Chapter 6
Aiden
Twenty-three second graders stare at me like I'm a zoo exhibit.
"And that," I conclude, holding up the plastic fire helmet we brought for demonstration purposes, "is why we always have a meeting spot outside when there's a fire. So everyone can find each other, and nobody gets left behind."
A tiny hand shoots up in the front row. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
The teacher—Ms. Huang, according to the lanyard around her neck—winces apologetically. I catch Riley suppressing a laugh behind her hand.
"That's not really about fire safety, buddy."
"My mom says firefighters are very handsome," the kid continues, undeterred. "She says she'd leave my dad for one."
"Okay!" Ms. Huang claps her hands together. "Let's focus on the presentation, everyone. I'm sure Lieutenant Gentry has more important things to tell us."
I do, technically. But now I'm distracted by the flush creeping up Riley's neck and the way she's suddenly very interested in the fire extinguisher diagram we brought.
"Actually," I say, because apparently I have no self-preservation instincts, "I do have a girlfriend. She's right here."
Riley's head snaps up. Her eyes go wide behind her glasses—a look that promises creative revenge later.
"She's a fire investigator," I continue, warming to the chaos I've created. "That means when a fire happens, she figures out how it started. She's like a detective, but for fires."
"That's so cool!" A girl with braids bounces in her seat. "Do you catch bad guys?"
Riley steps forward, her initial panic smoothing into composure. "Sometimes. When people start fires on purpose, it's my job to find the evidence and help the police catch them."
"Have you ever caught a really bad guy?"
"I've helped put several arsonists in jail, yes." Riley's warming to her subject now, the same way she did in her lab. "Last year, I worked on a case where someone was setting fires in abandoned buildings. We caught him because he left behind a very specific kind of evidence."
"What kind?"
"His shoes." She grins, and I watch twenty-three second graders lean forward in unison. "Different shoes leave different patterns in ash and debris. He wore very distinctive boots, and we matched the prints to him."
"Like Cinderella!" a kid in the back shouts. "But evil!"
"Exactly like evil Cinderella." Riley's grin widens. "That's actually a great way to think about it. We look for what people leave behind—footprints, fingerprints, chemical traces. Every fire tells a story if you know how to read it."
A boy with a gap-toothed smile raises his hand. "Can you tell if a dragon started a fire?"
"Dragons aren't real, dummy," his neighbor hisses.
"They could be!"
"If a dragon started a fire," Riley says, with impressive seriousness, "I imagine the evidence would be very distinctive. Large claw prints. Maybe some scales. Probably a lot more damage than a typical accelerant."
The kids dissolve into a debate about dragon fire versus regular fire, and Ms. Huang shoots Riley a grateful look for handling that with such grace.
The questions keep coming. Riley fields them with patience I didn't know she possessed, crouching down to their level and explaining forensic concepts in terms seven-year-olds can understand. Fingerprints. Burn patterns. The way fire moves and leaves clues behind.
She's a natural. Who knew?
I hang back and watch her work, feeling something shift in my chest. She's got ash diagrams spread on the floor now, surrounded by a cluster of kids who are treating her like the most fascinating person they've ever met.
Which, honestly, she might be.
"You're staring."
I blink. Ms. Huang has appeared beside me, arms crossed, a knowing smile on her face.
"Just observing. Part of my job."
"Uh-huh." Her smile widens. "She's good with them."
"Yeah." The word comes out softer than I intend. "She really is."
"So how long have you two been together? The kids are going to ask, and I'd rather have the real answer than whatever chaos that produces."
The real answer. Right.
"It's... recent," I manage. The same line Riley used at the first event. "We're still figuring things out."
Ms. Huang nods like this makes perfect sense. "The good ones take time."
The good ones. Damn.
After the presentation wraps up and we've posed for approximately nine thousand photos with excited children, Riley and I escape to the parking lot with matching expressions of exhausted relief.
"A girlfriend," she says flatly, the moment we're out of earshot. "You told twenty-three second graders I'm your girlfriend."
"I panicked."
"You panicked." She's not actually mad—I can tell by the way her mouth keeps twitching. "Your panic response is to upgrade our fake relationship status in front of children?"
"They were asking about my love life! What was I supposed to do, explain the nuances of a PR arrangement to seven-year-olds?"
"You could have said no."
"I could have," I agree. "But then I wouldn't have gotten to watch you explain forensic evidence to a room full of kids like it was the most natural thing in the world."
She stops walking. Turns to face me. The afternoon sun catches her hair, turning it shades of red and gold.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you were incredible in there." I take a step closer. "It means watching you get excited about shoe print analysis while surrounded by second graders was one of the best things I've seen in a long time. It means—"
"Aiden."
"—I'm having a really hard time remembering that this is supposed to be fake."
The words hang between us. Riley's expression does a complicated dance—surprise, fear, hope, all flickering across her face before she schools it into neutral.
"We should talk about that," she says carefully.
"The rain check."
"The rain check."
I glance around the parking lot. A few parents are still loading kids into minivans. Ms. Huang waves at us from the school entrance. Not exactly private.
"Dinner tonight?" I ask. "My place? I'll cook."
"You cook?"
"I contain multitudes, Pritchard."
That gets a real smile. "Fine. What time?"
"Seven. And Riley?" I wait until her eyes meet mine. "This time, I'm not letting any phone calls interrupt us."
She shows up at 6:58, because apparently being early is a compulsion she can't resist. I open the door to find her holding a bottle of wine and looking vaguely terrified.
"You didn't have to bring anything."
"My mother raised me with manners." She thrusts the bottle toward me like it might explode. "Also, I didn't know what you were making, so I panicked and asked the guy at the wine store to pick something that goes with everything."
"Smart strategy." I take the bottle and step aside to let her in. "For the record, I'm making chicken marsala. The wine guy chose well."
"Chicken marsala." She follows me into the kitchen. "From scratch or from a jar?"
"From scratch. Is there any other way?"
"Most people would say from a jar."
"Most people are wrong about a lot of things."
She snorts, and I file away the sound as evidence that she's relaxing. The kitchen is warm from the oven, and I've got Sinatra playing low on the speaker—not because I'm trying to be romantic, but because my grandmother always cooked to Sinatra and the habit stuck.
Riley perches on a stool at the kitchen island, watching me work with undisguised curiosity. Her eyebrows rise as she takes in the organized chaos—ingredients laid out in prep bowls, the sauce already simmering, chicken pounded thin and ready for the pan.
"You actually cook."
"Why does everyone sound so surprised by this?"
"Because your public persona is 'charming himbo who probably survives on protein shakes and takeout.'" She takes the glass of wine I pour her. "This is very off-brand."
"Charming himbo?"
"Hazel's words, not mine."
"I'm going to have a conversation with Hazel about brand management." I return to the chicken, checking the heat. "For the record, my grandmother taught me to cook. She said the way to anyone's heart is through their stomach, and also that men who can't feed themselves are useless."
"I like your grandmother."
"She would like you too. She has strong opinions about smart women."
Riley sips her wine, and I let myself watch her for a moment—the way she's settled onto the stool like she belongs there, the way her shoulders have lost their usual rigid tension. She's wearing jeans and that soft gray sweater again, and her hair is down around her shoulders.
She looks comfortable. She looks like she belongs in my kitchen.
That thought is dangerous.
"So," she says, setting down her glass. "The rain check."
"The rain check." I turn back to the stove, checking the chicken. Easier to have this conversation when I'm not staring directly at her. "I meant what I said in the parking lot. I'm having trouble remembering this is fake."
"Me too."
The admission is quiet, almost reluctant. I glance over my shoulder to find her studying her wineglass like it holds the answers to the universe.
"Since when?" I ask.
"I don't know. The riverside conversation, maybe? When you asked about my dad and actually listened to the answer." She takes a breath. "Or maybe the other night, when I saw all those certifications and realized I'd completely misjudged you."
"The couch moment."
"The couch moment," she agrees. "When we almost..."
"Yeah."
Silence stretches between us, filled only by the sizzle of the pan and the distant sound of traffic outside. I plate the chicken, add the mushroom sauce, and carry both plates to the small dining table I've already set with actual cloth napkins because apparently I'm trying to impress her.
She joins me at the table, and for a few minutes we eat in a silence that's more comfortable than awkward. The chicken is good—one of my better efforts—and the wine does go with everything.
"This is delicious," Riley says, and she sounds almost annoyed about it. "Why are you good at this?"
"Natural talent. Also, years of practice."
"Humble too."