She couldn’t keep her emotions in check, though. She was no good at relationships. Not ones that mattered.
Making friends with people like Mark Rivers was dangerous. People like him drew you in deep, made you feel like you could believe. That you were connected. Part of something that said, “Stay.” The Dalton Gainers of the world allowed freedom.
Be careful with Dalton, Mark had warned her.
Be careful with Mark, she told herself.
Mark put off calling Riley about using the school all day. The way things had been left last night made his stomach turn. He’d hoped he could manage to grab some time to work on the boards while his dad was away. The trouble was, his dad never went away.
They’d spent the morning fixing potholes in the dirt road down to the new outbuilding. His dad had loaded gravel onto the flatbed, and while he drove, Mark sat on the back, waiting for the next stop to fill the hole.
Once they got to the outbuilding, he was put to work installing shelves, moving in equipment, and organizing tools, including moving the band saw from the garage. He tried arguing for leaving the tools where they were, but his dad had looked at him like he’d been hit too many times playing football.
And the whole time, running through the back of his mind was Riley. Riley, Riley, Riley. And the warning his father had given him when he was young. Don’t you make a girl cry unless it’s happy tears.
She always had this strong front. To see her vulnerable like that—he hadn’t known what to do—or what she’d want from him.
By the time afternoon rolled around, Mark’s stomach had tensed with anxiety, and his leg bounced under the lunch table they’d put in the shop’s kitchen area.
“We’re out of bread and eggs,” he said, as if he’d just remembered. “And you were gonna get the oil changed in your pickup, right? Did you want to go do that now, or . . .?”
His dad spoke from behind a cupboard door. “Steph’s dropping by in a while with some groceries, and I was thinking when you’re done here you can change the oil for me for free.”
“I can’t.” Mark grimaced. “I’m meeting some people.”
His dad shut the cupboard quickly. “For what?”
“For meeting some . . . people . . . to meet people.” Brilliant.
His dad stared at him. “Sounds crowded.”
Mark turned away. “It’s nothing. Never mind.”
“No, go. We’ll get the oil changed another day. Go meet your people.”
Mark paused. Was it really so predictable that his dad would want Mark to get out of the house? “Thanks.”
He texted Riley.
I’m sorry about the way things were left last night. I’m hoping you still want the job. If so, can I come use the school? There’s no avoiding Dad out here.
He waited for a response, knowing school would just be getting out, nervous that she’d back out. After a few minutes, she replied.
I talked to Tom. Today will work if we’re done by six. Bring everything to the shop as soon as you can so we can finish drawing the characters.
She wasn’t backing out.
He excused himself while his dad was still deep in work and returned to the house. He cleaned up a little then packed everything he and Riley had worked on into the back of his truck, wrapping the boards in an old blanket and securing them with bungee cords. He might be overprotective about keeping the project a secret, but he would feel better once the pieces were cut and inside Riley’s house.
Once more, he chastised himself for coming down so hard on her about the hope thing. It wasn’t his right to preach to her or anyone. They’d agreed at dinner: mutual understanding between friends. And then he’d laid into her like a preacher at a pulpit. He promised himself he’d back off and respect her privacy, even though something inside him itched to know more of how she’d given up the one thing in life that had kept him alive.
And this place? He shook his head as he drove into town, the streetlamps adorned with lit garlands and tinsel snowflakes hanging from every traffic light. Santa’s Workshop was already set up in the corner of the IGA parking lot, waiting for Santa to hold court for portraits and hand out candy canes and a coupon for a free ice cream cone at the Grill-n-Go. Christmas carols would blare from the Christmas tree lot between the hardware store and the IGA as soon as it was filled, though the Salvation Army bell ringers were already working their posts in front of the Main Street stores.
For someone who wanted to avoid Christmas, Riley Madigan had picked the wrong place to live.
But it sounded like she’d picked it partly because of his mom.
He parked the truck in the school parking lot.
Maybe if he could show her what this town meant to his mom—what hope meant to his mom—maybe she’d have a change of heart. But he’d have to stop the preaching.
He was hefting the pieces of wood under his arm, deep in thought, when he heard a voice behind him.
“What are you up to, Rivers?”
Mark glanced to see Dalton Gainer closing the trunk of his car.
“Just bringing some stuff in for the shop.” He adjusted the backpack containing all the drawings and photos and nearly lost his grip on the boards.
“Good for you, getting out. Need some help?”
Mark let the patronizing statement drop. “Nope. Got it.” And he did. Gainer shut the tailgate to the truck for him anyway. “Thanks.”
“I saw Ms. Madigan heading for the shop, too,” Gainer said, a question in his tone.
Mark met Dalton’s steely blue gaze. “Ms. Madigan? You mean Riley?”
Gainer smiled. “During the school day, she’s Ms. Madigan.”
“Ah,” Mark replied, gladly turning to go. “Well, I’m not a student. And school’s out.” He headed toward the school, but before
