She wanted to ask him about last night. About when he left and why he hadn’t woken her up, and how he’d put the glass doorknob in her hand and how it had made her feel like he was still there, a little bit. Because maybe then she’d stop wondering about it all. Because she’d been carrying around that dang doorknob all day.
But asking him all that would be showing more interest than she wanted to. He’d bared his soul to her and then they’d slept. On her couch. She wasn’t sure what the boundaries were here, friends or not.
She scratched some dry paint off her arm, then texted him again. The star’s done. I’ve started the shepherd.
She switched on an old gooseneck lamp on her desk and aimed the light toward the easel.
Can’t wait to see it.
This was what happened when people shared their stuff. Their food. Their couch. Their deepest fears . . . You left your hat here.
She waited for his response. She’d watched him pull his hat off during his story, like he was too warm from the fire or the intense memories. His scars were out of her sight, but the fact that he’d taken off his hat at all with her right there was important. His hair had been messy, thick, and as dark as his eyes in the firelight. Just like it had been that day he’d come over and broken her door to get in.
I’ll have to come by and get it.
Come by anyti— She paused, remembering her dinner date with Dalton. She squeezed her eyes shut. She should have told Dalton no. But she hadn’t. She backspaced. How about tomorrow?
Great. I’ll come by after lunch.
I’ll see you then.
She reread the text conversation and decided it was good. Then she rolled her eyes at herself for needing to do that.
Her phone beeped again.
Thanks for listening last night.
The smile returned to her lips. Thanks for an amazing day.
She set her phone down on the desk and leaned forward on her elbows. What are you doing, Riley Madigan?
“Nothing,” she said aloud. “I’m not doing anything.”
Her phone beeped again, and she peeked at it.
Get back to work.
She flipped over her phone and laughed.
Dalton followed Riley as the hostess led them to a table already occupied by two other couples.
“Hey, there he is, the man of the hour.” One of the men, the oldest of the group, lifted a hand in greeting. The others looked up from their menus.
“Sorry we’re late,” Dalton said. She felt his hand on her back as he motioned to the older couple. “Riley, this is Rich and Suzanne Derenger. Rich runs my defense.”
“And this,” Dalton gestured to the younger couple across the table, “is Brian and Stephanie Grady. Brian is my assistant on offense.” He nodded to the group. “Everyone, meet Riley Madigan.”
“You’re the art teacher, right?” Brian asked.
“That’s right.” Riley took the chair Dalton pulled out for her. She paused as her gaze met that of Brian’s wife, Stephanie. The woman’s brow arched in a way that reminded her of the women at the bonfire when Dalton had possessively ushered her around. She gently cleared her throat, looking between both men. “Do you work at the high school?”
“No,” Brian said, lifting his drink. “In a school as small as Mt. Stuart, finding staff that can teach and coach is tough.”
“Rich played at UW,” Dalton said. “I’m lucky to have him.”
“That was more than a few years ago,” Rich said, chuckling.
Dalton leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “Rich was the Huskies’ leading scorer his senior year. Went on to play for the Rams for five seasons.”
She nodded at the implied importance of that information. “Did you like living in St. Louis?”
Rich chuckled. “They were still in LA when I was playing.”
“Oh, my mistake.”
He glanced at his wife and winked. “At my age, that’s a mistake I’ll easily forgive.”
Rich gestured to Dalton. “This man here led the Beacons to their first state championship. I never got one of those.”
Dalton leaned back in his chair and smiled broadly. He’d already bragged about that achievement to Riley. That and the fact that he’d played for WSU while he got his teaching degree and graduated magna cum laude.
The waiter came to take her and Dalton’s drink order and left again.
Riley glanced at Brian, still feeling his wife’s unflinching gaze. “And what about you, Brian? What’s your football history?”
Brian shook his head. “I played in high school.” He shrugged. “Love the game.” He looked at his wife, and she smiled at him, genuine and proud. The look of affection they shared made Riley reconsider the earlier scrutiny she’d felt.
“Riley,” Stephanie said. “How do you like Miracle Creek?”
Her gaze flickered between her and Dalton as he rested his hand on the back of Riley’s chair. The scrutiny returned.
“Well, it’s very small, isn’t it?” Riley said, meeting her gaze, and the others chuckled. “That takes some getting used to.”
“I’m sure,” Stephanie said. “Everyone knows everything about everybody. It’s a blessing and a curse, really. Isn’t that right, Dalton?”
Brian coughed and pushed his open menu in front of his wife. “Maybe I’ll try the Frutte d Mare this time. What do you think, sweetheart?”
Stephanie frowned at her husband. “You’re allergic to shrimp.”
He shook his head. “What was I thinking?” He leaned closer to her, lifting the menu as if to create a barrier between them and the rest of the table. “What were you thinking of getting?”
Riley watched the exchange half humored and half confused by the undisguised feeling she’d sensed from Stephanie toward Dalton and herself. Was it malice? Whatever it was, her husband was doing his best to block it.
Dalton studied his own menu, his lips pursed in amusement.
She leaned toward him. “Is there something I should know here?”
“Well,” he said, his tone hushed, “the ragù has green peas in it. But the
