He’d been a beautiful boy. The burns had transformed a portion of that, of course. But a transformation was a change, not necessarily a destruction.
She felt her own hypocrisy at the thought.
Riley sighed, gathered up the tangled window tape, and threw everything in the garbage. She glanced at the clock and realized she hadn’t eaten since seven. She could use this forced “break” to make a decent lunch. If Mark was hungry when he returned, she could at least offer him food.
She washed her hands and took inventory of her fridge. She grabbed ingredients for BLTs, and soon the sizzling sounds and scent of bacon filled the kitchen as she sliced a tomato.
Then, for the first time since she’d spied him walking up to her front porch, she wondered why he’d stopped by at all.
At the bonfire, she’d told his friends she didn’t think Mark needed to be drawn out of a cocoon if he didn’t want to be. And from her point of view, he clearly didn’t want to be. And yet Nate said Mark wasn’t cut from that kind of cloth.
He used to be social. Well-known and liked. And people missed him, wanted him back. But the way Nate had said it, she got the feeling they didn’t want him back for them. They wanted him back for him. Because it was who he was.
She puzzled over what she knew about Mark Rivers. He was funny. And smarter than she’d given him credit for. He’d wanted to ask her a question twice now. About painting something.
Halfway through removing the bacon to paper towels, her phone buzzed. He’d sent pics of three different doorknobs, each perfect for a Craftsman-style house. She chose one that closely matched the drawer pulls in the kitchen.
He responded. Got it.
She texted again. Why did you stop by this morning?
After a few moments, he answered. Honestly?
Yes, please.
I’m collecting glass doorknobs.
She pressed her lips in a smile.
He added, I’ll tell you when I get back.
The sandwiches were ready and on plates with chips when she heard him come through the front door. She went out to meet him, ignoring the uptick of her pulse.
He glanced her way and averted his gaze. “Hey.” He set a couple of bags and the broken glass knobs on the rolltop desk and a tool chest on the floor. His hood was all the way up, shading his face.
“Hey,” she said as he knelt by the door, his back to her.
“Your tape’s in that bag,” he said.
She opened a bag and pulled out the window tape, but there was more. “What are these?”
“I got you a few adapters for the outlets.”
She read the package. “Three-prong to two-prong outlet adapters.” She found three more in the bag and a new extension cord. “Thank you.”
She watched his head nod from behind.
“Your outlets still need to be grounded, but this way you can use modern stuff if you need to. I talked to Alan. The updates were professional. I can give you the name of the guy he hired.” He used a utility knife to open the plastic casing on the doorknob.
“Okay. Thanks again. What do I owe you?”
“It’s on me. I did break your door.”
She smiled at that. “Can I offer you lunch?”
He paused.
“I made BLTs.”
He turned halfway in her direction. So different from when he wasn’t worried about that hood.
“It’s all ready,” she said. “I’m gonna eat. You’re welcome to join me.”
He turned back to the box he was working on.
“Or I can bring you a plate?”
He nodded again.
Okay, if that was what he wanted. She brought him his plate and a glass of apple cider and set it on the rolltop desk. “The cider’s Orondo’s. Yvette said it’s the best.”
“Yvette’s right.” He stopped what he was doing and turned toward the plate and juice. Finally, he glanced at her directly. “Thanks. It smells great.”
She turned to the kitchen. “Tastes better.”
Mark swallowed the last bite of the sandwich and washed it down with cider. That lunch was about perfect, and he allowed himself to relax and focus on installing the doorknob properly. It would be tricky enough with the old door; being on edge wouldn’t get the job done any faster.
Riley had turned on music, eating at the table just inside the kitchen, which worked fine for him. The nearer she was, the more he was forced to think about how much she’d seen of him. And how he’d acted like an idiot with her.
“Can I get you more of anything?” she asked from the kitchen. “More cider?”
“No, thanks. It was good, though.”
She hummed while she cleaned up, and he stood to bring in his dishes. He could at least do that. He rounded the corner and paused. She was dancing. Nodding her head and moving her hips as she rinsed a fry pan under hot water. At the chorus, she lip-synced into a pair of tongs.
He cleared his throat.
She jumped so hard the tongs went flying, clanging against a cupboard and dropping to the floor with a clatter.
She rested her palms on the edge of the sink. “You really need to stop doing that.”
He kept his mouth straight. “I was just bringing in my plate.”
She held out her hand. He handed her his plate. Then his glass.
“Thanks for lunch,” he said.
“Mhmm,” she answered, vigorously scrubbing.
He bent to pick up the tongs and set them in the sink. “I never really liked that song.” When she didn’t answer, he turned to go. “I’m reconsidering, though.”
“Don’t you have a door to fix?” she asked.
He smiled to himself. The knot inside him eased a little.
Riley returned to the front room a few minutes later and began taping the window for plastic. He had the knob installed on the
