He covered a laugh.
“Stop it,” she said, laughing too. “I was almost done.” She sheepishly pulled the last bit out of her hair.
He looked around at the other windows in view. Sure enough, they’d all been winterized, the plastic sheeting heated and pulled tight with the blow-dryer plugged into an extension cord next to her on the floor.
“Does that plug have a ground on it?” he asked, noting the yellow cord looked aged with years of use, sporting several different colors of paint and old duct tape marks.
She shook her head. “Most of the electrical outlets in this part of the house are the old two-prong kind. I found the extension cord in the garage.” At his look of concern, she added, “The outlets in the bathrooms and kitchen are grounded. The previous owners must have done that when they updated.”
He nodded, looking around more carefully. “Most of the homes in this neighborhood were built in the 1920s and have been completely updated. I’ll have to mention it to Alan. It’s a hazard.”
“Alan Gorecki? You know the people who owned this place?”
“Yep. Took their granddaughter to junior prom. Do you have lamps and things like that in the bedrooms?”
“Yes.”
“How are you finding appliances that fit in the outlets?”
“Antique stores. The Goose. New2You. Old stuff fits in old outlets, go figure.”
He nodded. Wenatchee Valley had more than its share of shops full of old stuff. “Are the cords in good shape?”
A smile spread across her face.
“What?” he asked.
“You sound like a fireman.”
Again, Mark felt heat rise in his face. He dropped his gaze and turned away. He picked up the old doorknob pieces and walked to the door. “I’ll get you a replacement at Ace.”
“Could you pick up another roll of tape for the window?” she asked behind him. “This one only has a few more feet on it.”
He nodded. It was the least he could do.
“Oh, and text me a pic of the doorknobs you find.”
“You don’t trust me?”
“No.”
“I’m a certified EMT with a bachelor’s degree in fire sciences, and I’ve helped build and restore homes and barns all over this county.” She stood her ground as he stepped forward. Who knew his pride would feel a hit over home improvement? “I think I can pick out a doorknob.”
“Who is the designer credited for Americanizing the Craftsman style?”
He blinked.
She took advantage of his silence. “Gustav Stickley—1858 to 1942. Furniture designer and architect. See that rocking chair?”
He glanced at an old square rocker next to the fireplace. Oak.
“It’s a Stickley,” she said. “Someone was throwing it out! You don’t throw out an old Stickley just because it’s a little beat up—” She shook her head. “You bring it home and polish it, tighten the joints, and put it in a Craftsman-style home that maybe you’re only renovating but maybe you’d like to keep if you decide someday you want to actually live in a town no bigger than a Hollywood back lot, that’s what you do.” She had thrown out her arms and pulled in a breath.
He blinked again. “Would you . . . like to come pick it out?” She was out of her freaking mind.
She marched over to the front door and swung it shut. It bounced, shuddered, and slowly swung open again. “I would, but somebody broke my front door. I have to stay and protect the Stickley, among other things.” She shivered from the draft coming inside.
He rubbed his face. This was not the morning he had planned. “With your baseball bat?”
She gave him a hard look. “Send me a pic from the store.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I am not your mother.”
He covered a smile. “No, ma’am.”
She growled and put her hands on her hips. “You’ll need my number.”
“Yes, I will. Riley.”
She paused, and in that brief moment, with the banter stopped, he found it hard to breathe. Then just like that, Riley Madigan was standing close to him, putting her number into his phone.
She gave it back to him. “There. I didn’t mean to be so bossy. I tend to go a little nuts over old things.” She looked up at him, her freckles clear in the light streaming through the window.
He swallowed. “Your eyes are the color of moss. It’s a cool, soothing color.”
She blinked and looked away, her turn to blush.
“It’s deceiving,” he said. “You’re not very soothing at all.”
He watched her eyes open wide.
“You . . .”
He chuckled and made for the door.
“You . . .” she repeated.
He waved goodbye and made it off the porch.
“You are no Gustav Stickley!” she called from the open door.
He faked a knife wound to his heart and staggered into his truck. She held her hand over her mouth, her eyes smiling as she shut the door.
He started his truck, unable to wipe the stupid grin off his face, when he caught his reflection in the mirror.
He stilled. His smile weakened as he jerked his hood up over his head. It had fallen back at some point. When? Maybe from the beginning after he’d burst through her door.
A sickening cold seeped through him. That whole time he’d been exposed.
Riley watched Mark drive away, biting her thumbnail, heart pounding in her chest from the adrenaline of his “visit.” She’d watched him pull his hood up and drop his head on the steering wheel. So different from who he’d become in her living room. The hood had fallen back when he’d first tripped over the stepladder, and he never fixed it. For the first time, she saw what the fire had done to his skin. And for the first time, she saw what it hadn’t.
When he’d left the hood off, she’d hoped he’d decided it didn’t matter. But seeing his posture in his truck, she knew differently. And now she felt like she’d seen something not meant for her. An accidental invasion of something deeply private. They were, after all, strangers.
It hadn’t bothered her, seeing his scars. Only in considering what he
