Campbell caught her watching, recognized she was trying to crack him open like a nut.
He wasn’t cooperating.
So, here she was standing before a closed door at two in the morning, trying to work up the nerve to invade this remarkable man’s space and bring more of him into the light.
Taking a deep breath, she shifted from heel to toe, raised her hand, and knocked. A moment passed, stretched into two. She chewed her lip.This really isn’t a good idea, Tana.
Then the door opened, and he was there.
He’d thrown on a Duke sweatshirt and his glasses since the card game, his hair now a tangled mess from his hands. The ever-present toothpick was tucked between his lips.
And, of course, he wore that impassive look that gave away absolutely nothing.
No cooperation whatsoever.
“What a surprise,” he said dryly, gesturing with the metal clip in his hand. “Entré.”
She stepped into an entryway draped in dark curtains, crowding into him when he didn’t move aside. Her gaze lifted to his, but it was too dark to read his eyes—especially behind glass. He hesitated, though, holding the contact, shoulder to hip. Heat pulsed between them, a silent warning about the dangers curiosity could bring.
Without a word, Campbell reached around her, and she heard the quiet snap of the door closing.
She glanced around as he swept the sheet aside and stepped into the room. He shot her a heated glance, then jerked his shoulder toward the entrance. “Darkrooms have to be light-tight.”
Thelight-tightroom was illuminated by large bulbs suspended from the ceiling, each glowing as red as a raccoon’s eyes. The sharp scent of chemicals filled the air, stinging the back of her throat and making her swallow. She coughed as her eyes adjusted to the dim amber glow.
Music poured from the same boombox he’d taken to themill, now drifting into the stylings of XTC. “You were expecting me?”
Again, he gave her thatyou’re-trying-to-read-melook. “Peeling an onion,” she thought she heard him whisper as he flipped a switch, setting an exhaust fan into motion.
Fontana circled the room without touching a thing. She could tell he was tracking her every move, watchful silence, loaded and ready to spring.
Shelves stacked with paper, trays of solution, an easel, X-ACTO knives, canisters. Snips of brown-edged negatives littered the floor. A massive piece of equipment dominated one corner, while black sheeting was taped over the room’s lone window.
Shocking, but he’d actually brought his class here.
Luca had told her about it, saying it was the coolest place—the coolestday—of his life.
It was a space unlike any she’d ever seen. Subdued yet harsh, crimson-gold, shadow layered upon shadow. It lent a hushed intimacy to a night that needed no further push toward passion. Campbell fit in perfectly, cast in coppery relief as he clipped photos to a clothesline.
He worked methodically, calmly proficient, sure of his place, those beautiful pianist’s fingers moving with practiced ease. Pleasure rippled through her as she watched his sweatshirt ride high, baring a ridge of flexing abdominal muscle.
The room was as compelling as its owner.
She paused at a table cluttered with photos, reached to touched, then hesitated.
“You can look at them.” He pointed with the toothpick. “They’re dry.”
Fontana glanced back and caught his gaze dropping to her chest—to the nipples straining against the T-shirt he’d let her borrow. They pebbled as if he’d run his tongue across them.
She felt claimed, wrapped up in him and his world.
In the stack, she found photos of her garden, the gazebo, the mill. The grain silo. A tumbling shack John Nelson had told her was at least a hundred years old. The old barn. Neighboring fields, stripped bare except for the last stubborn sprigs of cotton. A bird’s nest balanced precariously on a pine limb.
He’d roamed the land, seemingly intent on capturing it before he let it go.
She held up a photo, tapping the pointed edge against the table. “This field has unbelievably healthy soil. Slightly sandy, a silt and clay mix. And the pH is spot-on, 5.6 or so. Would be perfect for cotton.”
He paused mid-motion, his hand hovering near the clothesline. “Cotton,” he whispered, as if he’d never heard the word before, his fingers curling into a fist.
