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. Including your film. I feel horrible about it, and . . . and . . .”
Something in her voice, a waver of emotion she couldn’t control, seemed to catch his attention. The winter-ice eyes changed. He had a slow, burning way of looking at her. As if his anger might set her on fire.
“You got a call,” he prompted. “You got a fucking call.”
She could barely speak past the lump in her throat, so she nodded. Something melted inside her. She’d just had the most terrifying day. A call from the ER was every mother’s worst nightmare. For Camille, it revived the deep trauma of losing Jace, and now here was this furious stranger. Suddenly the strain of being a widowed single mother overwhelmed her. To go through a day like this without the love, support, and partnership of Julie’s father felt like too much to bear. Julie’s accident, and now this screw-up brought her long-buried grief to the surface.
To keep herself from shattering, she went into defense mode. She began to tremble as fear, stress, and then a delayed response of anger swept over her. With shaking hands, she set the film and canister in the sink, struggling to hide her emotions. It was horrifying, this reaction to the stress of the day, and she refused to let a work disaster take her apart.
She braced her hands on the edge of the sink and tried to collect herself. She glanced at her phone. Four missed calls, six new text messages, four new e-mails—all from “M Finnemore.” She whirled around to face him. “I can’t say it enough. I’m sorry about the negatives. I wish you hadn’t wasted your time driving clear out here. And of course there’s no charge for anything.”
She glared at him, trying to hold fast to the anger. Instead, a hot tear slipped out. And then another. The guy stood there, seemingly frozen by anger. Then he spotted some tissues on the counter and handed her the whole box.
“Do you need to call someone?” he asked, indicating her phone. “Your husband . . . ?”
“No husband,” she said through gritted teeth, swiping angrily at her cheeks.
He cut her with a laser glare, as if her lack of a husband inexplicably deepened the offense. “Thanks for nothing, lady.”
Shaken by the encounter, Camille watched him through the window. What an incredible tool. He strode to his car, yanked open the door. Just for a moment, he hesitated, turning back toward the house. His anger seemed to soften into something else—regret, maybe. Could be he realized he was being a tool. Then he swiped at the back of his neck as if something had bitten him there, and climbed into the car.
Julie came down from her room. “That your client?” she asked, watching as he threw the car into reverse and peeled out.
“My client,” Camille said. “My extremely disappointed client.” She used a tissue to give her cheeks another swipe.
“Why disappointed?”
“I ruined his film.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.” A pucker of concern knitted her brow. “You okay?”
“Yes.” Camille took a deep breath. “God, he was pissed.”
“I can tell. Is he single?”
“What? Jules.”
“Just asking. I know how you feel about guys with ponytails.”
Camille felt a flush creeping into her cheeks, because she had already wondered the same thing. Is he single? “I’m done with guys, with or without ponytails.” Maybe she was reading her daughter wrong. “Do you feel bad because Drake and I parted ways?”