Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Frankie
I was going to kill him.
The inn’s living room was unrecognizable, which was saying a lot considering it was empty until last night. But what was there—all the things Chandler had brought and the few things I’d left—was in disarray.
The air mattress was propped against the wall. Water bottles were laid out in a pentagram on the floor—in the center of them, our three pillows were stacked on top of one another. There was another pentagram streaked on the wall above the fireplace with the ashes from last night’s flame. The sheets from his bed were draped over the windows. And the snacks…
Dammit, Nox.
To be fair, I’d begged him to do this—not this, but something. Something haunt-y. And I would’ve gone into greater detail if Chandler hadn’t shown up at my store and put a swift end to the meeting I’d called and begged my cousin for as soon as I’d left the inn this morning .
“I guess the ghosts aren’t happy we’re here,” I murmured, banding my arms over my chest as I watched Chandler stalk around the room.
Fury shouldn’t look so handsome on a man.
Yes, my cousin had taken my request—my plea—into his own hands, but for the look on Chandler’s face right now, it was worth it.I bit my lip to keep from smiling. Chandler’s head whipped around, the muscle in his jaw ticking as though to count every silenced curse. He didn’t understand—couldn’t fathom that he might be wrong about the ghosts.
Chandler stopped in front of one of the windows, glared at me, and then yanked down one of the sheets covering the glass, the fabric fluttering around him like a fireless flame.
“There are no such things as ghosts,” he said through locked teeth, balling the sheet in his hands.
“Then what happened here?” I extended my arms, moving farther into the room. “Because you’ve babysat me all day.” At that, his stare flicked angrily to me. “So I couldn’t have done this.”
The muscle in his jaw churned because he couldn’t argue the facts; he’d spent the entire day by my side. First, at the Candle Cabin, then we’d grabbed dinner to-go from Beach Dogs, a gourmet hot dog shop a few doors down from the Maine Squeeze. There were better options—better restaurants—that I was sure a man like Chandler would’ve preferred, but the less we were seen together in public, the better; I didn’t want anyone getting any wrong ideas. Especially Gigi. But I’d deal with my grandmother and her silly premonition later.
“There are no such things as ghosts,” he repeated, grabbing the air mattress with one hand, the muscles in his forearm putting on a show as they flexed and pulled taut to drag the bed back flat on the floor.
His sleeves had been rolled up all day, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a sexy silver lining of having the man help me make candles. I tried not to look. To keep my distance—and my anger at him. But it was hard when he was unexpectedly genuine. Even harder when my body responded to him like a wildfire. Every time I got close, thinking I could douse the feeling, more of me was pulled into the burn.
First, our conversation earlier. How many times have I shared the origins of my candle-making? Countless. How many times have I shared the truth about what that candle did for Kit? Next to none.
And then, that kiss. A mistake. Which was why I’d spent the rest of the day interacting with cool civility toward him. Never mind how my lips were still charred from the embrace and my body scorched with ache.
It was a mistake, and one I was happy to pretend never happened.
“I’m going to check the doors,” he declared, snatching a lantern—miraculously one of the few things Nox had left untouched in its original spot.
Chandler flipped the switch to turn the lantern on, mid-stride toward the door, and nothing. No light came out. Off. On. Nothing.
Not untouched.
“What the…” He popped open the bottom, the cavity where the battery should’ve been was obvious even in the quickly-fading daylight. He was nothing if not thorough—both of them, Nox and Chandler—because Chandler checked inside the lantern, too, and found the bulb missing. “Seriously?”
“Don’t look at me.” I huffed and set my bag on the floor. I rifled through itfor a lighter and one of my Cinnamon Swirl candles I’d packed earlier, planning to light it anyway just to clear out a little must from the air .
“I’ll run to the store and get?—”
My laugh made him stop talking. “It’s ten o’clock in Friendship, Mr. Collins. We don’t have Starbucks, let alone stores open past nine,” I informed him as the wick on the candlesmoldered to life, cinnamon light spilling into the room.“Here.” I passed him the candle, pretending my fingers didn’t respond just like the wick when they brushed his.
A grunt was the only gratitude I received as he stalked out of the room.
“Check the windows, too!” I called after him, confident he wouldn’t find the broken latch on the one in the kitchen; it looked like it was locked, and the wood frame was so swollen with age and elements that it felt locked on first tug, requiring several good hefts before the seal gave way and opened. At least, that was how I’d explained it to Nox in the short minutes I’d spoken with him earlier.
Lifting a second candle from my bag, I lit the wick before I even checked the rest of the lanterns by the wall. Nox was definitely thorough.
To the tune of Chandler’s heavy, determined footfalls, I began to deconstruct Nox’s masterpiece. Placing the candle in the center of the room, I collected the pentagram of water bottles and lined them up along the wall, removed the remaining blankets from the windows, returned the air mattress to where it was this morning, and somehow found myself re-making his bed.
I shouldn’t have. I should’ve left it for him because this was blurring an already-blurred line. But I felt a tiny bit bad. For the guy who only cares about selling this place to the highest bidder? Come on, Frankie.
I dropped his pillows in the center—like not putting those in place negated the effort I’d put into restoring the rest of it.
Clutching my own pillow to my chest, I looked for my sleeping bag. The one thing I hadn’t seen yet. I walked the perimeter of the room, but there weren’t many places for it to hide. Picking up the candle, I checked the hall next. The creaky closet. The empty dining room. My head whipped side to side, my steps more frantic as I searched the crevasses of the first floor before I returned to the stairs, somehow bypassing Chandler entirely in my path.
I looked up to the second floor. Come on, Nox. My cousin wasn’t thrilled about my request; the pausing traffic for my faux séance was one thing, but this…he was skeptical. And that was without knowing that I was staying at the inn, too. I could claim I hadn’t had the chance to tell him that part yet, but even if Chandler hadn’t shown up at my shop earlier, I hadn’t planned on telling him.
I claimed I needed plausible deniability, but if Nox had done all this, he would’ve found my sleeping bag and realized the truth. Maybe that was why my sleeping bag was the only thing hidden in Timbuktu…if it was hiding at all.
I took the steps two at a time, my heart thudding heavily when I reached the second floor.
There were no ghosts, but the second floor was still creepy as hell. Dark hallway. All the doors shut.
You’re the one who invented the ghosts, remember? My inner trouble reminded me.
Gritting my teeth, I went to the first door and flung it open. Dust. Dirty windows. No sleeping bag. It was the same with the second room across the hall. The third. The fourth. The fifth. If he took it with him because he realized I was sleeping here too… no, he wouldn’t. The last door stuck in the jam, requiring a little shoulder grease to shove it open.
Empty. “Dammit?—”
“What is it?”
I spun with a gasp, my foot catching on the uneven floorboard that stopped the door from opening smoothly. As quickly as it sent me toppling backward, I was yanked forward into Chandler’s arms—against his chest.
Heat burst through my skin, sinking its teeth deep into my chest and stomach and…lower. Dammit. I squeezed my eyes shut. Why was this happening? Why did I want him like this? Why couldn’t it be anyone else but him?
My heart raced like I’d run a marathon.I should step back. Move away. Run. But I needed a second. Air dumped only the scent of him into my lungs, overtaking everything else like a Trojan Horse let loose in my chest.
“Frankie…” His chest rumbled under my fingertips, and I tilted my head up, following the trail of bronze skin that started at the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, up the thick cords of his neck, along the pulse of his jaw to his full, firm lips, and finally to the dark embers of his stare.
“What are you doing?” I choked out like he was the one at fault when I was the one still clutching his shirt.
“Looking for you.” Dark eyes searched mine. “What are you doing?”
My lips parted. “Looking for my sleeping bag.”
His big body tensed, sending a warm shiver through my own. We both considered the consequences— that there was now only one bed between us.
I stepped back, quickly but carefully this time.
“Did you find it?” he rumbled and moved around me to double-check the room. Or at least pretend like he was—just like I pretended not to see his hand move to his waist and his stance widen as he adjusted his hard-on.
“No. It’s nowhere.”
“Let’s check downstairs again.” He grunted and led the way back down the hall.
“Was everything still locked up? ”
I caught a shadow of displeasure cross his face before he moved ahead of me down the staircase, and my stomach did a small victory flip. “Yeah. Everything was still locked.”
At least part of my plan was working. Back in the living room, I picked up a water bottle and cracked it open, watching him scour the nooks and crannies once more.
“I don’t see it.”
“Well, at least you know now this definitely wasn’t me,” I grumbled and gulped down a mouthful of water.
He set the candle he was holding on the floor and then rose up, his head tipping as he regarded me slowly. “Unless you’re trying to get out of staying here.”
My eyes went wide, and I almost choked on my drink. Maybe that was what Nox was hoping for all along. If he was…he didn’t know me as well as he thought he did. Or maybe he just didn’t know how I felt about Chandler.
“And give you the opportunity to claim I’m responsible for the ghosts?” I scoffed and shook my head. “I’m not going anywhere. I still have my pillow, and the floor is just fine?—”
“You can take the mattress.”
“No.” I shook my head. Absolutely not. “I’ll be fine on the floor. I have my pillow. A blanket. And the fire will be warm?—”
“The firewood is gone, too.”
I was going to murder my cousin. First degree. Premeditated. I was going to wrap his body in my sleeping bag and burn it on top of all the firewood he’d taken.
For a second, I wondered if this was how my brother felt when I’d listed his cottage for rent in a desperate attempt to get him to meet a woman, but then I shoved the thought aside because my pranks were for other people; they weren’t supposed to be self-inflicted .
“I guess they want to freeze us out,” I said, burying my frustration.
“Take the bed, Frankie.” He grabbed my pillow and tossed it on the mattress, the soft sound of its landing was like an invitation for me to join it.
I rolled my lip through my teeth, the temptation to sleep comfortably too strong to protest right away. But I wasn’t a damsel, and I definitely didn’t want to add this to the already too-long list of chivalries he’d achieved against my will.
And that left only one option.
My head snapped in his direction and met his gaze.
“Fine, but you’re taking the bed, too,” I declared. “I’m not going to let you get a bad back from sleeping on the floor and use it as an excuse to get out of this challenge without accepting the ghosts are real.”
It was quite possible that a ghost appearing in that moment would’ve been less shocking to him than the words that had come out of my mouth.
It took him a beat before his jaw worked up enough tension to force the words out.
“You’re suggesting we…share the bed?”
“Are you afraid I’ll come for you in your sleep?” The words tumbled from my lips, thinking they were cloaked in flippant finery when what they really were was naked and suggestive.
Chandler’s nostrils flared, his stare dragging over me like hot coals on my skin, and my nipples hardened to the point of pain. How did this keep happening?
“It’s not a big deal.” I fumbled forward, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. “We’re both adults, and there’s only one bed. It’s not like this is some kind of rom-com or something.” I laughed, but it was the weakest laugh in the history of humor. “We’re in the middle of a haunting.”
He stood so still, I wondered if I had turned him to stone. But then his throat bobbed, and it cracked the tension from his body. “Right,” he clipped with a nod.
We didn’t say much after that, as we went through the motions similar to last night. We took separate candles to separate rooms to change. I was the first one back, so I quickly picked the side of the bed closest to the fireplace, blew out my candle, and slid underneath the covers.
Damn, this thing was comfortable.
I stared up at the ceiling, my heart keeping time with the seconds it took for him to return. I wasn’t going to close my eyes or pretend to sleep—I wasn’t going to give any appearance of wanting to hide from this situation. Because hiding meant I was afraid of it—afraid of what could happen. And I wasn’t.
I was going to walk right through this fire to prove I wouldn’t get burned.
Minutes later, the mattress groaned under the weight of him and all his weapons. His bare, toned chest. His gray sweatpants. His smoldering eyes. I didn’t break from their stare for a single second as he climbed into the bed beside me.
If I was being honest, the mattress felt a whole heck of a lot smaller now that we were both on it compared to when it was empty in the center of the floor.
“You have enough blankets?”
“Plenty.” And by morning, I’d probably hog all of them. Lucky him.
I was glad when he didn’t reply. At least for a few minutes, I was, but then the silence started to feel less like a comfort and more like a chokehold. I was lying in bed next to the singular barrier between Lou and this inn.
We weren’t touching, but that didn’t matter. The flame never touched the wax of a candle, but that didn’t stop it from melting.
“You know you can change your mind. Take Lou’s offer and put an end to all this.” My voice hitched inexplicably at the end.
I practically chewed a hole through my cheek waiting for him to respond, and when he did, it wasn’t with a reply to what I’d said.
“Why did your grandmother know my name?”
Crap.
“She didn’t.”
“She absolutely looked at me and your cousin and said my name like it meant something.”
“Because Chandler means candle maker, and I make candles, and now that my two older brothers are in relationships, I’m next on her chopping block,” I rattled, keeping my eyes locked on a string of cobwebs on the ceiling where the very faint streetlight caught the fragile strand. “If she knew who you were, she’d realize how wrong her thoughts were.”
“So why didn’t you tell her?”
My breath caught. Why hadn’t I? Because I would’ve had to admit to this—being here with him. Except that was a lie—one I’d been content to live with until he asked me to face it.
“Because that would’ve been worse for you, trust me.”
“So, you did something to spare me?”
I hated how I could hear the smile in his voice.“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“That you’d rather let your grandmother matchmake us than explain that we’re enemies?”
I tensed. “Not enemies. Adversaries.”
“There’s a difference?”
Twenty minutes ago, I would’ve said no. But right now, lying next to him, the difference was profound.
“Apparently,” I murmured and turned on my side away from him, thinking the position would form some kind of mental block for all the things I shouldn’t be thinking. Instead, my spine prickled to life from the heat of his proximity, warm electricity stretching to the far reaches of every nerve. Not being able to see him, even in my periphery, made me overanalyze every sensation, anticipating it as touch.
“Because you don’t kiss enemies?”
My mouth went dry, and I fumbled for a reply. “I don’t kiss anyone. What happened earlier was a mistake.” Famous last words. I gave myself a mental eye roll. “All I care about is my candles—my business. Of all people, I think you’d agree that’s most important, Mr. Business Not Pleasure.”
He hummed, the sound creeping through all the cracks in my armor like a bug with a thousand legs.
“I do.” He replied much slower than I’d anticipated. “But maybe you don’t want those muscles to atrophy.”
Air sucked into my lungs, a tangle of heat and want and promise. Yes— no.
A thousand nos.
“Whatever I want, it can’t be with you.”
“Because we’re adversaries?”
Because we’re dangerous. The spark. The heat. The burn. I was rarely afraid of something. To try something. To test something. To tease or toy with someone. I was rarely afraid to put myself at risk because I did it so many times, I thought I’d numbed away the fear.
But I’d never felt at risk like this before. I could be silly or haphazard or even immature at times, but I knew real danger when I felt it. And all I felt when I was close to him—in his arms, locked in his kiss—was how unsafe every single second of that embrace could be.
“Because I’m here for my sister—for this inn.” I huffed, like saying it enough times would make it the whole truth. “Good night, Chandler.”
His silence belied how he didn’t want to end the conversation, but ultimately, he didn’t push.
“Good night, Frankie.”
I hesitated and added, “Good night, ghosts.”
We were adversaries. The match and the wick. If we weren’t careful, it would be the both of us that would burn.