“I’m supposed to take a fallen Scout’s word?”
He hummed one of his non-replies, leading her outside and pulling the door shut behind them.
Fontana hesitated, gripping the doorframe, a last-ditch effort against the inevitable. “My keys, Atlanta!”
Rain spit down upon them, silver beads clinging to thetips of his hair, his lashes. His eyes glittered in the beam of light Kit swept over them from his post in the yard. With one of those easy, melting smiles, Campbell etched another X over his heart, then slipped her keys into her front pocket.
When she leaned into him, helpless not to, he let out a low groan and grabbed her hand, tugging her toward the truck parked in her drive.
Even in a deluge, Campbell played the gentleman, opening the door for her, making sure she was safely inside before racing to the driver’s side. Kit was in the middle, bumping around with excitement, the storm and subsequent disruption in his routine an adventure. The flashlight’s beam circled the interior as he chattered about nebulous clouds and the odds of being struck by lightning, blissfully unaware of the tension between the adults.
The truck was a late-’60s model, its antiquated gauges lighting up the dashboard, ones she hadn’t seen since her father’s. She glanced at Campbell as he shifted into gear, the amber glow bouncing off the sharp angles of his face, catching rusty highlights in his hair. The muscles in his arm and shoulder flexed as he maneuvered down the winding path that snaked between barren fields leading to the Rise. The windshield wipers squeaked, gravel crunched beneath the tires, and silence stretched between them as her body reacted to being this close to him.
The vehicle looked perfect on the Promise version of Campbell True, much better than the dream machine. The man who loved cotton fields, cameras, and family.
They sat so close, Fontana could smell him, a scent that, in a very short time, she’d come to know. One her body recognized as easily as her mind.
Automatic attraction.
She curled her hands into her coat to keep them from reaching.
“The truck?” she finally asked, surprised by the breathlessness in her voice.
“Mine. Saved up my sophomore year at Duke, bought her from a retiring farmer. Spent two summers restoring, tracking down parts all over the place. John Nelson kept her running for me. I forgot—” Lifting his hand from the glossy wooden wheel, he flicked the rest of the sentence away, the notion perhaps hitting too close.
“She’s part of home,” she finished.
Startled, he pulled his gaze from the road, meeting hers for a fleeting second before looking away. Closing himself off. Emotion slipping away.Gone.
Sliding low in the seat, she kept her boots planted on the floorboard this time, her eyes on the Rise as it emerged—lovely and dreamlike—through the mist. It was the house of her dreams. Sure, steady, striking. She’d been in love with it from the first moment.
She wondered if Campbell felt the same, or if the weight of the past was too heavy a burden, stripping any pleasure away. Memories. Heritage. A commitment he’d run from at the first chance. And would again, no matter what, orwho, was there, offering another option, another choice.
If he’s sharing his past, it’d be a first.
Damn that Tammi.
Fontana wasn’t up for the exhausting game of prying words from the most taciturn man alive. Coaxing conversation, propping up their so-called friendship, pretending his revelations actuallymeantsomething.
Or taking an enormous risk and proposing a future unlike the one he’d already planned.
She shook her head.No way.
She wasn’t brave enough to fall in love.
FONTANA
Duran Duran provided the breadcrumb trail, she’d later think.
Music floating like a tender breeze down the deserted hallway, luring her to the door of what could only be Campbell’s darkroom.
They arrived at the Rise with a child too amped up to sleep. Two hours of Gin Rummy and snacks by battery-powered lamplight passed before Kit’s eyes began to glaze over, and they could finally pack him into his sleeping bag in the den—the warmest room in the house—yet another adventure in his eyes.
The night had revealed more, another rough facet brought to light.
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.
