right, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying. You have a contusion. You’ve never had a contusion.”
“It’s a fancy name for a bump on the head. Jeez.” Julie pointed at the house. “Who’s that guy?”
“What guy? Oh.” Camille turned into the driveway and parked. The guy Julie was referring to stood on her front porch, a phone clapped to his ear as he paced back and forth. He was tall, with a ponytail and aviator shades. His lived-in shorts and dark T-shirt revealed a physique of tanned skin and sinewy muscles. Shoot. Was this the courier sent by Professor Finnemore?
She got out and slammed the car door, and he turned to face her, taking off the glasses. And something unexpected happened—her heart nearly jumped out of her chest, yet she had no idea why. He was a complete stranger. But she couldn’t take her eyes off him. There was something about his stance and the way he held himself. He was just a guy, she thought. A stranger on her porch. There were a few glints of blond hair at his temples, framing gumball-blue eyes and a face that belonged in a Marvel Comics movie—he was that good-looking.
Well, hello, Mr. Courier Guy.
As she came up the walk, his eyes narrowed into a hostile squint. Clearly, he hadn’t felt a similar jolt of attraction.
“Can I help you?” she asked, stepping onto the porch.
He put his phone away. “Camille Adams?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Finn.” He hesitated. His eyes were now cold and flinty. “Malcolm Finnemore.”
Whoa. She took a second to regroup. This was not how she had pictured the nerdy history teacher. “Oh, uh, Professor Finnemore.”
“I go by ‘Finn.’”
She knew instantly the reason he was here, and why he looked so annoyed. “I missed the courier pickup,” she said. “I had a personal emergency, and—”
“You couldn’t have called? Sent a message?”
Julie came up behind her and mounted the porch steps, a surly expression on her face. “Hey,” she said.
“My daughter, Julie,” Camille said, her face turning bright red. “Julie, this is Professor Finnemore.”
“Glad to meet you.” Julie looked anything but glad. “Excuse me.” She edged past them, pressed the door code, and went inside.
“My personal emergency,” said Camille. Her stomach pounded. She had some explaining to do. “Please, come on in.”
His gaze assessed her, from her unkempt hair to her grubby work garb—stained shirt, cutoffs, flip-flops. Spilled developer staining one ankle. She held the door, feeling utterly self-conscious. Not only had she ruined his film, but she was totally unprepared to meet a client. She was dressed like a slob in her darkroom clothes, hair piled into a messy bun. No makeup. Not showered.
He gave a nod, passing close to her as he stepped through the door. Oh God, she thought, he even smelled good-looking. Ocean air and fresh laundry. And he exuded the kind of effortless grace she observed in the wealthy “come-heres,” as the locals called the summer people and power brokers from D.C. who came for the sand and sea. They tooled around the peninsula in their foreign cars, bringing their friends from the city for sailing trips and shore dinners, or cruising with the skipjack watermen to dredge for oysters while under sail.
Camille knew the type—arrogant, entitled, treating the locals like servants. She suspected he might be one of them.
Her house wasn’t ready for company either. Particularly not for a come-here whose film she’d destroyed.
Everything was just as she’d left it when the phone rang. Her morning mess was everywhere—yesterday’s mail, library books, towels that had yet to be folded, her bikini hung on a doorknob to dry, sand-crusted flip-flops kicked to the side, dishes waiting to be loaded into the dishwasher. Her now-scummy coffee cup sat abandoned on the counter next to her forgotten mobile phone, its screen indicating multiple missed calls.
“So … can I offer you something to drink?” she asked. Lame. She was always so tongue-tied around good-looking men. It was silly. She didn’t even like good-looking men. Probably because they made her uncomfortable. Particularly when she was about to deliver some bad news.
“Thanks, but I’m in a hurry,” he said. “Wondering how the film turned out.”
Of course he was.
Camille placed her keys on the hook by the door. She could hear Julie upstairs in her room, the old floorboards creaking. Julie spent so much time alone lately—or alone with her smartphone and laptop. Her punishment for forging the permission slip was going to be a severe restriction on screen time.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I feel terrible that you had to drive all the way out here.”
“The courier service said no one was here at the pickup time.”
“I got called away.” The sinking feeling dragged her lower and lower. “The film is ruined. And I’m sorry I didn’t have my phone on me and I didn’t get in touch with you.”
He was very quiet. His face was stony, like a gorgeous sculpture. “You mean the film wasn’t viable. It had sat in the can too long?”
Her mouth went dry. He was offering her an out, and for a split second, she considered taking the coward’s route. It would be so simple—she could explain that his film had been spoiled by age and environment, and couldn’t be developed. But that would be a lie. She had rescued film far older than his. Camille was not a liar. She never had been, even when it was more convenient to lie.
Excusing herself, she went down the hall, ducked into her workroom, and found the spooling canister she’d dropped when the hospital called. The film was now a dark ribbon of nothing with tractor perforations on the sides. She paused and looked down the hall, studying her angry visitor. As he stood there in profile, staring out the window at the beach in the distance, she felt that powerful beat of pure, unadulterated attraction again. It was such a singular feeling that she scarcely recognized what it was. It’s nothing, she thought. Nothing but a momentary blip of feeling. A guy with looks like that could inspire even someone whose heart had been broken beyond repair.
Too bad she’d ruined his day for him. With grim fatality, she brought the long black failure back to the kitchen.
“I blew it,” she said, hating the admission as she showed him the dark nothingness. “It was entirely my fault.”
“Seriously?” A tic of irritation tightened his jaw as he eyed the blank film. “I don’t understand. Was the film—”
“It was probably salvageable. But I accidentally let light into the darkroom at a crucial moment, and the light ruined the film.” She considered a longer explanation, but didn’t feel like dragging this stranger through her whole hellish day.
“Damn. Damn it to hell.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
He glared at the film again, and then at her. “Jesus Christ, I needed those pictures.”
She nodded. “I realize that. I feel terrible.”
“Shit. Shit. You’re supposed to be an expert at this. I trusted you—”
“You did, and I’m so sorry.” God, she hated letting people down. He had every right to be pissed.
“What the hell happened?” he demanded, glaring at the empty length of film. “Do you just take people’s irreplaceable film and … what? Destroy it? Damn, I could have done that myself.”
“I was working on it this morning and everything was going fine. I got a call …” She hesitated. She did not want to tell the angry stranger she was a negligent mom. “I dropped everything.