“Don’t miss your chances, son. You don’t know how many you’ll get.”
Mark stared at his eggs. “I’m aware.”
“Hey there, Rivers. What are you up to?”
Mark turned, straightening. “Gainer. Hey. Picking up paint supplies. You?”
Dalton held up a package. “Light bulbs.”
“Ah.” He still needed painter’s tape and moved that direction. “Good to see you.”
“I figured something out,” Dalton said behind him. “About Riley.”
Mark paused and faced him. “About Riley,” he repeated.
“Yep.”
He sighed, not wanting this conversation but needing to put out any fires Dalton might be setting. “What did you figure out?”
“You know who she dated before, right?”
“Some scumbag actor?”
Dalton chuckled. “Yeah, ‘some actor.’ Do you ever get on the internet? She dated pretty-boy Gavin-freaking-Darrow. The Sounds of War? Sounds like he humiliated her pretty badly. No wonder she’s gun-shy. Stringing the two of us along.”
Mark held Dalton’s pointed gaze while a flare of emotions battled for top spot in his thoughts. “You looked up Riley on the internet?”
Dalton’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “Just research.”
Riley hadn’t told Dalton anything. That idea alone bolstered his nerves. “Here’s a tip. Riley’s a pretty private person. It wouldn’t do you any good spreading around what you find.”
“My intentions are honorable, I assure you.”
“Hm.” Sure they were.
“I’m taking her to the firemen’s ball.”
Mark fought to keep his expression steady even as his gut twisted. “You asked her?”
He shrugged.
“And she said yes?”
“She’s thinking it over. Like I said, gun-shy.”
Mark nodded slowly. “Well, good luck with that.” He turned, hoping it was enough of a dismissal.
“Painting your dad’s house?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Riley’s.” He kept walking.
Mark waited on Riley’s porch holding paint rollers, drop cloths, and painter’s tape, his insides turning like gears he couldn’t slow, the image of her with movie star Gavin Darrow burning in his brain. She opened the door with a smile so welcoming he immediately nudged her inside, dropped all his stuff, and pulled her close. Before she could say anything, he caught her mouth with his and kissed her until the gears shifted, still turning, but different. Better.
She made a pleased sound in his arms and pulled his coat off, keeping the kiss going. Once his coat hit the floor, she pulled him farther into the room. Together, they dropped down on the couch, continuing from where they’d briefly left off.
“We won’t get much painting done this way,” she whispered when he broke away to graze his lips against her ear.
“Sure we will,” he said. “It’s only three walls.” He tucked her in closer, savoring the feel of her next to him, deciding where to kiss her next.
She smiled. “It’s four walls.”
“One wall has a big gaping hole in it.” He made for her neck, and she giggled. He couldn’t help smiling.
“And you can hardly count the wall with the front window,” she said.
He nuzzled her hair. “Hardly. We don’t even really have to paint, if you think about it.” His lips met hers again, and he felt her shiver.
After a few more minutes entangled on the couch, she slowed the kiss, and he opened his eyes. She blinked up at him, her expression unreadable. He traced the freckles across her nose, his heart beating a rhythm he hadn’t felt in a long time. Maybe not ever.
“What is it?” he asked, suppressing the inevitable insecurity.
Her lips and cheeks blushed as she looked away.
His hand smoothed along the definite curve from her waist to her hip, bringing her gaze back to his.
“We’re keeping this to ourselves, right?”
He blinked, drawing back. “Yeah,” he answered. “Yeah, of course.” He frowned, running a hand over her hair, trying to ignore the pang her question shot to his ego. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind everyone knowing.” He could think of one person in particular he’d liked to shout the news to. “But I get not wanting that right now.”
She nodded. “And we’re taking this slow, right?” she asked, her eyes searching his.
He exhaled, and dropped his head. “Yes.” He’d only just kissed her for the first time that morning. He was barely used to letting her see his face, let alone touch it. As for the rest of him, well . . . He hoped time with her would ease his fears. “We can go as slow as you need.” He gave his head a shake and sat up. “As slow as I need.” He brushed his hand through his hair, a sudden sense of vulnerability making his heart race like a jackrabbit. “With my scars, I’m just . . . Slow is good, that’s all.”
“Slow is good,” she agreed with a sigh. “But it’s going to take us a month to finish painting.”
He shook his head. “A year at least.”
She snorted out a laugh. He growled and made a grab for her. She squealed and didn’t make it out of his reach. He took some consolation in that it wasn’t long before he was wrapped up in her arms again, and it was more than a few minutes before either of them brought up painting. And still he couldn’t shake the feeling he was playing a very dangerous game with his heart.
The next couple of days were spent focused on the house. Painting, ripping off trim, tearing up carpet. Riley had been right. Solid oak floors were hidden under the old brown carpet—a few scratches and stains, but salvageable. Mark borrowed a floor sander from a friend, and they spent a couple afternoons staining and sealing.
When they weren’t at Riley’s, they were at Mark’s house, cooking meals for his dad and taking the snowmobile out for a turn. And making more snow angels, but the messier kind. Mark said he hadn’t been so thankful for snow in a
