Windows with stylish black-gone-gray metal frames and fastenings, row upon row of leaded glass leaking moonlight onto planks that ranged from espresso to caramel. Exposed brick. Beamed ceilings. The builders had clearly used whatever was available during construction.
It should have been an architectural disaster—the haphazard mix—but instead, it was a glory.
It smelled like an abandoned structure, notes of damp and decay, but there were hints of maintenance, too. Someone took begrudging care of this place, and she guessed it was the man standing across from her.
She turned in a slow circle, scanning every corner. “How old?”
“Built in 1887 by my great-grandfather. Mother’s side. Back then, they were producing denim and flannel.” His footfalls echoed, the flashlight beam bouncing as he popped it against his thigh. “Closed in the ‘70s, when the textile market went down the tubes.”
“And since then?”
He disappeared into a room at the end of the hall.
Fontana followed, a gasp slipping from her lips as she stepped inside. The space was small and warm, crowned with a glass ceiling. Agreenhouse. Snowy light blanketed the floor—caramel planks here—and sparked off the bracketed windows. “This is the place,” she breathed, already imagining the scent of earth and blossoms.
Lilies wouldlovethis room.
He tilted his head, amused, dancing the flashlight’s beam across her chest.
“Your calm place.” She set the boombox down and unfurled the blanket before he could change his mind and rush them out, a case of nerves now that he’d shared this with her. She was coming to know this was entirely possible with Campbell True.
“Or, if it isn’t, it should be,” she said, settling into a cross-legged sit.
Hiding his smile with a quick duck of his head, he went to one knee, propped the flashlight so the beam shot to the ceiling, then pulled wine, cheese, and crackers from the backpack. Two mismatched plastic cups and a cassette tape followed. His book and camera were placed like chaperones between them. The boombox apparently had newer-than-1985 batteries as a song, haunting and unfamiliar, crackled from the speaker.
“I don’t know this one,” she whispered as the melody echoed through the space.
“Sunday Kind of Love,” Campbell said, falling into a sprawl on his side of the blanket. While murmuring the lyrics, he poured wine and extended a cup to her, a pained expression working its way over his face.
She took a leisurely sip. “What’s that look for?”
“A kick in the teeth for my youthful naiveté.” He glanced at the ceiling, his laugh one with an edge. “I used to think EttaJames was telling me that everyone would eventually get off the lonely road. Saturday’s about casual love, fledgling love, but Sunday—Sunday love’s therealdeal.”
He softly sang the next line about a “certain kind of lover,” sending goosebumps over her skin.
Of course, his voice was as solid as the rest of him.
Their gazes locked. His eyes went dark, smoothing out the gold, and Fontana wondered what she was doing here when she’d sworn off the man. Maybe he had reservations too, because he looked away first, spinning his book around and flipping through the pages.
Fontana carefully arranged her skirt. Flashing her panties was the last thing she needed. Though, for once, they were pretty sexy. Jaime had insisted on black lace, just in case.
Taking a sip of wine, she let her head fall back, still unable to get over the glass ceiling. She sat close enough for Campbell’s unique scent, peppery and striking, to drift her way. It paired well with the wine. “This place is amazing.”
“It’s a ballast around my neck,” he muttered with a furious page swipe. “Choking me.”
“Why maintain it then? It’s obvious you have.” She shrugged, knowing she was poking an angry bear. Hannah often wouldn’t talk until Fontana poked—and pokedhard. “Just let it rot.”
“I fucking should.” Another angry page turn. Then he halted, running his finger over an image of a snow-capped mountain. Tapping twice, he frowned and shook his head. She guessed he would change something in the photograph if he could. “I don’t know where the door went. I have security in twice a week. A regular contractor on call for repairs to keep this place from folding in on itself. Who steals adoor?”
To give the appropriate pause,thinking timeshe called it with her sister, Fontana took a cracker, a sliver of cheese before replying. Chewing, she said, “Your career is based on capturingbeauty. You have this amazing talent, you see it first, I guess. Diamonds in the rough, all over the world.” She swallowed. Another thinking pause. “You can’t see it here?”
He gazed at her over the rim of his cup, pressing it teasingly against his bottom lip. Rotating the book her way, he nodded to the page. “Star trail. Nepal,” he said, taking a relaxed sip. “Takes hours to get the motion of the stars, an incredibly long exposure. I might show this to the kids in class. Helps you see how much timing matter. Like it does in life.”
“Such exotic places. Such adventure.” She took her own relaxed sip, even as her heartbeat tripped.No guts, no glory. “But no people.”
Campbell slapped his cup down and came to his feet. He grabbed his camera by the strap and strode to the set of windows gracing the far wall. “Hitting all the high notes tonight, Quinn.” Lifting the camera, he adjusted the settings, backed up, then in, pressing the shutter half a dozen times. Crisp cotton stretched across his muscled back, faded denim doing astonishing things for his ass. The hole at his hip called to her, she swore it did.
He clicked the shutter, humming, something she noticed he did when he didn’t want to speak.
