Henry’s rough-hewn features swam before her eyes. Fontana couldn’t offer up someone who wanted her as much as he did. Not when he’d never get what he wanted.
“Jaime Holworth,” she blurted, then cringed, hoping she hid it well.
Atlanta, who asked for names but didn't offer them, frowned, maddening little dents appearing in both cheeks. “Jaime Holworth? You mean James Holworth? Doesn’t his father own the drugstore on the square?”
Oh, shit, Fontana thought, withering where she stood.
Georgia plates. He was a local.
“Pumped-up? Intense?” Atlanta’s amusement deepened, and she got a good look at eyes the exact shade of fertile soil sure to grow anything planted in it. “Strange. He was kind of a calm, scrawny kid in high school. Made the costumes for the drama club, played the flute in the marching band. I always figured he was—” His head dropped so fast his sunglasses slid down to his nose.
As they regarded each other warily across the short distance, she thought she saw his cheeks flush.
Trying to decide if he was,truly, the best-looking man she’d ever seen, Fontana stayed silent. Attractiveness of hissort propelled bad decisions and often demanded compliance.
“Sorry,” he finally said. “Forget I mentioned it. Just get in. I’ll give you a ride, then we can part ways. Jaime’s nice. I mean, I liked him. Though I haven’t seen him since graduation, except once in Atlanta during Gay Pride—” He threw his head back, releasing a raw expletive. “Get in, will you? I’ll drive you to Prescott’s, kindly wish you and Jaime every happiness, and ride off into the sunset. I’m sure you’ll have a long and fruitful”—his doubtful gaze slid her way—“union. Loads of marital bliss.”
Dazed and deciding she had few options on an ever darkening country road, waiting on a tow-truck driver whowasn’tthe most reliable, Fontana let Atlanta open the door for her, his touch scorching her back as he gently guided her in. His dogmatic ease vexed her, but men always assumed they knew what worked best for a woman.
Sometimes it was easier to just go with it.
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 amberradiating 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 wasnot.
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 hoistdrowning 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.”
