CAMPBELL
That night Campbell lay in bed, the sounds of the Rise settling around him as Hannah’s answer to his question circled.
She stood in my father’s way.
Which hadn’t really answered his question—except it had.
And he thought his family life was chaotic, his past troubled. That was like comparing a head cold to cancer.
The grandfather clock in the hall struck two, and he kicked the sheets off with a sigh. Same story: sleep was a teasing bitch who wanted nothing to do with him. There were pills he could take, a bottle at the bottom of his duffle bag, in fact, but he’d gotten too used to those a few years ago, and he wasn’t about to go there again.
Maybe knowing more about Fontana—more beingcomplicated—would slow his fevered thoughts, ease the rush he experienced every time he saw her. Kill the frenetic dreams that had him jerking off like a fifteen-year-old.
Or, maybe it only made him want her more.
Want herpassionately. In a way that wasn’t part of his plans.
Because he let himself think about her, she came to him.Vividly.
Neck arched until the crown of her head met the mattress, throat pulling taut as his body glided over, inside her.Her fingers fisting in his hair, teeth sinking into his shoulder. The breathless sound she made just before she came—a sound he now knew too well.
It had begun to grab hold of his mind, that gasping release, and would not let go.
Closing his eyes with a sigh, he trailed his hand over his belly to his cock. If he couldn’t find a 2 a.m. solution to his problems, he might as well benefit by mentally fucking Fontana Quinn.
A fantasy that only involved her body.
Now, if he could forget he’d been given a key to unlock her mind.
chapter
thirteen
Lovesong–The Cure
CAMPBELL
Aside from Kit,Campbell had zero experience with children and even less experience teaching.
But somehow, the class went okay.
And, big shock,he actuallyenjoyedit.
He brought a box of old cameras to the Children’s Center, enough for every kid to have one to mess around with. As they clicked the shutter button and fiddled with the focus ring, asking questions both astute and absurd, he watched their faces—the curiosity, the wonder—and realized he’d forgotten what it was like to hold a camera for the first time. The solid weight of it. The thrill of looking through the viewfinder and seeing the world from a much different, much-needed perspective.
His grandfather’s cast-off Nikon had been his savior, his spark when he’d questioned having one—because baseball, which everyone saidshouldbe his spark, wasn’t. He’d found itconfusing, being told what to love instead of having the freedom to find it himself.
He still carried that beat-up camera to every shoot. His talisman. His good luck charm.
He wondered if anyone here would feel that same spark.
There were eight kids in the class, ranging in age from ten to thirteen. Children with nowhere to go after school, at loose ends, their parents working multiple jobs or perhaps not as involved as they should be.
Fontana believed this, and he agreed: too much free time and the trouble started.
She laughed easily in this setting, eyes bright, smile transforming her face from guarded to accessible, making it damn near impossible for him to look away. He figured, to hell with it, and let himself drink her in like the desperate man he was. Faded jeans worn at the knee and tight in the seat, ragged hem brushing the floor. Converse sneakers with a hole in the toe. A Braves sweatshirt that had seen better days but hugged her breasts so well he wished she’d wear it every day. His traitorous body leapt to attention as he wondered how she could look so amazing without trying—because he knew she didn’t try very hard.
When she caught him staring and held his gaze, focusing on him like he was the only person in the room, heat shot through him as surely as if she’d skated a finger down the zipper of his pants.
