Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Frankie
“Morning, Bea,” I called over the familiar bell.
“All ready for you.” The newest barista at the Maine Squeeze dumped a scoop of ice into my coffee. Like Lou, she had big glasses resting on her nose and her dark-brown hair braided back along either side of her head.
“Wow, Lou trained you good.” The compliment brought a huge smile to her face.
It was more than training. My twin sister was a model of dedication and loyalty and compassion and care and everything. Lou is a model for everything. Meanwhile, I tended to be nothing but trouble.
It was fine. I’d long embraced stereotypical Frankie. The brash prankster. Unwavering matchmaker. Outspoken firecracker. I’d strengthened her. Nourished her. Loved her. Not that I had much of a choice. When you’re a twin—an identical twin—the tendency for comparison is weighted, and even the smallest differences in personality become exaggerated just to differentiate you.
Case-in-point: my cousin, Nox, would tease us when we were younger that Lou and I were double, double, toil, and trouble. The Kinkade twins: hardworking Elouise and jokester Francesca.
Bea snapped the lid on my coffee and handed it to me. “Tourists are great, but regulars are our main squeeze,” she said with a wink.
I chuckled. “Sounds like Lou.”
There was nothing exaggerated about my sister, though. She was soft-spoken, honest to a fault, kind, and the perfect role model for Bea, which is why I was happy to see it was more than barista training that Bea was learning from her.
I took a big sip of the iced coffee and sighed. “Perfect.”
“Thanks.” She beamed. “Busy day?”
“So busy,” I gushed and handed her my credit card. “I’m finishing up a huge order for Maine Stems. I created a seaside scent to go with their “beach blooms” summer bouquet sale.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that. I just ordered one of those for my mom. She’ll be so excited to get one of your candles with it.” She rang up my drink and handed my card back to me.
“It was a last-minute thing, but it’s hard to say no to family.”
Main Stems was a flower delivery start-up founded by my cousin, Max Hamilton—Nox’s older brother, about seven years ago. It didn’t take long for his idea to blow up. Forgot an anniversary? A birthday? Main Stems delivered a custom bouquet within two hours. Need to celebrate a new promotion? Send mourning flowers? Seasonal or custom bouquets delivered on demand. It was like Amazon, but for flowers. And now Max was expanding his business into events. It was great for him—and good for me—because what went better with flowers than a handcrafted candle?
“Speaking of”—I tipped forward on the counter—“that guy from yesterday…” The one who was far too handsome and far too presumptuous to invade my dreams like he had last night. Especially when he was perfect for Lou.
Fitted gray pants. Crisp white shirt. Expertly coiffed dark hair. Sure, he might’ve unbuttoned his collar and rolled up his sleeves, but even those rolls were perfect. As though even his relaxation had rules.
Which was why I’d tried to set him up with my sister. He was clearly a big-city workaholic, and though Friendship was a small town, Lou worked all the time—three jobs while she saved up for her dream—and hardly left any time for herself to relax. Obviously, they could be each other’s distractions. Even if only for a few days.
It was a perfect plan.
As perfect as his firm lips and square-cut jaw and the fit of his shirt to his muscular shoulders.I shivered at the memory. Not what I should be thinking about. Again. But even I wasn’t spared from my own trouble-making thoughts, which went immediately to his deep, coal-black stare as soon as my eyes shut to take another sip of my coffee. The intensity. The energy. His stare was as subtle and as potent as smoke—appropriate for a man whose body was pure fire.
Bea blushed and blurted out. “He was so hot.”
A workahottie I’d dubbed him since I hadn’t wasted any precious time yesterday learning his name. I didn’t need his name—didn’t want it. He was for Lou.
“Yeah,” I agreed and took another big gulp of my drink, hearing the embarrassing way my voice turned husky.
We get it, Frankie, he’s hot. Like you’ve never seen a hot guy before .
Not one who looked at me the way he did.
Not true.
Fine. Not one whose look made me feel…made me ache…the way his did.
“Bea.” I cleared my throat and the internal dialogue from my mind. “Do you know if Lou?—”
The bell above the door clanged like shots fired.
“Frankie.”
I spun and whipped a smile to my face. Speak of my twin. “Hey! What are you doing here? It’s your day off.” And you’re supposed to be giving Mr. Workahottie a tour.
“Can you give us a minute, Bea?” Lou looked past my shoulder at the other girl, who read her tone like I did. It wasn’t a question.
“Sure,” Bea chirped and disappeared.
“What’s up?” I asked casually like I couldn’t tell she was upset with me.
Lou slugged her bag higher on her shoulder and strode over to me. “I shouldn’t be here. I should be prepping for Kit’s next show, but instead, I’m having to give out a tour of Friendship.”
A sound of glee burst from my lips—one that deflated quickly when it was pierced by the daggers in her eyes.
“A tour of Friendship to the man who upped the town’s hotness level by a factor of ten,” I countered, but she didn’t budge. “Seriously, Lou?”
“ Seriously ?” She gaped. “Just because everything is a joke to you doesn’t mean that’s what the rest of us want—or want to be a part of.”
I flinched, feeling an unexpected pain in the center of my chest. Lou never got angry. Annoyed? Sometimes. Frustrated? Rarely. But angry? Never. And to say something like that…
“Wow, Lou. ”
Remorse instantly washed over her features, and she pulled me in for a bear hug. “I’m so sorry, Frankie. I didn’t mean?—”
“It’s okay,” I interrupted and hugged her back, feeling the slight tremor that went through her.“Why are you really upset?” I asked softly, able to read her like she did me. Better than anyone. And there had to be something wounding my sister to the core for her to lash out at me like that.
“There’s another offer for the inn.” The hollowness to her voice was like a knife to my gut.
Three jobs. A seven-day work week. No time to relax. It was all for the old Lamplight Inn. Her dream. And the way that dream had been yo-yo’d in and out of my sister’s grasp was the very definition of cruel.
To believe our family had purchased it only for some insane legal snafu to take it away and put it in the hands of one Mr. Collins— a man who had more wealth and properties and business than was easily fathomable, yet couldn’t bring himself to sell an old, dead inn for a little less profit to the one person who would put her heart and soul into bringing it back to life.
There weren’t many people I harbored ill-will toward, but the CEO of the Collins Corporation was one of the few.If I ever met the cold-hearted capitalist, I wouldn’t shake his hand, I would strangle him. And no, that wasn’t a joke.
Lou deserved for things to come easy—to work out perfectly. Instead, it was my business that came together in the blink of an eye and flourished with every passing year. All the while my perfect sister toiled and toiled and toiled…and fate chose to smile on trouble.
“It’ll be okay, Lou.”
“It’s a cash offer. Ten percent above mine,” she said softly. We had a childhood friend, Adele, who worked for the law firm representing the current owner of the inn; she passed along any information she received about potential buyers, wanting Lou to know what she was up against.
But it wasn’t exactly how we used the information.
“It doesn’t matter.” I set my coffee on the counter and gripped her shoulders, giving her a little shake to look at me. Watery amber eyes met mine. “I’ll handle it,” I promised her.
Natural comparisons existed between twins, but this was the reason I exaggerated my personality: I didn’t want my sister to fade into the background. Something she would easily and probably happily do if no one stopped her.
My earliest memories were of Lou secluding herself to play alone in our room. Meanwhile, I was the one knocking at the door, asking the proverbial, do you want to build a snowman? Time and trial and error proved that the only thing that brought her out of her shell was her desire to protect me. If I wanted to be loud, she’d speak up to temper me. If I wanted to do something reckless, she’d come along to try and stop me.
So, my extroverted nature became outspoken and eccentric because it was the only way to engage her. Because my sister was too good of a person for the world to not know her.
“Not this time. Adele said the buyer—Mr. Fairfax—is some big time developer from the city…”Lou shook her head an d then shook off my hold, quickly wiping all traces of tears away.
“Even city-dwellers know what ghosts are, Lou.”
Yes, the old Lamplight Inn was haunted. At least, that was what every local in Friendship would tell any outsider who was asking.
It wasn’t a lie…but neither was it the whole truth.
“I’ll look into it.” I kept my voice calm, knowing if overthinking were an Olympic sport, Lou would take the gold.
“Frankie, he won’t care?—”
“You don’t know what he will care about,” I interrupted, shooting her a hard stare. “So let me do what I do best.”
“Meddle?” she grumbled, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips.
“Yup.” I swiped my coffee from the counter and took a drink.
The town of Friendship was family. They’d known my mother, Ailene, my grandmother, Gigi, and my uncle, George, since they’d moved here. Supported Mom when she opened Stonebar Farms as a single mom of two teen boys and infant twins. They’d watched us grow, and we grew with them.
And there was not a single person in town who wanted the old inn—an iconic staple on Maine Street—to be sold to anyone other than my sister.
Which is why they would swear until the cows came home that the inn was haunted. And it was.
By me.
“Crap, he’s here.” Lou straightened her spine and rolled her shoulders back. “Do I look okay? Ugh, I’m?—”
“You look perfect,” I said and picked up my coffee. “I know your mind has a million things weighing on it, but maybe an afternoon stroll around town with a hot stranger could be a good thing?” My voice lifted, begging her to agree.
“He’s not for me, Frankie.” She was annoyingly certain.
“You gave him one of your favorite muffins?—”
“ Because it’s my job ,” she insisted with a half-laugh.
Fair. “Well, you only just met him. You should give him a chance because you can’t know?—”
“If I can’t know, then why can’t he be for you?”
“Me?” I rocked back. The notion shouldn’t have the power to make the ground tilt under my feet, but it did. The idea that his stare made me hot and achy was for a reason. That his smile and those firm lips were meant to be mine—no . Absolutely not. Mr. Workahottie wasn’t for me. “No, he’s way too gorgeous and clearly too much of a good guy,” I said cheekily, trying to bring a smile to her face before she walked out of here. “Obviously, whoever is meant for me is going to be one-thousand-percent bad to the bone and wrong for me because that’s how I roll.”
Lou sighed and headed for the door, pausing just before she walked out.“So, then his name means nothing?”
I frowned and felt my brow furrow. “What do you mean?”
She blinked, and a dust of color rose in her cheeks. “Frankie…his name is Chandler.”
What was in a name? Nothing . His name meant nothing. It was just a name like any other. No reason to dwell on it. And more reason than ever to not dream of him. Not how soft his hair might feel. Not how his lips might taste. And definitely not how hard his muscles were.
“Oww—” I hissed and doubled over, clutching my knee that I’d just rammed into the corner of my desk.
Biting back a curse, I limped around and grabbed the first pen in sight from the clear jam jar on my desk that had served as a pen holder for the last three years. Instantly, my eyes focused on the worn label sticking out of the glass. The edges curled slightly, but the blue ink in the center hadn’t faded in the slightest.
Chandler.
Gigi’s squiggly handwriting had never looked so clear. So accusatory.
“Frankie?”
Shit. I fumbled the pen in my fingers, managing to catch it before it fell as my head snapped up, meeting my oldest brother Jamie’s curious stare as he brushed a strand of red hair back from his forehead.
“Yeah?” I croaked and straightened.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” I gave him a pained smile. “Just banged my knee on the desk.” Not false.
“Should I add bumpers to it?” Jamie teased with a chuckle.
He’d made the desk for me almost two years ago now. Jamie was an expert carpenter and craftsman and had his own business making custom furniture from one of the old, restored barns on Mom’s property.
I stuck my tongue out at him and then said, “The last boxes of candles for Max are in the back room.” I pointed over my shoulder to where a curtain covered the doorway into my workspace.
This cabin—the Candle Cabin—was my sanctuary. I’d bought it four years ago with the earnings from selling my candles at the Stonebar Farms store. Mom would’ve let me sell there forever, and I still sold candles there, but I wanted my own space. I might be a lot of things—many of them lighthearted and playful—but not when it came to my business. Not when it came to my candles.
Jamie hesitated, and I was sure he was going to ask something else, but then he strode to the back room, the curtain whooshing behind him and giving me a moment alone.
The front part of the building housed my shop, open for a few hours in the afternoon most days to customers, and the back was my workshop. I spent my morning hours there in peace and solitude, testing and sampling new scents as well as making candles for any larger orders. Like this.
“Is Max okay?” I called to him.
Max was supposed to be the one stopping by to pick up the second batch of five hundred candles today, not Jamie.
While I waited for his answer, I caught sight of the offending label again. Gritting my teeth, I reached for the jar and plucked the slip out of it, yanking open the bottom drawer of my desk where I shoved all the things I didn’t want to think about, dropped it inside, and closed the drawer tight.
I heard my brother grunt and the box shuffle, and then he appeared through the curtain, all of him tense as he strode through my store with the last box of candles that easily weighed about sixty pounds.
A few seconds later, he came back inside, his arms banded over his chest. “Yeah, Max is fine. He said something was going on with his friend, so he asked me to bring these up.”
“Have you talked to Lou?” he called, and then I heard his grunt and the shuffling of the box.
“This morning. Why?” I asked cautiously when he returned and rested the box on my desk.
“Kit told me there was another offer on the table.”
I stilled and then nodded, choosing my next words carefully because if there was anyone who could realize when one of my plans was afoot, it was Jamie Kinkade.
Jamie went beyond older brother material. My and Lou’s dad left Mom when he learned she was pregnant and that he wasn’t going to get any of the Stonebar fortune, and from the moment he walked away, Jamie had stepped up. He’d been a teenager when we were born, so it was hard to say that he had even really been an older brother—or technically a half-brother—even though that was what he was.
Jamie had raised us. Start to finish. The strength of our moral compass. The steadiness of our character. Mom…Mom was incredible. But Jamie…he was both brother and father. Guardian and friend. Between him and Mom—who they called CI-Ailene for a reason—there was no secret that went uncovered.
Well, except for the one time I’d listed Jamie’s cottage on a vacation rental website without him realizing it. I was desperate to find someone for him—to find some happiness for him. And a little reprieve from his overbearing concern for me. Thankfully, that worked out better than I could’ve ever imagined; the woman who’d rented his cabin, Violet, was now his wife.
“Yeah, she mentioned that.” I kept my eyes focused on the sheet of notepaper I’d been doodling on, trying to perfect a scent that had eluded me for weeks.
“Someone who wants to tear it down.”
“Mm-hmm,” I hummed, my heart starting to pick up.
“Frankie…”
“Jamie…” I returned his drawn-out tone.
He came right up to the desk and lowered his voice. “Don’t think I don’t know where the rumors around town are coming from.”
“Rumors?” I stared at him blankly. “You know I’m not one for gossip.”
“Francesca.”
Full name meant full trouble.
“What?” I didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.
“Rumors are one thing, but trespassing is a crime.”
“It absolutely is, and I would never say it wasn’t,” I said staunchly.
Jamie’s nostrils flared. I swore I was the only person in his life who gave those things a workout.
“Why are we talking about trespassing?” And how did my brother seem to know what I might need to do before I’d even decided on a plan?
“In case someone got an idea in their head to make those rumors about the inn seem a little more real.”
“And how could someone make a ghost seem real?” I chuckled like the band around my chest wasn’t tightening.
“I’m serious, Frankie.” His frown deepened. “It’s one thing when it’s us, but these people…Christ, I can’t believe I’m having to say this, but please, promise me you won’t trespass on the inn’s property.”
My mouth opened and shut once, and then he started to growl.
Good grief.
“I promise I won’t ghost anyone,” I said, even as my inner five-year-old crossed one ankle over the other like I could believe that made it okay to tell a lie.
Jamie let out an audible exhale, shaking his head as though he knew I was going to find some way around it—some other way to get what I wanted. When this was all over—when Lou finally had her inn—he’d see that the ends justified my means.
“He’s coming to town, Frankie.”
“Who? The buyer?” I would’ve assumed he was already here by now, which is why I didn’t have a lot of time.
“No. Collins.”
I stilled.
“You don’t get that many zeros attached to your net worth without having an equal number of capable brain cells. And for someone who built an empire selling property, he’s going to recognize pretty quickly that something is off,” Jamie warned with a low voice.
I shifted my weight and muttered, “I make candles, Jamie. Not control the spiritual realm.”
“The only thing worse for Lou than losing the inn will be if something happens to you in the process.”
Wrong, I wanted to shout, but Jamie was as stubborn as the sea was deep. Lou had wandered for so long—been unsure of what she wanted to do with her life for so long. And when she finally found her passion—thinking that she was going to manage the Lamplight Inn—it changed everything. I saw it. I felt it. Call it intuition. Call it instinct. Hell, call it a twin thing. But my sister needed this, and I would happily incur a little risk to make it happen.
I stood unmoving as his heavy footsteps carried him out of my store, but it wasn’t until the door shut that I allowed my shoulders to drop and my chest to exhale.
“Crap,” I muttered and pinched the bridge of my nose.
I needed cinnamon.
I blew through the curtain barrier and went to the far corner where I mixed and tested oils for new fragrances. I opened the glass cabinet on top of the counter, pulling out vial after vial of various scents and feeling a little like the sea witch in The Little Mermaid as I picked and plucked without even needing to read the tags.
Uncapping the bottle of cinnamon oil, I dabbed some on my wrist and then rubbed it on my temples. Focus. Cinnamon helped with concentration, and I was going to need it in spades if I was going to come up with a foolproof plan to put Lou back in the running.
This whole haunted thing started—as most of my plans do—as a joke. After months of legal shenanigans, we got word the inn was going to be listed again for sale. By then, we knew a little more about its rightful owner, the billionaire Mr. Collins. Real estate mogul. Ruthless. A classic cold-hearted capitalist.And Lou felt…hopeless.
She’d never be able to compete with the kinds of offers Collins would get from his circle of investors. Word on the street was his commercial properties were offered privately to a select group of his associates first before they went on the market. Whether that was true or not, the inn made it onto the market, and Lou about had a panic attack.
So, I did what I always do; I promised my sister I’d fix it, and when she said there was nothing I could do, I told her if it came down to it, I would personally haunt the old rundown building to make sure no one wanted to buy it.
Well, it came down to it.
Honestly, it didn’t take much—hadn’t taken much. The first couple of buyers who’d come up to see the property…all I’d had to do was plant a few well-placed rumors about betrayal and death of Revolutionary War spies to send them running.
The last two had been more hands-on. There’d been a pretend séance as they’d arrived to look at the building. Some sneaking around to bang windows, and a few yards of fishing line to make doors slam shut. In my opinion, it was all very amateur, but somehow, it worked.
But this time…if this Mr. Fairfax wanted to tear the building down, who knew if he’d even want to take a look at the property?
If he did, well, I’d just received my first official Jamie warning.
Trespassing was illegal.
I understood that, but the inn was abandoned. Was it really trespassing if no one lived or cared about the property? How many times had he and Kit snuck into the inn on a dare back when they were in school ?
But if he didn’t want to see the building, then I’d have to find some way to talk to him myself—convince him about the ghosts.
Or there was the alternative: confront Mr. Collins.
My heart tripped. I wasn’t usually the one to back down from a challenge or confrontation. I’d been the spokesperson for myself and my sister for our entire lives. I would say something if someone in our class was teasing or bullying Lou for being quiet. I would be the one to call if we needed to make reservations for dinner or a spa day. And I would be the one to stand up to our brothers—mostly Jamie—if they were being too overbearing.
But to go toe to toe with the man standing between Lou and her dream. My stomach tightened. What if I didn’t make it better? What if I couldn’t fix it?
There was no going back once Collins knew who I was.
The wood chime at the entrance to my store dinged at the arrival of a customer, and I jumped in surprise. Crap. My eyes darted to the vial I’d just tipped onto the counter. Cinnamon everywhere. Double crap. I righted the glass as I slid off the stool and called, “Coming!”
Whoever it was didn’t respond. Most likely a new customer, since if it were family or someone from Friendship, they would’ve yelled back to me.
I grabbed a fistful of paper towels, piling them over the oil spill, and quickly mopped it up. There was no saving my hands though; they were covered in the scent, and it would take days to completely wash or wear away.
Oh well. Good thing my cinnamon candle was one of my bestsellers.
Rolling my shoulders back, I tied up all my frustrating thoughts with a wide, welcoming smile, pulled the curtain to the side, and stepped into the front of my store and into full-blown customer service mode.
“Welcome to the Candle Cabin. I’m?—”
“Frankie.”
No.
Shit.
Why was he here?