Page 14
I try to picture it—Riley in a cabin in the woods, surrounded by trees and silence. It fits him somehow.
"That sounds peaceful," I say.
"It is." He hesitates, then adds, "My grandfather built it. Only place I've ever felt... at home."
It's the most personal thing he's shared, and I sense the admission cost him something. I want to ask more—about his grandfather, about why his family home didn't feel like home—but I don't want to push my luck.
Instead, I say, "I've never had that. A place that felt completely right. That's why I move around so much, I think. Always searching."
He looks at me then, really looks at me, his amber eyes intent. "And you think you might find it here? In Cedar Falls?"
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "But it feels like a place to start."
The power chooses that moment to flicker, the lights dimming before stabilizing. We both look up at the ceiling fixture, then at each other.
"Happens during bad storms," Riley says. "Got candles?"
I shake my head. "I haven't exactly had time to stock emergency supplies."
He rises from his chair. "I've got some in my truck. Wait here."
Before I can protest, he's heading for the door, stepping out into the downpour without hesitation. I watch through the window as he jogs to his truck, rain plastering his shirt to his back, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders.
A minute later he's back, dripping on my welcome mat but holding a small metal box.
"Emergency kit," he explains, setting it on the coffee table and opening it to reveal candles, matches, a flashlight, and various other supplies.
"You're prepared for everything, aren't you?" I say, oddly touched by his foresight.
"Military habit," he says, distributing candles around the room. "Always have a backup plan."
As if on cue, the lights flicker again and then go out completely, plunging us into darkness. I hear Riley striking a match, and then a warm glow illuminates his face as he lights the first candle.
"Perfect timing," I say with a nervous laugh.
One by one, he lights the candles until the room is bathed in a soft, golden light. Outside, the storm rages on, but in here, it feels like we're in a cocoon of warmth and safety.
Riley returns to his seat, running a hand through his damp hair. In the candlelight, his features seem softer somehow, the hard lines of his face gentled by shadow and flame.
"I should probably get going," he says, but makes no move to stand. "Once the storm lets up a bit."
"You don't have to," I say quickly, then feel heat rise to my cheeks. "I mean, the roads might be flooded. It could be dangerous."
He studies me for a long moment, and I resist the urge to fidget under his gaze. I'm not sure why I want him to stay. Only that the thought of being alone in this strange house, in the dark, is less appealing than having this gruff, taciturn man for company.
"Could be," he agrees finally. "Roads around here flood easily."
Relief washes through me. "I have coffee. Or there's tea, if you prefer."
"Coffee's good."
I rise, grateful for something to do. "I'll have to make it on the stove if that's okay. I haven't unpacked my electric kettle yet."
"Need help?" he offers, half-rising.
"No, stay. I can manage." I grab a candle and head to the kitchen, where I start opening cupboards by candlelight, searching for the coffee Mrs. Abernathy mentioned in her note.
I find it in the third cupboard—a sealed bag of what looks like locally roasted beans. There's a hand-cranked grinder beside it, and I set to work preparing the coffee, grateful for the small, normal task.
"That sounds peaceful," I say.
"It is." He hesitates, then adds, "My grandfather built it. Only place I've ever felt... at home."
It's the most personal thing he's shared, and I sense the admission cost him something. I want to ask more—about his grandfather, about why his family home didn't feel like home—but I don't want to push my luck.
Instead, I say, "I've never had that. A place that felt completely right. That's why I move around so much, I think. Always searching."
He looks at me then, really looks at me, his amber eyes intent. "And you think you might find it here? In Cedar Falls?"
"I don't know," I answer honestly. "But it feels like a place to start."
The power chooses that moment to flicker, the lights dimming before stabilizing. We both look up at the ceiling fixture, then at each other.
"Happens during bad storms," Riley says. "Got candles?"
I shake my head. "I haven't exactly had time to stock emergency supplies."
He rises from his chair. "I've got some in my truck. Wait here."
Before I can protest, he's heading for the door, stepping out into the downpour without hesitation. I watch through the window as he jogs to his truck, rain plastering his shirt to his back, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders.
A minute later he's back, dripping on my welcome mat but holding a small metal box.
"Emergency kit," he explains, setting it on the coffee table and opening it to reveal candles, matches, a flashlight, and various other supplies.
"You're prepared for everything, aren't you?" I say, oddly touched by his foresight.
"Military habit," he says, distributing candles around the room. "Always have a backup plan."
As if on cue, the lights flicker again and then go out completely, plunging us into darkness. I hear Riley striking a match, and then a warm glow illuminates his face as he lights the first candle.
"Perfect timing," I say with a nervous laugh.
One by one, he lights the candles until the room is bathed in a soft, golden light. Outside, the storm rages on, but in here, it feels like we're in a cocoon of warmth and safety.
Riley returns to his seat, running a hand through his damp hair. In the candlelight, his features seem softer somehow, the hard lines of his face gentled by shadow and flame.
"I should probably get going," he says, but makes no move to stand. "Once the storm lets up a bit."
"You don't have to," I say quickly, then feel heat rise to my cheeks. "I mean, the roads might be flooded. It could be dangerous."
He studies me for a long moment, and I resist the urge to fidget under his gaze. I'm not sure why I want him to stay. Only that the thought of being alone in this strange house, in the dark, is less appealing than having this gruff, taciturn man for company.
"Could be," he agrees finally. "Roads around here flood easily."
Relief washes through me. "I have coffee. Or there's tea, if you prefer."
"Coffee's good."
I rise, grateful for something to do. "I'll have to make it on the stove if that's okay. I haven't unpacked my electric kettle yet."
"Need help?" he offers, half-rising.
"No, stay. I can manage." I grab a candle and head to the kitchen, where I start opening cupboards by candlelight, searching for the coffee Mrs. Abernathy mentioned in her note.
I find it in the third cupboard—a sealed bag of what looks like locally roasted beans. There's a hand-cranked grinder beside it, and I set to work preparing the coffee, grateful for the small, normal task.