“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.