She glanced over her shoulder as Mark poured a bag of salad into a bowl and rummaged through the drawers for serving utensils.
They’d looked at paint sample cards for the front room and discussed her plans for the bathroom. He’d rooted around her art room while she’d readied the paints, and then they’d talked about his mom while she painted. He’d rigged her easel and a large bucket from the garage into an angled support so she wouldn’t have to work on a flat surface, which would save her shoulder muscles on the bigger pieces.
The star that she’d dismissed as potentially boring in its angular simplicity took on a life of its own, battling its symmetry and two dimensions as she added color upon fiery color. Riley couldn’t say how much time had passed before she noticed Mark had stopped browsing and just watched her.
Then the growl of her stomach told her it was past dinnertime, and she offered him dinner. He hadn’t refused.
She returned her focus to stirring the sauce, when the noodles began boiling over, water hissing on the stovetop. Riley grabbed the handles and pushed the pot off the burner.
She yelped as heat blossomed over the palm of her left hand.
Mark appeared at her side, taking her hand and steering her to the sink. He ran a stream of cold water over her hand.
“I think that handle was over the other burner,” she said, trying to pull her hand away.
“Do you have any potatoes?” he asked, keeping her hand in place.
“Um, sure, in that cupboard over there. Why?”
He grabbed a potato and cut it in half lengthwise. He pulled her hand from the water and dried it with a paper towel. Then he pressed the potato cut-side down to the skin of her burned palm.
“Is that okay?” he asked.
“I was really hoping for noodles.” She could tell from his expression that he wasn’t in the mood to joke.
“Rub this around a little,” he said. “The juice helps.”
She followed his directions with the potato. “It feels nice. Thanks.”
He stepped back. “I’ve got some burn cream in my truck. Do you have bandages?”
“Yes, in the first aid kit. Maybe.” She smiled wryly. “Nothing like burning yourself with an ex-fireman around to make you reevaluate your emergency preparedness.”
He didn’t laugh. He lifted the potato, examining her skin, and nodded. “Not too bad. The burn cream should take care of it. I’ll be right back.”
She watched him go, realizing his perspective of something like a little kitchen burn. The weight of what he’d been through began to settle on her. If it had been her right hand, she’d have a hard time holding a paintbrush or chopsticks—or anything—until it healed.
He came back in with the biggest, most official-looking first aid kit she’d ever seen. He motioned her over to the table and sat next to her, angling so he faced her better.
He opened the kit and pulled out a little blue jar.
“Give me your hand,” he said.
She did.
He removed the potato and soaked a cotton pad in alcohol, brushing it across the fleshy part under her thumb. It felt cool across her palm. He waited a second for the alcohol to dry, then applied some white cream from the blue jar.
She felt immediate relief. “Thank you.”
“My aunt gets it from Mexico. Good stuff. Apply it again tonight. Let me know if it blisters, okay?”
“Okay.” She smiled, but it was subdued. She thought of all the other burns he’d had to worry about. Keeping them clean, wrapping them, applying cream. And the skin grafts . . .
He finished up and repacked the first aid kit.
She reached with her good hand and held him there before he stood. “Thanks. Really. When stuff like this happens . . . it’s nice to have someone help.”
He nodded. “You’re welcome.”
And she saw it. His need to help. His desire to use what he knew to protect others. He was a fireman, like he said. He had to be in that red truck.
After dinner was done and dishes were cleaned, they stood in the nearly finished walkway between the front room and kitchen. Riley glanced at the clock on the wall.
“What a day,” she said.
“But a good day, though. I hope.”
“A really good day.” She shivered.
“Are you cold?”
“It’s this house. Even with the windows sealed, it’s drafty. I loved having the fire the other night.”
“It’s only eight. Were you going to stay up and paint, or . . . ?”
She shook her head. “No more painting tonight. I think I’ll let this rest a bit.” She lifted her hand.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not much.”
“Do you want to build a fire?”
She hesitated, knowing his discomfort around any flame. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
So they built a fire, carefully, methodically, and they pushed the sofa in front of it. She sat with her blanket around her shoulders.
“That feels nice,” she said, watching the flames.
“Good.”
One of the logs sizzled and snapped, and Mark seemed to get lost in the glow from the flames.
“What happened?” she heard herself ask. “When you saved those boys?”
He turned away, and she worried that she’d overstepped her boundaries.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“No. It’s just . . . it’s a long story.”
She scooted over on the sofa, pulling her blanket out of his way, and waited, watching him with a mix of curiosity and fear for what she’d just asked him to do.
Mark studied the space next to Riley on the couch. She’d moved to the left, and he wondered if she’d done it so he’d be less uncomfortable, or if he was just overthinking a girl making space for him. His fight-or-flight response kicked in, and for a second, he froze.
But the desire to tell somebody who wasn’t a reporter or an official
