Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Frankie
Like a match to a wick, his voice lit a flame of goose bumps along my spine. I forced myself not to shiver. Not to tremble against the controlled, combustible heat of him as he came to stand beside me. I watched the color of Charlie’s cheeks deepen even in the dim lighting. Of course, they did. How handsome he was was probably the only thing his money couldn’t buy.
I had to turn. Had to greet him. I took a deep breath. Sandalwood. He smelled of sandalwood. And a hint of clove. I shoved the breath out and started to face him—but hesitantly. Lou would be nervous. Uncertain. My shoulder brushed into him, my jacket dampening the sparks. And then I was staring at his broad chest.
“Good evening, Lou.”
He was a liar. A liar and a dreamkiller.
I lifted my gaze and smiled. “Hi.”
Thank God for Lou’s glasses. They were like looking through a low-dose funhouse mirror, distorting his dark eyes, softening his square jaw, and obscuring the rest of his deceptive handsomeness that I’d loathe to admit threw me off guard.
His head tipped, those molten eyes sinking deeper into mine for an instant before they swept over me, and I let mine return the gesture. Sizing up my opponent.
Navy suit and white shirt, all tailored to perfection. He had one hand in his pocket and the top button at his collar undone. As though refined ruthlessness was his own style.
“I can take you to your table.” Charlie’s voice interrupted what could’ve only been a few seconds.
“After you.” Chandler stepped to the side, extending an arm to let me proceed first. Like the gentleman he wasn’t. As I moved past him, I felt the slight prick of heat low on my back. His fingers, I realized too late, were ever so gently guiding me forward. Even through my layers, the touch felt like the lure of a low flame, begging me to move closer, aching for me to let it burn hotter.
No.
My shoulders rolled back, and I walked a little faster, out of his reach, as Charlie led us to the back corner of the steakhouse, the round table suddenly seeming more like a fighting ring. I sank down into one side of the booth and Chandler went to the other. The casual flick of his wrist to unbutton his jacket as he sat did not make my cheeks warm. Absolutely not. It was just hotter back here.
And to prove it, I slid my arms out of my jacket.
Before we had a chance to say anything, our waiter, Marty, introduced himself and offered us water. Chandler took the opportunity to order a bottle of red wine, the name and year meaning nothing to me but clearly something to him—that he pulled the vintage right off the top of his head like a rabbit from a hat.
“Thank you for joining me for dinner,” he said as soon as we were alone. “I don’t get company for meals too often.”
“Oh?” I choked out, not for a single second believing his words. This man had brokered half of Boston and had been given a face Narcissus would be jealous of; there was no chance he ate alone regularly.
Why was he trying to hide who he was?
Before I got another answer—another lie—Marty returned with water and the bottle of wine that he presented to Chandler and then poured him a taste. The exchange would’ve almost seemed a little ridiculous if I wasn’t caught off guard by the way Chandler sniffed the wine first, his eyes shutting and his jaw tensing as the aroma hit him. He looked the same as when he’d smelled my candles—as though it were one of the few, rare times he gave himself a moment to just breathe.
I guessed breathing just wasn’t lucrative enough for Mr. Collins to do it regularly.
I blinked, and Marty had filled both of our glasses. Taking the opportunity to follow his lead, I let a little piece of Frankie slip out as I brought the glass to my nose, swirled the wine, and inhaled.
Rich, but fruity. Was that black cherry? I could make something similar…
I opened my eyes, instantly snagging them with Chandler’s and feeling my cheeks flush.
“I have a few specials for tonight.” Marty linked his hands behind his back and rattled off about their dry-aged cowboy-cut steak and a salmon special.
Lou would’ve picked the fish; she was the surf to my turf.
“Are we ready to order?”
I smiled, the word salmon on the tip of my tongue.
“After you,” Chandler murmured, and his voice put a chink in my charade .
“I’ll have the filet.” I shoved my menu back in Marty’s direction and reached for my wine. As Chandler ordered, I smelled the deep red again and took a sip, sneaking a glance at him over the rim of my glass.
What was his game? His plan? Why invite Lou to dinner if he knew who she was—and what she wanted from him?
“What do you think?” he asked, and I stared, my mind suddenly blank. “Of the wine.” He nodded his chin toward my glass.
“Oh, it’s good,” I rushed to assure him, locking my gaze on my glass as I returned it to the table. “Very good.” I slid my tongue over my lips to get the last of the taste, and I swore I heard a low noise from his side of the table, but when I looked, he was adjusting his napkin on his lap.
“This is a nice spot. A nice ambiance.”
Even though most of the tables were filled, the hum of the conversation was quiet, making it easy to ignore—to forget there was anyone else in the room except us.
“Yeah,” I agreed, and then latched onto the opportunity. “Pete and Carole did a really nice job with the renovation.”
“You know the owners?”
“Of course.” I started to smile wide, but quickly curtailed it with a sip of wine. Lou’s glasses were already making me feel tipsy, but it was the only sure way to not look too long at him. Every time our eyes connected, I felt a spark, and I knew enough about fire to know that too many sparks led to a flame. “Charlotte, the girl who seated us, is their niece. Their daughter, Jenny, works as a waitress here, and her husband is in the kitchen.”
“Oh?” He seemed genuinely surprised—as though the only kind of mom-and-pop restaurant was a hole-in-the-wall tavern or tacky diner.
I pointed across the room to the painting on the wall near the hostess stand. “That’s Carole’s great-great-grandparents. The way she tells it, her great-great-grandmother was the daughter of a farmer, and her great-great-grandfather was the son of a butcher, and that was how they met.”
“Over a love of red meat.”
I nodded, a small smile bursting on my lips that I couldn’t stop. This is why I didn’t pretend to be Lou. “That painting is of their original farm, a few miles outside town. And that one there is of their first restaurant before it burned down.” One by one, I walked him through the artwork on the walls; what came off as fine art to the unknowing eye of a stranger was really a history—a legacy nailed to the very walls. “And there is one of the first paintings of the Friendship Lighthouse. Unsigned, but legend has it that it was painted by John Trumbull.”
“Wow,” he said with a low tone, his gaze rising and sinking from one painting to another, staring like it was more than the paintings he saw.
Because it was more.
“Friendship might look like just one more of those iconic coastal towns dotting the shore, but there’s a lot of history here. Community. Family,” I went on quietly, adding, “Memories.”
He listened and continued to look around, the expression on his face shifting to something I couldn’t immediately decipher. Was it sadness? No, not quite. I bit into my bottom lip. Was it hope? No, it wasn’t that either. Regret? That didn’t even make sense—not for the man trying to sell out and sell off a piece of that community to a condo developer.
“And it’s something that all of us who live here try…and fight…to preserve.”
As soon as I said the word “fight,” his gaze snapped back to mine. I reached for my wine glass—a dangerous crutch in this game—but I didn’t have a choice. When his smoked whiskey eyes settled on me, it was as though he saw right behind the mask. Except there was no mask. It was my face. My sister’s face. We were identical.
Chandler cleared his throat. “Your sister mentioned this place had a history, but I had no idea.”
I stilled. Me. He was talking about me. Was it because he realized who I was? No, that couldn’t be it. He’d known us for a collective couple of hours; there was no possible way for him to think I was…me. In the back of my mind, the little voice in my head said that if Lou and I had attempted switches like this before, I wouldn’t be so nervous about this now.
And I definitely should move on. Change topics. I shouldn’t probe—I shouldn’t risk.
Don’tdoit. Don’tdoit.
“You talked to Frankie?” This wasn’t what I was here to discuss— I wasn’t supposed to be part of this night at all. But Lou would be curious—she would do anything to avoid talking about herself.
Marty returned then with our meals, the table suddenly filled with perfectly cooked steak, asparagus, and three different kinds of potato sides. I couldn’t help as I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, every scent stitching this scene to my memory. And then Marty asked if I’d like my wine glass refilled, and I answered yes before I could think better of it. I’d already had a full glass on a mostly empty stomach.
As soon as he left, I cut into my steak, fearing the conversation he’d interrupted wouldn’t pick up again; it was probably better that way?—
“I stopped by her candle store yesterday to pick up a gift.”
My heart thudded, and it was a miracle I didn’t choke on my food.
“Oh? What did you think?” Lou would ask; Lou would care, I continued to tell myself…and held every ounce of my breath, waiting for his answer.
“Very impressive.” His nod of appreciation—admiration—was genuine.
I exhaled, unable to stop my smile from pulling higher on my cheeks as though it were lifted by the butterflies in my stomach. Chandler Collins, billionaire broker extraordinaire, was impressed by my candle shop. Warmth oozed through me like it stemmed from my very bones, heating my cheeks, my chest, and then lower— no, that had to be the wine.
“Thank you”— shit, that had to be the wine, too— “for her,” I stammered with a quick smile. “She’s worked really hard…since she was sixteen…to bring her candle-making business to life.”
“Wow. Sixteen? She must really love it to sacrifice for a business so young.” His head tipped, a lock of dark-brown hair breaking from its mold ever so slightly and trespassing onto his forehead. “Seems like entrepreneurship runs in your family’s genes.”
I inhaled swiftly, catching on the hook. This was my chance—the perfect opportunity to segue into the conversation I came here, as a pretender, to have. This was not my opportunity to tell him about my candles or my business or the fact that I wanted to create something that smelled like cedarwood, thyme, and a hint of dark cherry like the steakhouse and the wine. No, this wasn’t my opportunity at all, no matter how much I wanted to bask in the heat of his compliments.
I’d never been one for praise. I worked hard. I was certainly proud of what I’d accomplished. But even after all the years of running my business, I still felt a surprising awkwardness when people complimented me. Saying they liked my candles or that the scents were different. Of course, I enjoyed that. But praise for my business—it was like they were trying to fan an already strongly-burning flame. At least, that was how it usually felt. This time, though, his words were like small bursts of accelerant tossed on my inner fire.
But I didn’t want his praise , I reminded myself. I wanted his inn.
“My mom. My brothers. My sister. My cousin…I hope it runs in the genes for me, too…”
“Oh?” One of his brows lifted, belying the fact he already knew.
Hooked.
“I want to run an inn,” I began softly, my brief smile wistful. “The Lamplight Inn…where we ended our walk yesterday.”
“The one that’s rundown?”
Oh, you think you’re good, Mr. Collins, you have no idea.
“Yeah.” I took another sip of my wine. “For a long time, I thought I was the only one in the family who didn’t get the entrepreneurship gene, but then my sister-in-law was going to take over the inn, and it…it was like a match. The idea…the purpose ignited inside me, and planning how to restore it became the only thing I could think about.”
“So, you’d try to restore it?” He swirled the wine in his glass and scrutinized me.
You can do this—you have to do this. For Lou.
“Oh, absolutely,” I gushed. “The center of Friendship—the center of its history—is that inn.” For long minutes, I stitched together for him Lou’s plans for the inn like they were the fabric of my own dreams. What would stay. What would change. What would be better. “It would be so incredible to have that focal point and piece of the past be returned to the town. How many inns can boast registers showing Paul Revere and John Adams and George Washington all stayed there?”
“Really?” He dug into the last of his food.
“It was the only visit George Washington ever made to Maine, and it was for a fishing trip.” Lou loved that part of the story, and “twin thing” or not, I felt her enthusiasm for the tale bubble through me. “There’s so much history at the inn…so much that’s been forgotten as it’s fallen into disrepair. Don’t you think something that has seen so much, something that has lived a life of its own, deserves to have those memories be honored? Brought back to life? Shared with everyone who can appreciate and love them?”
I fought for Lou’s dream because it had been my own—to remember something or someone or someplace exactly as it had been, staking it to memory with the tines of scent.
Somewhere in the restaurant, a champagne bottle opened, and the sound popped the bubble of my thoughts. I quickly looked at Chandler and found him staring at me, something tumultuous in his gaze. Everything else about him might have been crafted to look relaxed—in control—but the pulse of his jaw and the storm of his stare made me think I’d said something wrong. Something that pained him. Angered him.
“Chandler?”
Instantly, the emotion was gone. Dissolved from his face like it had been doused in acid.
He blinked and flashed a tight smile. “Unfortunately, sometimes, those memories are no longer memories but simply ghosts,” he declared and then gave a slight flick of his wrist, calling Marty to the table to ask for the check. My brow creased, wondering what had wounded him— that was what he’d looked like. Wounded.
Who would be upset about preserving history? Or revisiting cherished or important memories? I shouldn’t care—he certainly didn’t. But I did wonder: what could wound a man who had every defense that life and privilege could possibly give?
Marty rushed off, and Chandler reclaimed the conversation before I could reel in my thoughts. “Speaking of ghosts…your sister mentioned the inn was haunted.”
Crap.
My throat bobbed. “Many people do believe that to be the case.”
“Do you?”
I opened my mouth and then snapped it shut again. Lou was too practical to believe in ghosts, but that didn’t matter right now. What was that saying? In for a penny…
“I haven’t personally experienced any of the sightings, but I believe those who have. Thankfully, from what I’ve heard, it doesn’t sound like any of the spirits have any harmful intent.”
“And what if opening it back up makes them angry?”
“Oh, it won’t,” I blurted out a little too confidently as his eyes narrowed. “I think they’re just a little frustrated that their home has been left to decay for so long.” I tacked on a soft smile and laughed at the end like the message wasn’t clear. The sooner I—Lou—took control of the inn, the hauntings would stop.
Marty returned with the check and discreetly took Chandler’s card.
“Thank you for dinner,” I said. Better to steer clear of the ghost conversation. “It was delicious.”
His tipped smile made my stomach do something I’d also later attribute to the wine. “Thank you for the company. And the conversation.”
Heat prickled in my cheeks.
Perfect.
I couldn’t hold back my smile as we strolled out of the restaurant. Whether it was the glasses or the glasses of wine, I took the two small steps outside too quickly and turned my ankle on the landing.
“Shit—” Air whooshed from my chest as I collided with something hard—something I knew instantly was not the ground. It was far too warm and far too…alive.
“Are you okay?”
I tipped my head back, my balance steadying on the twin dark points of his eyes. They were so close. So intense. But my mistake wasn’t looking at him or touching him, it was breathing him in. It was breathing in his spiced sandalwood musk and the dark cherry wine lingering on his breath. Letting it fill my nostrils and infuse straight into my veins. Like his own brand of adrenaline, it made my heart skip and pound and my body ache and ache…and ache.
No…
“Yes,” I murmured, my fingers curling into the lapel of his jacket, and took another breath.
He was… intoxicating. My lungs craved the scent of him rather than oxygen, my head growing light as it sacrificed air in exchange for him. With every breath, I expected him to pull away. I’d told him I was okay. Steady. He could let me go.
But he didn’t.
If anything, his hands on my waist grew tighter. His body swayed closer. His head dipped lower.
My eyes didn’t dip into the depths of his, they dove. Deep beneath his collected veneer and calm aloof. Deep until I reached the source of his heat—and the source of my own.
“Chandler…” What should’ve been a plea to end this instead left my lips in desperation for more.
Scent was the precursor to taste. It prepared our mouths for what was to come, our tongues for what to expect. I’d understood the relationship between those senses for a long time and experienced it for far longer, but this was the first time scent had ever prepared my mouth for the taste of a kiss.
But the taste of him was about the only thing I was prepared for, as his mouth claimed mine with a heavy groan .
Restraint was the difference between the warmth of a candle and the blaze of a wildfire. And this kiss lacked all of it. Chandler hauled me against him, his lips crushing—bruising in their hunger. Maybe I shouldn’t have liked it—the way everything about this blaze signaled instant havoc and destruction—but I more than liked it. I craved more.
This kiss was trouble, and I craved it all.
My arms wound around his neck, my mouth opening to let the warm velvet of his tongue spear deep and tangle with mine. I felt his deep rumble of desire against my chest, my nipples pebbling painfully at the sensation. I’d never felt like this before. This instant, ravenous want. I bowed closer to ease the ache, but it wasn’t enough.
He sucked on my tongue. I bit into his lip. He growled and wrapped one hand around my braids, tugging my head back and giving him deeper access to my mouth.
The kiss consumed me. Every lick. Every stroke. He was the fire, and I was the candle, my entire body melting under the heat of his flame. Dissolving. Disintegrating for a man who thought I was my twin sister. Reality, like a cold, heavy stone, plummeted into my stomach.
I don’t know what would’ve happened if we’d been left like that—how far or how hot the blaze would’ve burned. I do know it would’ve been destructive. It already was.
The door to the restaurant opened, and with it came the boisterous laugh of a woman with her friends.
“Shit,” Chandler muttered and practically shoved me away from him.
Shit was right.
I wiped my mouth like I would wipe the kiss from my memory. Unfortunately, I already knew how impossible that would be. Of course, the best kiss of my life would be with the one man that family and loyalty dictated that I detest .
Dammit, Frankie.
What had I done? I straightened my jacket, then folded my arms, then clasped my hands in front of me. I fidgeted, the electric heat building inside me suddenly having nowhere to go. Crap. Crap. Crap. The women looked between us and giggled as they walked by. The whole time, I bit into my tongue, leashing the wild thing until it was just the two of us again.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Collins, that was?—”
No.
I stopped. My gaze snapped to his. Chandler stilled.
And then our lies crumbled.
His expression hardened. “You know who I am?”
My jaw dropped, my tongue suddenly dead weight in my mouth. “I do.” Think, Frankie. Come up with a story—an explanation. “Were you ever going to tell me the truth? Or were you just going to continue to lead me on, believing you were a gentleman?”
Or just go straight for the jugular.
His eyebrows rose, the barb well-aimed.
“I was,” he began slowly, the sparks in his eyes making me think I should be running for cover. “I was just waiting to see how long you were going to lead me on…believing you were your sister.”
My jaw dropped, and I swayed. No. How— I swallowed the lump in my throat. The only way through this now was to keep on going.
“How did you know?”
He let out a bitter laugh, the question also a confirmation. “The scar on your wrist.”
My gaze dropped to my hand like I didn’t know exactly where the hot wax had left a permanent mark on the inside of my wrist. But the fact that he’d noticed it in my shop—that tiny thing when I’d handed him the ocean candle— dammit. Gritting my teeth, my head snapped back up, sending my vision swimming again.
I yanked off Lou’s glasses and shoved them in my pocket. No reason to keep them on now.
“What can I say, Mr. Collins? I had to look out for my sister.” I folded my arms.
“You think I came here to hurt her?” His incredulous look would’ve been comical—even cute—if I wasn’t so determined to hate him.
“I think you already are—holding her dream hostage and then pretending to swoop in here like some prince?—”
“First off, no one swooped. I stopped in for a cup of coffee, and if I remember correctly, you were the one who insisted she give me a tour of town without getting my full name?—”
“And when you learned her full name, you didn’t think that was the appropriate time to tell her that you were the man standing in the way of her dreams?”
“Do you think it was?” He barreled his arms. “I don’t know your sister that well, but I don’t take her for the type to enjoy confrontation.” Unlike you went unsaid but not unheard.
I opened my mouth and then snapped it shut. He was right about that. Lou would’ve…not taken to the news very well in the moment.
“So, you just invited her to dinner instead?” I volleyed back, taking a step toward him. I didn’t care if he was a good foot taller than me, a solid billion richer, or an entire empire more powerful—I wasn’t going to back down. Not when it felt like so much was at stake.
“I invited her to dinner because I enjoyed learning about the town from her and I wanted to learn more?—”
“About the town or the inn or her? ”
“All of it,” he answered, answering my interrogation without even a single crack in his demeanor.
“Why?”
“Because I have a property here I want to sell. It’s called market research,” he quipped, and I glared at him.
“And here I thought hiding your real identity was called catfishing.”
“Is it, Frankie ?”
Touché.
“If you knew it was me the whole time, why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I wondered why you’d come instead of Lou…and why you were trying to hide it from me.”
But then it hit me…the whole time, he’d known it was me. At the end…minutes ago…he knew.
“And the reason you kissed me?”
His eyes darkened, the spark in them signaling the hunger that had been there before.
“A momentary lapse in judgment.”
The weight of a thousand butterflies fell in my stomach, feeling like nothing and everything at the same time.
“Maybe we should just consider this whole night a lapse in judgment.”
His lips twitched. “I think that’s a good idea.”
I breathed just a fraction easier. As long as it meant he wouldn’t hold this against Lou, I would get over his coldness…and his kiss.
“So, you’ll still consider Lou’s offer?”
His exhale was acerbic. “You’re a business owner, Miss Kinkade. You should understand the importance of making smart business decisions,” he answered, adjusting the sleeve of his jacket.
I pursed my lips, ignoring the twinge of soreness that reminded me of our kiss. “I know that all the good business decisions in the world don’t make you a good person.”
His head snapped up, his gaze fuming. “Your sister’s offer isn’t the most attractive; it’s nothing personal.”
Nothing personal. From the man who’d just devoured me on the sidewalk.
I moved closer, keeping just enough room between us so his scent didn’t overpower my senses again.
“I think you’re overestimating your own attractiveness,” I quipped. Take that, Mr. Not-Personal.
“Oh?” He stepped toward me, and I gritted my teeth when his spiced warmth hit my nose, fueling the ache that still lingered low in my stomach. “And how’s that, Miss Kinkade?”
“Very few people want to buy a haunted property, Mr. Collins. But you’re welcome to do your own…market research.” My smile pulled tight. “My sister’s offer will still be on the table when you’re done.”
I left him standing on the sidewalk, deciding to walk all the way down to the Maine Squeeze before calling Lou to come and get me. I needed distance. I needed to cool off.
I needed to make a mental note of all the mistakes I’d made tonight that I could never make again.
First, pretending to be my twin sister. Second, kissing the stranger who held her future in his grasp. And third… wishing it could happen again.