Riley raised her brow. “Like me?”
“Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the number of eligible males in this county turning their heads your way. That thick black hair of yours and big green eyes.”
Great, just what Riley wanted to hear. Not the compliment to her hair, but that “eligible males” part. Yvette was divorced. And Riley knew her friend would be happy to settle down with an eligible male again. “Settling down,” however, was not in Riley’s scope at all. Not after what happened in LA.
“And you’re smart but unpretentious,” Yvette continued, “all jeans and big sweaters over a rockin’ figure, kickin’ around in your Chucks. This is a small town, Riley. You’re new and noticeable. Speaking of which—my son will be home from his deployment in six months, you know. He can’t be more than three years younger than you.” She winked.
Riley chuckled. “Great. And congratulations.”
Yvette grinned.
Riley drew her arm around the middle of her “rockin’” figure. Her mother called it “shapely.” Riley called it “can I please find a pair of jeans to fit my hips and my waistline?” Her father—well, her father photographed movie stars.
“If I’m so approachable then why would Mark Rivers have a problem talking to me? He doesn’t seem to be short on looks or brains—aside from the stalking thing. In fact, for a moment there I thought he might be . . .”
“What?”
“Well, flirting with me. I didn’t know whether to smile or swing.” She shook her head. “It was dark, and tensions were high.”
Yvette seemed to choose her words carefully. “Mark was in a serious accident a while back. He saved lives, but he was critically injured and another firefighter—his best friend—died. And while he was fighting fires miles away, his family orchard here was nearly lost. It struck him down for sure. He’s barely begun making appearances in town. If he was trying to get up the nerve to ask you for something—in person—well, that’s a big deal.”
Riley stared at her shake, this new information weaving its way into the old. Weaving its way around the guy in the truck. It explained a lot.
Yvette took one of Riley’s onion rings. “No one will blame you for being extra vigilant. Especially at night in a new place, even in our very small town. The world is what it is.” She dipped the ring in ketchup. “All I’m saying is that you need to make up your own mind about Mark Rivers.”
Riley stared at the wall of vintage album covers, replaying the evening’s events in her head through a new lens.
After a contented sigh that only eating a good onion ring could evoke, Yvette pushed the basket closer to her. “Here. You need these.”
Riley didn’t argue.
Mark drove down the dirt road to the new outbuilding site in the dark hours of the morning in a frustrated stupor. He’d barely slept. Next to him, his dad pointed out potholes—each one too late—and remarked on the good ol’ days.
“Being up this early kinda makes you wish you had a cow to milk.”
Mark threw his dad a dubious look and hit another pothole. The truck rocked.
“Good gracious, son, you trying to break some sort of record?”
“Maybe if you put in a decent road, I wouldn’t have to treat this stretch like a godforsaken minefield.” He swerved, barely missing another dip. “It’s dark out,” he added.
“I hadn’t noticed,” his dad replied. “You want this road improved, you do it. Great idea. You can start as soon as the outbuilding’s done.”
Mark kept his grumbling to himself. It wouldn’t do any good. He pulled into the clearing and parked, his headlights shining on the site. He’d have to keep them on until the construction lights were plugged in. Soon they’d have motion-sensitive floodlights on the building. But first they had to put up walls and a roof.
Mark hadn’t told his dad about his run-in with the art teacher. When he’d asked why Mark was home later than expected, he’d just said he’d gone for a drive. Now, after going over and over in his head what he should have done differently, he knew he couldn’t talk to his dad even if he wanted to. The nativity, if it were to happen, had to be a surprise. Mark hadn’t thrown the idea away. Yet.
Something about the way Riley Madigan had looked at him during their confrontation had struck Mark. The street had been dark, and she probably hadn’t seen him clearly in the truck. But still, she hadn’t flinched, or worse, looked at him like he was an injured puppy. She’d just held her bat and dared him to move.
He couldn’t help the smile that came to the corner of his mouth.
“You okay?” his dad asked.
Mark rubbed his eyes. “No. Man wasn’t made to work before sunup.”
His dad positioned a construction lamp and flipped it on.
“Gah.” Mark turned, blinking in the sudden brightness.
“Behold,” his dad said. “The sun.”
“Nice,” Mark said, pulling on his gloves. He went to turn his truck lights off, pulling his coat collar a little higher. Even with his hood pulled over his beanie, the chill crept in.
“So, Lester called last night,” his dad said.
Mark stopped. “Yeah?” he asked without turning around.
“Yep. Wanted to make sure you got home okay.”
Since when was Lester Healy his babysitter? Mark waited, measuring how much more to ask. A few moments ticked by. “Anything else?”
“Not really.”
Mark allowed his shoulders to relax.
“Who’s Riley Madigan?”
Mark froze again. “Uh, I don’t know.” That was the truth, sort of. He didn’t know her at all.
“Hmm. Lester says there was a misunderstanding between the two of you.”
“Is that right?” He reached into his truck and turned off the ignition.
“Yep.”
Mark picked up his tool belt and a box of nails. “Anything else?” He
