He was protective of the people he loved, and fully capable—she was coming to understand—of taking care of them. But he was also vulnerable, which made her want to take care ofhim.
And she could. She knew that. She’d been doing it her entire life with Hannah.
On the complicated side, he didn’t like himself. Didn’t trust himself. Which made her heart ache, made her want to go and fall in love with him.
“Fontana Quinn, as I live and breathe. Do I have you on my calendar?”
She lifted her head, sure everything she’d been thinking was written across her face. “Um…no, I…” Her hands rose in a vague gesture, drifting uselessly before she caught a strand of hair and twisted it around her finger like she was eight years old.
A change, she wanted to say.I’ve come for a change.
Tammi took her arm and led her to the back of the thankfully empty salon, her sweet scent drifting to Fontana, overriding the salon’s chemical burn. Tammi always smelled like flowers and honey—delicate, feminine. Nothing Fontana could pull off with dirt streaked across her cheek and pine straw stuck in her hair.
She’d never really known how to be a woman, not in that way.
And she’d had no one to teach her.
“Lucky, I had a cancellation. Sarah Maxwell,” Tammi said, nudging Fontana into a chair that resembled a pink fielder’s mitt. She could tell when someone was on the verge of bolting. “That woman never respects my time. If she can’t make it, she just doesn’t show. Rude, right? I could have gone home a little early, drawn a bubble bath, put on some Stevie Nicks, poured a glass of vino, and had me a relaxing evening. Unlike some, I enjoy my own company.”
Fontana scooched until her butt found a comfy depression. “A change,” she said, then swallowed and repeated it.
Tammi tilted her head, assessing. “How much of a change?”
She met Tammi’s gaze in the mirror, the metal edge lined with photos, ticket stubs, and a beautician’s license. Who checked if their stylist’s license was up-to-date? Was it like milk, with a solid expiration?
“I ask, darling girl, because I’ve done change-jobs before, only to have someone cussing because I went too short, too blonde, too dark. Too curly.” She pulled a silver cape sprinkled with blue dots from a drawer and, with a snap, settled it over Fontana. “For example,smallmeans a trim—no more than an inch.Mediumgets you bangs and a little more length off. A sexy bob with loads of layers would be fantastic on you.Extremeis, say, a pixie cut, which your face can totally hold. But that’s an adjustment. No more scrunchies, no more ponytails until it grows out.”
“Medium,” she whispered.
She was doingextremewith Campbell, so no need to go there with her hair.
“I could also pop a few highlights around the front to lighten you up for winter. No foils, no fuss. Would look great with the cut.” She drew her fingers through Fontana’s hair, fluffing and mussing. “I’ll even give you a discount sinceyou’re making up for me staying late with no one coming in. I have a color mixed that will work perfect. Curse that Sarah.”
Again, their eyes met in the mirror, and Fontana started to sweat beneath the cape. Tammi’s expression wasn’t far removed from Campbell’s laser-sharp keenness.
“While I color, wash, and cut, we can chat.”
In response, Fontana hummed low in her throat, Campbell’s move when he didn’twantto chat.
“Uncross your legs, or I’ll get an uneven cut. Especially those bangs.” Tammi leaned over Fontana, then plucked one of the photos tucked into the mirror’s frame. “This could get us started.”
The photo was in Fontana’s hand, and she could do nothing but accept it.
Oh.
Her stomach dropped to the floor as she brought it closer.Sneaky. This woman was so sneaky. Chemicals stung her eyes as Tammi began painting on color in wide swaths around her face. Fontana blinked but did not—couldnot—look away.
“He’s maybe fifteen there. Before we dated. I liked this picture, so he let me have it. He’d be shocked I still do. Like I remember his birthday, but we’re women, right?” She stepped around Fontana, dipped the brush in a bowl, and began laying color on the other side. “You may not know this, but that boy loved messing around in his granddaddy’s cotton fields. Asking questions, taking pictures. John Nelson was patient, a good teacher. Camp’s father never cared a lick for the land. Or him, if you ask me. Business, business, business. An angry man. First pictures he ever published were of those fields in bloom. Lord, when I saw them, I knew he was headed somewhere.”
Fontana had been wrong when she assumed Campbell grew into his looks, that he’d gone through an awkward phase where the bits and pieces of him didn’t quite fittogether.
Nope. Splendid from the start.
Lanky body perched atop a split-rail fence, boots hooked on the middle rung, ever-present camera in hand. Smile nonexistent. Gaze intense. Not a dimple in sight. Even then, there was grace in his bearing, the land—his legacy—rolling out behind him in an endless vista.
To her eyes, and perhaps no one else’s, it was a somber portrait of a young man in crisis.
This is when he started building a wall no one can tear down.
