Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Frankie
Whatever upper hand I’d gained by taunting him disappeared the moment I stepped into the vacant living room. At least, it had been vacant the last time I’d been inside the inn.
While I’d spent the hours between accepting this deal and now by worrying about my family and worrying about being alone with Chandler, he’d clearly spent the afternoon here.
I stared at the massive air mattress inflated in the center of the room, crowned by the stately brick fireplace behind it. It was stacked with blankets and pillows that made me shiver just thinking about how warm it would be underneath them all right now.
Against the wall was a huge case of water bottles, two more battery-operated lanterns, and two flashlights.
My nostrils flared. I’d met him outside thinking I was the one prepared…that this billionaire boor had no idea what he’d signed himself up for when he’d suggested—almost recklessly, it seemed in the moment—to camp out here for a week. It was what he’d wanted me to think.
“Everything okay?” he asked, not bothering to hide the smile on his face.
“Yep.” I popped the word from my mouth, volleying a smile back at him.
“I’m going to the dining room to change. I’ll be right back,” he warned, grabbing a small duffel I only just noticed tucked against the wall.
“Thanks for the warning,” I said low, catching the sounds of a soft chuckle trailing behind him from the room.
It took a second to realize he’d left the lantern for me. How was he going to see? Not my problem. I grabbed the handle and marched toward the other side of the room, firmly staking my gaze to the spot where I was going to put my sleeping bag so it couldn’t wander toward the shuffling shadows in the dining room where Chandler was changing.
I took another sweep of all the comforts and supplies he’d brought. I guess it was too much to hope a man as wealthy as him wouldn’t be able to rough it for a few nights.
My heavy sigh echoed in the empty room. He must’ve opened some windows earlier, too, because the musk wasn’t as thick in here as it was in the hall.
Sliding my bag from my shoulders, I set it down along with the lantern and went to the windows. The glass was so grimy I could barely make out the street lamps through it, but to imagine them clean and sparkling, a candle lit in each one, welcoming weary travelers inside…my chest tightened. This had to work.
I returned to my bag, deciding that putting my sleeping bag on the side of the air mattress closest to the door was my best bet. I would’ve loved to lay it out right inside the entryway, but that would’ve been far too obvious that I was setting myself up to make a break for it once the midnight hours hit.
Even still, I was going to have to enlist Nox again for whatever I came up with. It was the only way to be able to deny any culpability on my part.
I bent to unzip my backpack, tucking my pillow under my arm because I refused to set it on the ground—or worse, the air mattress. Opening the zipper wasn’t an issue, but pulling out the sleeping bag was a problem; it was packed so tight inside, I couldn’t…
“Come on?—”
“Let me.” The low rumble of his voice surprised me—right before my pillow was unceremoniously tugged out from my arm and freeing both my hands.
God, his chivalry was annoying. Why couldn’t he make it easy to hate him? Or at least easier to not want to kiss him?
“It’s going to get colder overnight. You should put your sleeping bag in front of the fireplace.”
My head jerked up from my bag, putting my eyes directly in line with his waist and the muscle I diagnosed as atrophied. Breaking news: It was not atrophied. Not according to Dr. Gray Sweatpants.
Crap.
I quickly straightened all the way, my eyes snapping to his. Hopefully, he saw the red in my cheeks as a sign of frustration and not anything more.
“There’s no fire in the fireplace,” I said on instinct. Always my first mistake.
“There will be when I’m done helping you.”
Of course, there would. Somehow, I managed to antagonize the only billionaire Boy Scout in existence.
Taking my bag from the floor, I marched to the other side of the air mattress and yanked my sleeping bag from its pack, something small flying out and landing on the floor at Chandler’s feet with a thud. Our hands collided as we reached for it at the same time. Maybe I was the only one who felt the heat because I pulled back while he picked up the bottle.
“Fireball?” He arched an eyebrow.
I laughed and shook my head. “That probably belongs to Nox—my cousin.” I carefully swiped the nip from his fingers. “Fireball is his favorite fireside drink.” And he’d probably shoved it in this bag the last time he’d gone camping with my brothers.
“And here I thought you were going to tell me it was a necessary ingredient to summon the ghosts.”
I pretended to examine the amber liquid. “I’m sure it could summon some ghosts,” I drawled, catching his gaze over the top of the cap. “But probably not the ones we’re looking for.”
“You’re looking for,” he corrected, and my smile went flat.
“The ones that are here.” I shoved the tiny bottle into my pocket and went back to unrolling my sleeping bag.
It was almost comical how flat and uncomfortable it looked compared to the plush air mattress inflated next to it. Almost.
“Thank you.” I plucked my pillow out of his hold and set it on the sleeping bag.
While I continued to arrange my things, Chandler made good on his word and unwrapped one of those slow-burning logs. There wasastack of them tucked next to the hearth, mostly in shadow.
“Has the chimney been cleaned?” I asked, hearing him place it in the fireplace, followed by the unmistakable clicks of a lighter.
“A few months ago.” When he was given ownership of the property. “I also had them come and double-check it today.”
“You thought of everything.”
“He who fails to plan, plans to fail. ”
I stilled, the husk in his voice catching my attention and driving a shiver along my spine. It sounded like something Jamie would say—would’ve said to us growing up. Iglanced over my shoulder, taken for a moment by the sight of Chandler crouched only a few feet away, his gaze locked on the small but growing flame.
I couldn’t look away. He appeared so…unguarded. Like the moment I realized his full name, this was like I was seeing the whole of him for the first time.
“Who gave you that nugget of wisdom? Dear old dad?” A faint laugh pushed through my lips.I had an image in my mind: a small Chandler bouncing on his father’s knee, the older man waving a wad of cash, chiding, he who fails to plan… “I’d say he failed to plan when it came to this inn.” It was the ambiguity of the will that gave my family the inn and then took it away again.
“No,” Chandler clipped and stabbed the log with the end of the lighter like it had insulted him. “My father was a selfish, careless prick who failed at nothing so spectacularly as being a father.” The words were harsh and direct and so cold, they might as well have been carved from ice.
Crap. I hadn’t meant to upset him. Not like this. I knew what it was like to have a poor excuse for a father, but I just assumed because Chandler had been given the inn, well, whatever I assumed about their relationship, I’d been wrong. And while I wouldn’t feel bad taking a jab at his atrophied penis, I did feel guilty about this.
“I’m sorry.” I turned and sat on my sleeping bag, pulling my knees to my chest.
The light bounced off the pulse of his jaw. “I’m going out back to piss.”He rose abruptly, grabbed the lantern, and stalked out of the room.
Smooth, Frankie .
I let out a small groan and rested my chin on my knees, watching the flames dance in the shelter of the hearth.
I didn’t know why I said that—no, I did.
I wanted him to be a stereotype. To be easily hated for what he was doing with this inn and how it affected my sister. And part of me did dislike him for that— strongly —but another part of me warmed to him like a flame to a wick, wanting to melt away all his layers until I found the man underneath.
I didn’t hear him return until the groan of the air mattress announced his weight.
“Any séances you want to perform before we go to bed?” he drawled, almost as though our last exchange hadn’t occurred.
“Not tonight.” I turned to slide into my sleeping bag, and my breath caught almost as sharply as the light hooked on the muscles of his back— his bare back.
Frozen in place, one foot under the blanket in my sleeping bag, I watched his long fingers crawl the fabric of his shirt higher up his back until the seam was in his grip and then lifting it completely over his head.
My mouth parted, drinking in the sight.He was gorgeous. Perfectly bronzed and made of muscle. Why did this have to be the one stereotypical thing about him?
I should’ve turned over and gone to sleep—or pretended to. He clearly didn’t want to continue the conversation about his father, and I shouldn’t want to either. I shouldn’t want to know more about him, I shouldn’t want to know what had happened, how it shaped him. I shouldn’t want it for all the same reasons I shouldn’t want to kiss him: because it only spelled trouble.
But trouble was who I was.
“My father was a selfish, careless, gold digger,” I offered to the silence.
Several long seconds passed, and I didn’ t realize I was holding my breath for his reply until the low tenor of his voice reached out and unlocked the air from my lungs.
“My father left when I was six. Left my mom with nothing. Moved away. Started over—started a whole new family while we struggled to make ends meet.” Every statement was like a bullet from a gun, putting lethal holes in the character of the man that Chandler could hardly even refer to as his father.
My throat was tight as I went to swallow. I understood his anger. His bitterness. I understood because it had been my own.
“That’s why you want to sell the inn,” I said softly, seeing more of him as a layer of his persona melted away.
Again, silence chewed through minutes, until I thought for sure he wasn’t going to respond. This conversation was beyond business. It was beyond the inn, beyond ghosts, beyond taunting and flirting. It was beyond dangerous.
“He never should’ve left it to me,” he said like it had been a dagger in his back.
“I’ve only been a Kinkade for nine years,” I confessed in return. “My father met my mom and got her pregnant with Lou and me not long after they started dating. He wanted to marry her, but when she insisted on a prenup to protect her business, he left her—left us.”
“I’m sorry.” His apology sounded like mine—more understanding than sympathy.
“When Lou and I turned eighteen, we changed our name to Kinkade. For Mom and our oldest brother—half-brother, Jamie, who was more like a pseudo-father. Him and my uncle George.” I let out a deep breath. “That was the last—the only tie—we had to him, and it felt good to let it go.”
There was a rustle on top of the mattress, but I didn’t dare look.
“I’m working on escaping all the ties to mine.” The husk of his voice was different this time. Raw, not from anger but from pain.
“Oh?”
Was he talking about the inn? Because that would be easy to escape if he’d just take a little less and accept Lou’s offer.
“My father was also in real estate,” he revealed like he needed to get this off his chest, even if it was to me. “I’m slowly reducing his business to nothing, and then I’m going to buy it. And dismantle it.”
“You mean…”
“Remove all traces of it—of his legacy,” he declared solemnly. “And then I’ll be free of him.”
Even though I wanted to say that didn’t sound like freedom but simple revenge, I held back. It wasn’t my place…and I shouldn’t even think about caring what path his life was headed down after he left Friendship.
“So then, where did your advice come from?” I wondered instead.
Again, the fire crackled into the conversation for a few breaths as though it was the only thing going to respond to me. I worried my lower lip until I couldn’t resist the urge to glance in his direction. Not that it helped; I couldn’t see much except for his arm that must’ve been folded on top of his chest. It rose and fell with the deep movement of his breath.
“My business partner, Tom…he’s been a family friend for a long time.”
“He sounds like a smart man.” I could hear that he cared for this man—that they were close by the emotion in his voice even if he tried to downplay it.
Chandler grunted. “He also doesn’t believe in ghosts.”
I sucked in a breath.“Chandler?—”
“Good night, Frankie,” he doused the conversation, and I didn’t need to look to know that the grunts and grumbles of the air mattress were from him giving me his back.
“Good night,” I murmured and turned toward the fire, welcoming its warmth so I could pretend the heat I felt had nothing to do with the man sleeping on the bed next to me.
But even that was impossible because the first deep breath I took was filled with him—more musk and sandalwood than clove. He’d held my pillow… and he’d let me thinkthe small chivalry was the worst thing about it. Now, there was no escaping him. Not tonight. All because I’d failed to plan.
Tomorrow, I’d do better, I swore as my eyes closed and the scent of him wrapped its fingers around my fantasies and held onto them tight.
Tomorrow, I’d come up with a plan. To haunt the inn. To forget our kiss. To keep my distance. Because in six days, Chandler Collins was going to walk out of my life in one of two ways—me hating him or him hating me. And in neither of those cases was it safe for me to feel anything other than strictly professional toward him.
His perfect muscles and small chivalries and wounded soul were none of my business.