Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Frankie
“Chandler.” I blinked several times to confirm that he was really standing here. In my candle shop.
My eyes traveled up his height. Was he this tall yesterday? Today, he’d made an effort to dress more relaxed in dark jeans and a white linen button-down, the sleeves rolled up his forearms— his very nice, very veiny forearms— again.
“What are you doing here?” I blurted out in the most ungracious way.
Wow, Frankie. Smooth.
“Sorry.” I shook my head and tucked my arms across my chest. “I thought Lou was giving you a tour today.”She was giving him a tour, and somehow he’d ended up here. If she’d done that on purpose… I inhaled deeply.
“She did, but I didn’t want to monopolize her whole day,” he said, his mouth tipping on one side as he stopped and examined the main display I had set up on a round table just inside the door; it featured a few extras of the seaside scent I’d crafted for Max.
“You definitely could have. She works too much.” My weak laugh cracked when he picked up one of those seaside-scented candles, his hand big enough to almost completely wrap around the jar.
Good grief.
His eyes flicked to mine. “I managed to secure dinner with her, so I figured I’d quit while I was ahead.”
Dinner. They were going to dinner.
I should be thrilled—elated that she’d agreed to spend more time with him. This was exactly what I was hoping for. So then why didn’t it feel like what I wanted?
“Oh, good. I’m sure she recommended a great place, too.”
“Brazos,” he replied.
“Mmm. They have the best steaks.” Brazos Steakhouse was a newer establishment in between Friendship and Stonebar Harbor—and by newer, I meant it opened about fifteen years ago. But that was how it went around here—almost every business had been open for generations, passed down through families.
“That’s what she said.” He looked back at the candle and then glanced around my store. The walls were stacked with shelves Jamie had built for me, and they were all filled with my candles. Scents of every variety and strength, and they changed all the time. That was my favorite part about the Candle Cabin—every week the candles I made changed.
New mixes. New scents. There was always something different to find here, from one day to the next.
“Your sister said you make all of these yourself.”
“I do.” My chin lifted, and my chest swelled with pride. I’d come a long way from making candles in Mom’s basement .
“Very impressive,” he husked, and the sound lit a flame right in the center of me.
No.
Absolutely no.
“So, what sights in our lovely town did my sister take you to see?” I redirected the conversation back to Lou like she was the lighthouse in the middle of whatever revolt of nature was happening inside me.
It was a single compliment. Genuine. Not over the top. Not attached to strings. And still, it made something flutter in my chest that should definitely not be fluttering.
“She showed me the beach first.”
“Of course.” My eyes darted around, searching for anything to focus on except the way Chandler moved lazily around the room. Even compared to Jamie, who was one of the biggest men I’d ever met, this man’s presence invaded the space the way my brother’s never had. I cleared my throat. “The morning is one of the best times to go. Not too crowded.”
“There was no one there. It was…”
“ Peaceful ,” I offered, and he finished at the same time.
His dark eyes caught mine, and I quickly turned away, busying myself with arranging the candles on the nearest display, making sure all the labels were facing forward.
“She pointed out the lighthouse from there. Mentioned your brother lives in it…”
I didn’t trust myself to say anything this time, instead only allowing my head to bob while I shuffled the candles around.
“We walked some path along the coastline for a little while and then wove back to the street a different way.”
“Lou is the expert on Friendship. She knows all the best and most of the secret spots around town.” And that was why that inn needed to be hers. She loved sharing every inch of this town with anyone who came through—loved making people feel like they were at home here.
“Most of the secret spots?” I hadn’t appreciated how nice his brows were until now—until one lifted in my direction, and I made a concerted effort to avoid it.
“What else did you see?” Something tiptoed over my cheeks—almost imperceptible and warm— was I blushing?
“We stopped at the bakery for some blueberry muffins. The chocolate shop. Passed by your brother’s art gallery and finished at the Stonebar Farms store,” he said and picked up another candle—my new honey-orange scent—and uncapped the lid.
“Sounds like you got all the highlights.” I wasn’t blushing—I didn’t blush. I didn’t get embarrassed, because why would I? I loved myself more than I cared what anyone else thought, and I had no problem making mistakes and laughing at myself for them.
There were enough things in life to take seriously.
“It sure felt like it,” he said, bringingthe candle to his nose. His eyes closed and his expression softened, and even though I’d only known this man for the equivalent of maybe an hour—if I was being generous—it was striking to see his face relaxed. Like even here, on a little vacation, he still couldn’t let loose.
“Damn, that smells good.”
My face split with a smile for an instant before I reeled it back. I’d heard the phrase hundreds of times before; there was no reason for my face to react like it was the first.
“Thanks,” I murmured. “It’s a honey-orange scent made with honey from my cousin’s bee farm; she’s really into beekeeping.”
His eyes found mine over the edge as he took another whiff, and I swore I felt the rush of his breath as though it were directly on my skin rather than across the room.
And then I dropped the lid to the candle in my hands. Get a grip, Francesca. I crouched to pick it up, willing my traitorous body to calm down before I got into trouble. I knew trouble— I was trouble— but never like this. Never in a way that affected me the way that being attracted to him did.
“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed your morning with Lou?—”
“There was one place she didn’t tell me much about,” he interrupted with a low voice, clearly intent on whatever he wanted to say.
My heart tripped, and I let out a weak laugh. “Not much to tell about a candle store.”
“Actually, it was the big building in the center of town. An old inn.”
My cheeks were on fire. So much for being able to deny the blush. What would make me think he was talking about my shop? I mentally pulled my foot out of my mouth and exhaled.
“The Lamplight Inn,” I confirmed and started to ramble, as though it would erase the moment when I’d assumed he was talking about me. “It was a landmark in town for decades—even before my family was here—but it’s been abandoned for a little while now, unfortunately.”
“Abandoned? Do you know who owns it?”
“Someone who’s got too much money to care about an old inn that needs some TLC,” I answered without filtering the sentiment or the snark from my tone.
His head tipped, dark eyes swirling. “He sounds like a jerk.”
“I haven’t met him, so I can neither confirm nor deny,” I quipped with a tight smile. “But I can safely say he has no idea what the inn means to this town or the people in it.”
“Oh? How’s that?” That perfect brow arched once more, and it pierced the fog of frustration that led me a little blindly into this conversation.
I shouldn’t be talking about this. Chandler was a stranger—a visitor—and that meant he needed to hear the same story anyone else who came into town did.
“Well, for starters, the inn is haunted.”
The energy in the room—and the energy around him— changed. Sharpened. His eyes narrowed suspiciously at me. Nothing surprising considering what I’d just said. It was usually disbelief I faced first, but by now, I had my story pretty much down pat.
“Haunted?” His voice, formerly the perfect blend of strength and steadiness, faltered.
“Yup.” The p popped before I could stop it. “Legend has it several of George Washington’s spies used the inn as a meeting point before venturing down to Boston and even further to New York,” I said blithely as I returned to the display at the front of my shop, arranging the candles like they needed arranging. “They even say that Paul Revere stayed here before his infamous ride.”
The thread of my story frayed as he moved toward me.“Spies?”
I swallowed over the lump in my throat, fighting to keep the fabric of my tale unblemished from uncertainty.
“Informants, really, who passed information to the Culper Ring,” I barreled on, fishing for the facts I’d preserved from that one spy show Nox convinced us to watch a few years ago. “They relayed information about the counterfeit Continental currency plot as well as evidence of Benedict Arnold’s betrayal.”
“Hmm…the wolf in sheep’s clothing.” He folded his arms over his chest, and I couldn’t tell which part of him it made lo ok larger—his shoulders that stretched the seams of his shirt or his arms that appeared to have grown more muscle.
What I could tell was that he was closer—too close. When had he gotten so close?
“Yes.” I nodded uncontrollably. “Unfortunately, several of them were caught right here in Friendship—at the Lamplight Inn—by a particularly vile British soldier, Captain Simcoe, and were killed.”
“Simcoe?”
You know, I probably should’ve double-checked to make sure he was a real character.
“They say while the inn was still running, the ghosts took comfort in the gossip of the guests,” I continued, ignoring his question and hoping he didn’t decide to fact-check it later. “But since it closed, they’ve done nothing but haunt the grounds.”
“Interesting…” And he sounded far too interested. Great. The last thing I needed was some gorgeous ghostbuster gallivanting around the inn that I was fake-haunting.
“You said you’re visiting family near here?” I veered sharply into a different topic and grabbed a candle from the display. “If they don’t live right by the ocean, I’d recommend this for a host gift.” I shoved the beach-scented candle awkwardly toward his face without shame. “It’s been so popular for summer?—”
“Wait,” he ordered, and I froze. His dark eyes weren’t so dark anymore, but they were sparkling with bright bits of electric light. “What’s that smell?”
Could he smell it through the lid? That would be impressive.
“It’s a limited-edition seaside scent I made for my other cousin—” I broke off when a very large—very warm—hand clasped around my wrist. Shackled it, really, since his fingers locked easily around the entire thing.
“No,” he rasped. “This.” He pulled my wrist up to his face and took a deep breath.
Oh god. My inhale tangled deep in my chest, inextricably knotting itself to the inside of my lungs.
“It’s…” His rough voice trailed off into a groan that moved over me like hot coals, charring heat wherever it touched. His eyes roamed my skin, his thumb brushing over the small scar at the base of my palm where I’d burned myself with hot wax a few years ago.
My lips parted, losing all thought and sense between them. A little more bend to my fingers or a slight sway of his head and his mouth would touch my skin. Those perfect lips and bright teeth. I wondered what it would feel like if he decided to bite my finger. Or my palm. I wondered if the heat of him would burn me, too.
The idea of him making a mess of my skin sent heat pooling between my legs. But that was nothing compared to the thought that came after. A man like Chandler didn’t leave things a mess. He struggled to unbutton his shirt and roll his sleeves. No, whatever mess he made with his teeth, he’d surely clean up with his tongue.
Jesus, Francesca, you’re losing your mind.
One touch and I was tangled in a web I’d neither made nor saw coming, and I was as surely trapped to the moment as if the whole of me were held down in chains.
But it was all because of the sight of him.
The slight crease of his brow. The hard knot at the corner of his jaw. Like he hungered for something he couldn’t understand or deny. Something too feral for his immaculately refined life.
I knew the power of smell. The way a scent could transport someone…or transform them. The way it coaxed and co mforted, lingered and lured…scent was the most effective spy. It snuck into the brain under the cover of aroma but had tied to it all the details to encode a memory or a moment for eternity.
Like this one.
Though every second that passed and every press of his touch went beyond encoded to something that felt like it had been carved straight into my bones.
“Chandler…”
His eyes flung open, and there was no mistaking the anger that flared in them or the way he abruptly released me.
“That scent. What is it?” His demand cut through the warm fog blanketing my body.
“Cinnamon,” I said quickly, linking my hands in front of me. “I was working with it in the back…” And now, I was afraid I’d never be able to work with it again.
Not after this.
“Right.” He cleared his throat and took a step back, his eyes darting for the nearest exit. “I should get going.”
“Yeah,” I agreed lamely, losing the mental capacity to fabricate some acceptable explanation for why he had to go.
“I’ll just take—” He lifted the candle I’d handed to him. “This.”
“Of course.” I jerked my chin in a nod and beelined for my desk, tapping furiously on the iPad stationed there to ring him up. “Anything else I can get you?”
I did not get embarrassed, I had to remind myself as I replayed the question I’d just asked over again in my mind, confirming with perfect clarity the huskiness in my voice.
“That’s it.” His tone was hard.
“Great.” I tapped on the screen, hoping I selected the right option before I flipped it toward him to pay. “Well, I hope you enjoy your date— dinner with Lou tonight. ”
“Thank you.” He tapped his card to pay and then shoved it back into his pocket.
“Do you want me to wrap?—”
“No. It’s fine.” He tucked it under his arm and stepped back.
“Okay, well, thank you.” I clung to my smile like it was a life raft in the middle of a sea of awkwardness. “Enjoy dinner with my sister.”
While I spend the rest of the night fantasizing about how you smelled my wrist .
“I will,” he said, and his tight smile didn’t reach his eyes.
I shouldn’t have watched his ass as he left, but at this point, what the hell? No surprise that it looked just as good as the rest of him.
“Dammit, Gigi,” I muttered, cursing my grandmother and her stupid premonitions.
Chandler. She’d written that name— word— on a label five years ago, and I’d proudly shown it off as proof that my new business was meant to be.
A chandler was a candlemaker, after all.
By chance, I caught sight of the receipt still hanging out of the machine. Crap. I ripped it off and rushed toward the door.
I could give it to him another time—or give it to Lou. But I didn’t want either of those things. I just wanted to see him again for another minute—wanted to feel that heat again for just a few more seconds.
But he was gone. My shoulders slumped as I scanned up and down the street, no sign of Chandler in either direction.
I couldn’t say what drove me—couldn’t pinpoint what invisible force it was that brought my gaze down to the paper in my hand. Maybe it was fate. She certainly seemed to be enjoying the tangled trap she’d set for me .
But tangled wasn’t enough.Apparently, she wanted that trap to be torturous.
My heartbeat slowed—slogged against my chest like it pumped through quicksand as my focus narrowed to the bottom of the receipt. To the bold, sharp strokes of his signature along the dotted line.
And then lower.
To the printed name of the card owner below that line.
Chandler Collins.
Jamie’s voice echoed distantly in my mind. “ He’s in town, Frankie.”
Mr. Collins.
My inhale felt like a hot blade burying itself in the center of my chest.
Chandler was the owner of the inn. He was the man who was trying to sell it to people who didn’t care about its history and didn’t want anything to do with my sister’s offer.
He was the cold-hearted capitalist trying to destroy Lou’s dream.
And I was the one who’d blindly pushed her into the lion’s den.
I had to fix this.
Fate was a troublemaker…but so was I.