Page 24 of Burn for You

“Did you do these?” Seth asked, gesturing to a swath of papers on a table by the window.

I glanced up from my desk briefly. Then my eyebrows rose as I saw my sketches in Seth’s hands. He held them as delicately as if they were butterfly wings.

“Oh, those are just…doodles.”

I gulped, hoping he’d take the fib without question. But as soon as his gaze flicked to me, I knew it wouldn’t be that simple.

“Marlee, these are incredible.”

He smoothed out a large architectural sketch of a fairytale cottage with a brick facade, a fireplace, and an attached sunroom.

I ducked my head and focused on sorting through my desk.

“I’ve always liked designing homes. Piecing them together. Creating living spaces.”

“Is that how you got started in real estate?” Seth asked, moving to the next sketch in the stack on the table. I winced, wishing I could stuff them in a drawer and hide them away. Why didn’t that damn fire burn them?

“Sort of,” I hedged.

Seth went still and quiet. I could practically feel his gaze boring into me.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, sweetheart, you can just say so. Getting these cagey answers out of you is like pulling teeth.”

I sighed and attempted to brush the soot and ashes off my hands, but I only succeeded in making more of a mess.

“When I was a kid, I spent hours dreaming up home designs,” I said. “I filled dozens of sketchbooks with drawings—from sleek modern mansions to eco-friendly homes with solar panels and rainwater collection systems.”

A pause lingered in the air as I scrubbed at my soot-stained palms.

“Let me guess,” Seth said. “Someone didn’t approve.”

I shook my head.

“My father. He was a damn good realtor—like a bloodthirsty shark who knew how to go for the jugular when he closed his deals. I was thirteen years old when I announced at the dinner table that I wanted to be an architect. I wanted to make my dreams become a reality.”

I winced at the memory, the consternation on my father’s face, the pained silence that loomed overhead like a thundercloud.

“My father scoffed and said I was being childish,” I continued. “I could make two or three times more money as a realtor than I ever would as an architect.”

Seth blew out a breath and rubbed his forehead, leaving a streak of soot behind.

“I can’t say I’m a fan of your father.”

“Well, he was right,” I countered. “I owe my entire career to him. He took me under his wing and taught me everything he knows. I’m successful because of him.”

“No,” Seth replied. “You’re successful because you’re smart, determined, and a hard worker. And being a realtor was never your dream to begin with.” He gestured to the sketches. “I can tell this is really what you want to do.”

I swallowed and said nothing. For years, I’d sheltered that dream away from everyone else. I sketched architectural designson my days off just to kill time. I never considered I could actually pursue it seriously.

“My father didn’t want me to become a firefighter, you know,” Seth said.

I raised my eyebrows.

“Really? Why not?”

Seth considered for a moment, sifting through my sketches. His gaze traced the lines I’d diligently mapped out—walls and windows and floor plans, until a living space took shape on the page.

“Dear old Dad wanted me to be a lawyer,” he said. “We butted heads about it so many times that I ran away at sixteen. The fire chief took pity and allowed me to bunk in the firehouse, doing odd jobs around the station for cash until I was old enough to join the academy.”

---