my caginess, but I don’t know what having a friend feels like. And here, with you…”

Adjusting the negative, he did that humming thing under his breath. “Sometimes people get their signals crossed, okay?”

“You didn’t get your signals crossed. I came to you.”

He slipped his glasses off and rubbed his eyes so hard he was probably seeing stars.

His gaze, when it finally met hers, was bleak.

Emotions chased each other across his face—wonder and something haunted.

“I’m not equal to this. Being with you is like breathing deeply for the first time in years, a bracing jolt I feel clear to my toes.

So much change, and you in the middle of it.

Kit, my job, the Rise. My life doing a complete 180. I can’t keep up.”

Her lips parted, but she had no words.

“Do you know I took a photo of you? In the field, when I had the class at the barn.” He pushed the negative strip into the slot and pulled it back. Again. And again. “I’ve been working on it, trying to tighten the shot. Bring you into sharper focus.”

She debated, close to crossing the room to shake some sense into him—or kiss him until he truly saw stars. “And…that’s… what ?”

“I took the shot because you were in the distance. A safe fucking distance. On the periphery. Not a critical component.” Campbell ripped the negative from the enlarger and threw it onto the table.

“I’m trying to let this thing between us fade, like a photo that’s been sitting too long in the sun.

A gentle fade. Because you’re as close as I can let you get.

” Pausing, he turned to her, the expression on his face lethal.

“ Too close . And then here I am, trying to bring you closer. Even if it’s only in a photograph. It’s masochistic.”

So, they were going for broke.