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“Campbell. Wait.”
He turned around to face her in the doorway. “Did you call me? Do you need something else?”
She stood by the kitchen counter, with the slices of apple on a napkin. “I don’t need anything else, no.”
He shrugged. “See ya.”
“Wait.”
He turned back again. “I thought you said you didn’t need anything else?”
She looked conflicted. “I don’t. But...I don’t think you should be going out there in this weather. We’ve been here for a little while, and it’s been getting worse this whole time.”
He watched her face, and saw the lines of concern there. While he didn’t know what had given rise to her concern for him, he couldn’t help but be flattered by it. “Let me take a look out there.”
He took a few steps out onto the landing, to ascertain conditions below them. The wind and rain were still steadily pounding the building, and the trees below appeared to be dancing as they waved their branches in time. His eyes swept over the parking lot, and he saw the deepening puddles forming on the black concrete. Instinct told him to walk to the other end of the landing, so he pulled the door shut gently and strolled to the right, past the door to the A unit. From that end of the landing, he craned his neck a bit to get a view of the inlet.
Sure enough, the banks of the inlet had disappeared beneath the rising water. This part of the island was particularly low lying, but bordered Cooper Inlet instead of the Atlantic Ocean. When flooding happened here, it was often due to too much rain overflowing the inlet as opposed to seawater breaching the island’s curved seawall.
She’s right. I can’t go out in this. Based on what he could see, and the pattern he recognized from living most of his life in Sapphire Shores, this side of the island would be under a good foot or so of water, and soon.
He returned to her unit then, and found her standing in the open door, as if she’d come out to look for him. “Where did you go?”
He pointed. “Around to the end of the landing. The inlet’s flooding, so you’re right. I probably shouldn’t be driving.”
A soft smile met his words. “Good. Then come back inside out of this madness.”
Once they were both inside again, he sat on one end of the tan sofa. “I appreciate this, Ms. Dandridge.”
“Call me Sierra.”
“If you insist.” The movie fan inside him did back flips. I’m on a first-name basis with Sierra Dandridge!
She brought her sliced apple over to the coffee table and set it down. “Do you want something to eat or drink?”
“I’ll take a bottle of water, please.”
She returned with two chilled bottles and passed him one. Cracking hers open, she took a seat on the opposite end of the sofa. “You’ve been through these storms before, right?”
“Sure. We’ve been through at least twenty that had some level of impact. Fran, Floyd, Isabel. Why do you ask?”
“How long do they usually last?”
He shrugged. “Storms, a day or two. It’s the aftermath that can drag on and on.”
She looked thoughtful. “No telling how long you’ll have to stay, then.”
He winked. “Nope.”
Chapter 4 (#uc2cc61a1-a734-5991-92e7-04619660c197)
Sierra stood by the glass doors in the dining room, assessing the scene outside. Just as Campbell had mentioned earlier, the waters of Cooper Inlet were escaping. The inlet, about two miles away, had already begun to swell onto the road running next to it. The storm still raged on, with the wind and rain swirling beneath the darkened sky.
With a sigh, she walked away from the door and back into the living room area. The gilded analog clock on the wall showed her that the dinner hour approached, but the rumbling in her stomach told her it had arrived.
She looked to Campbell, who was still sitting on the end of the sofa. He had his phone out, and had been staring at it for a while. The screen glow illuminated his face in the dimness of the room.
Moving toward the kitchen, she called out to him. “Campbell, are you hungry?”
He glanced up. “Sorry, did you say something?”
“I asked if you’re hungry.”
He nodded. “Do you need help cooking?”
She flipped the wall switch by the fridge, flooding the kitchen with soft, white light. “Not right now. What’s got your attention over there?”
“I’m reading a book. I’ve got one of those e-reader apps on my phone.”
Her brow crinkled. “What are you reading?” Opening the refrigerator, she scanned the shelves for the bundle of fresh herbs she’d seen there earlier.
“The collected poems of Langston Hughes.”
She stopped midreach, angling her head so she could look at him. “Really?”
He looked up then, meeting her eyes. “Yes, really. Why do you look so shocked?”
“It’s just...I’ve never met a man who read poetry. At least not one who would openly admit it.”
He shrugged. “To be honest, it’s not just ‘reading poetry.’ Langston’s the man. Even all these years after his death, his words still resonate.”
Recovered a bit from her initial shock, she grabbed the plastic clamshell case holding the herbs and set them on the counter. “It’s refreshing to meet someone who shares my opinion. I adore Langston’s work.”
He watched her, as if seeing her with new eyes. “No kidding. What’s your favorite of his poems?”
She thought about it as she removed unsalted butter, a loin of pork and a pound of fresh brussels sprouts from the fridge. “I’d have to say ‘Mother to Son,’ with ‘Harlem’ being a close second.”
He tilted his head to one side, appearing thoughtful. “I see. Those are definitely seminal works of his.”
She washed her hands with the lemon-scented dish soap and dried them on a checked towel. Grabbing three russet potatoes from the wire basket on the kitchen counter, she set to work peeling them. With a glance over all the food she’d set out, she thought she should revise her earlier statement. “Listen, why don’t you come in here. I think this will go faster if I have an extra set of hands, and we can keep talking while we cook.”
“No problem.” He placed the phone facedown on the coffee table and came to the kitchen. She inched to the left, so he could access the sink, and while he washed his hands, she kept working the vegetable peeler, turning the potato in her hand.
As the peel fell in a perfect spiral, she set it down and reached for the second one.
He dried his hands and asked, “What do you want me to do?”
She gestured toward the rest of the food sitting on the counter. “Grab a deep roaster, and halve those sprouts, please.”
“You got it.” He searched the lower cabinets for the roaster.
As he bent, her greedy eyes devoured the sight of his muscled thighs and the perfect shape of his rear end. The man was built like a warrior, and looking at him now, she couldn’t help wondering about his “spear.”
He stood then, having located a large, white ceramic roaster. After he set that on the counter and got a knife and cutting board, he began working on the sprouts, splitting them with precision and expertise.
As she cubed her peeled potatoes on a separate board, the room grew quiet, save for the sounds of the storm and of their knives striking the boards. To break the silence, she glanced at him. “You never told me your favorite Langston Hughes poem.”
He chuckled. “You never asked.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “I’m asking now. So, tell me.”
After sliding a handful of halved sprouts off the cutting board and into a colander, he set the knife down. “I love the two you mentioned. But my absolute favorite is ‘April Rain Song.’”
She searched her mind for a moment, before the words to that poem came back to her. “Oh, yes. The one with the rain kissing you...”
He turned around to face her.
Their gazes met, locked.
Something lay behind the dark pools of his eyes, something she couldn’t name. Whatever it was, it made her knees tremble. To steady herself, she pressed the small of her back against the edge of the counter.
He began reciting the poem, drawing each word out, the way the men around here tended to do. She’d heard the words before, but never in this deep, molasses-thick drawl. With each word, she felt tingles race over the surface of her skin.
When he’d finished, she drew in a deep breath to fill her empty lungs. “Wow.”
“So you enjoyed my recitation?”
She nodded. “You certainly put a lot of...um...feeling into it.”
A slight smile turned up the corners of his full lips. “That’s the only way to do it when you’re reciting the work of a true master.”
She swallowed, nodded again. What she didn’t say was that he’d shown her a whole new side to the piece. She’d never considered that poem sensual in any way, until just now. Hearing him recite it gave the poem an erotic edge she never would have ascribed to it before. Whether Mr. Hughes had written such undertones into it, she didn’t know. But she did know she’d never hear that poem the same way again.
Her stomach growled a loud, hungry protest. She pressed her palms over it, as if that would muffle the sound.
Campbell reacted with a short, rumbling laugh. “We’d better get back to cooking. Your stomach is about to stage a coup.” He moved closer to her, then past her to rinse the sprouts in the sink.
Feeling her cheeks warm, she blew out a breath. “Sorry about that.”
He waved her off while he ran a stream of water over the sprouts. “No big deal. Hunger is a natural thing, nothing to be ashamed of.”
I’m hungry, alright. He had no idea she was fighting down more than one appetite. It seemed like ages since she’d been in the company of a man so handsome, thoughtful and intelligent. Her sometimes crazy filming schedule didn’t leave much free time for dating and relationships. This was the first time in almost six months she’d been alone with any man.
And if he stayed much longer, looking as delicious as he did, she had no idea where things would go between them.
After she recovered her senses, she set to work assembling the food for cooking. Then she placed the roaster, with the seasoned pork loin resting atop a bed of potatoes and sprouts, into the oven. “Now we just have to wait for it to get done.”
She rinsed her hands in the sink, ridding them of the olive oil she’d massaged into the meat, then toweled them dry. As she shut off the water, her traitorous stomach growled...again.
“Are you gonna be alright until it’s ready?” With his tone light and teasing, he looked her way.
She smiled. “I think I’ll be fine.”
Waiting for the food would be the easy part.
Keeping her hands off him would be a whole different matter.
* * *
As night fell over Cooper Inlet, Campbell found himself back on the sofa with Sierra. They’d returned there after finishing the delicious meal they’d made. The main difference between now and earlier was that she seemed a little more relaxed, and had chosen to sit on the middle cushion rather than on the opposite end of the sofa.
Outside, the wind had calmed somewhat, but the rain showed no signs of stopping. By his estimate, he wasn’t likely to be going anywhere before tomorrow morning, at the earliest.
She’d turned on the television and surfed to an episode of Mysteries at the Museum. He half watched the show while continuing to page through the poetry book on his phone. She sat close enough now for him to pick up the feminine scent emanating from her. He couldn’t tell if it was perfume or shampoo, or a combination of the many grooming products women tended to use. Whatever the case, she smelled of bright citrus and spicy cinnamon, and the combination intoxicated him.
During the commercial break, she looked his way. “This show is a trip. They always find the weirdest artifacts with the craziest backstories.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I’ve seen a couple of episodes, and it is pretty wild.”
She stood then. “Do you want any more food? If not, I’m about to put it away.”
He patted his stomach and shook his head. “I’m full. It tasted great, by the way.”
She winked. “You get some of the credit, since you were my sous-chef.” Turning, she walked to the kitchen.
He watched her every step, hypnotized by the sway of her ample hips. The way she walked seemed like an art form, a manifestation of her confidence and femininity. She wasn’t twisting or strutting; this was her natural gait. It was the physical manifestation of who she was, or at least it seemed that way based on his limited knowledge of her. Whatever it was, that certain something about her was what made her so attractive, and made her so talented as an actress. He’d seen this mysterious quality of hers play out on-screen many times before, and in no film had it been played up so much as in Waltz at Midnight.
She moved around the kitchen, putting the leftover food in glass containers and tucking it into the fridge. When she returned, she sat down and tucked her bare feet beneath her hips.
His brow lifted. Am I imagining it, or is she sitting closer to me now? Wordlessly, he placed his hand palm down on the sofa. Sure enough, there wasn’t enough room now for him to spread his fingers.
Lifting his hand again, he rested it on his thigh, fighting back a smile. It was possible she didn’t realize how close she’d sat. It was also possible she’d purposely moved into his personal bubble. Either way, he wasn’t going to be the one to mention it. They were in her place, and whatever happened tonight would be on her terms.
By now, the show had returned from the break, and she fell right in, watching it with interest. He, on the other hand, set aside his phone and contented himself with watching her. As entertaining as the show was, he found Sierra even more interesting.
She seemed to notice his regard, because she turned her large, sparkling dark eyes his way and asked, “What is it?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
She shrugged. “I’m not uncomfortable, really. I just couldn’t help noticing you staring at me.”
“I was just thinking about something. Remember how I told you Waltz at Midnight is one of my favorite movies of all time?”
A soft smile tilted her lips. “Yes, I remember, and I appreciate you saying that.”
“I meant it.” He scratched his chin. “Can I ask you a question about that movie?”
“Sure.”
