Campbell pressed the loupe to his eye, reviewing the Philly exhibit lineup for the third time. His office was shuttered to protect the film, the only light coming from the glowing box he leaned against.
One photo after another but—he shook his head, humming beneath his breath—something was missing. He shuffled through the pile again, the images blurring into a vivid barrage of color. Halting, he released a pent-up breath. “Yessss.” A baguette stand by the side of a busy road in Hanoi, something he hadn’t imagined existed until hearing stories about the former French occupation and the surviving ways of life, which then made baguettes, and even the occasional beret, in Vietnam perfectly reasonable.
Travel clarified life, extreme focus with a delicate lens.
Clarity he wished for now, because his mind was tangled inher.
Campbell tapped the photo against the edge of the lightbox, his mind lost in her cottage. The garden. The gazebo. Her bed. His shower. That wobbly-ass kitchen table he’d laid her on and made love to her so slowly—partly because he wasn’t sure it would hold them—until she’d pulled that move with her lips that shattered his control.
Damned if a leg hadn’t snapped off mid-thrust, practicallyflinging them to the floor, where they’d finished, laughing through breathless, earth-shattering orgasms.
Long seconds later, his gaze had stumbled over broken wood and tattered clothing, then landed in her bluebell eyes. And he’d known, quite simply, that he loved her.
No doubt. No mystery. No confusion.
The only thing missing was the courage to tell her.
Maybe he was ready. Maybe he’d even start with that story. Not one he could tell his kids—breaking the table while fucking Mommy and falling head over heels—but still, it wastheirs.
Campbell smiled as he slipped the Hanoi print into the approved folder. Another day of negotiations on the Philly space, a planning session for the South Africa shoot set for September, which he hoped Fon and Kit would join him on, then he was heading home.
Home.
As in Promise.
Bracing his wrist on the lightbox, Campbell drew a breath laced with developing chemicals and waited for the usual rush of emotions. Thinking about Promise had always gutted him. Grief, guilt, and the echo of everything he couldn’t fix.
Now, somehow, he felt acceptance. Even gratitude.
Campbell gave his watch a quick glance.
Twenty-four hours, and he’d go get his girl.
Dix strolled into the office, whistling like a man in love. The cheerful demeanor—a complete turnaround for the usually prudent, reserved Dixon Hughes—had Campbell rolling his eyes for at least the tenth time since he’d arrived at the studio.
He popped a photo onto the lightbox and nudged Campbell toward it. “See this?”
It was one of Luca standing beside that archaic tractor,sunlight casting him in silhouette. Lovely and unpretentious, it revealed and concealed at once, the kind of contradiction that had made Campbell fall in love with photography in the first place.
He couldn’t tell Dix that, so he shrugged. “And?”
Dix tapped the image. “That’s a real, liveperson.”
Campbell flipped the switch on the lightbox, avoiding the too-probing gaze of his assistant. “I’m going there.” He caught himself before he hummed the rest of his reply. “A little.”
“Okay, but?—”
The office phone rang, a shrill interruption Campbell was grateful for.
But not for long.
Dix lifted the phone from the cradle. “True Studios,” he said, his lips curving into a tender arc that told Campbell exactly who was on the other end. “Jaime, love—” He moved closer to his desk, working to untangle the cord as he wedged the phone between his chin and shoulder. “Slow down. Slowdown.”
Campbell paused as the hair on the back of his neck lifted.
He’d never been an anxious guy, not even during those vile baseball days when a thousand eyes—mostly belonging to parents two breaths from punching the umpire—were trained on him. He was solid in a crisis, whether it was an unexpected injury on a shoot or weather forcing a complete change in plans. Little ever shook him, at least not in ways anyone could see. He had a solid poker face and carried that control down to the bone.
But the look on Dix’s face, and the terror edging his voice as he tried to soothe his clearly distraught boyfriend, shifted the ground beneath Campbell’s feet. The dread ran deep, gut-level, and he was snatching the phone from Dix with a mumbled apology before he even knew what he was doing.
