Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Chandler
The band around my chest ratcheted tighter with every breath. She shouldn’t be here, but if she hadn’t been…my exhale hissed through my lips. Fuck.
“How long has your mom lived here?” Frankie asked, jarring me from the spiral of my thoughts. Her eyes followed the building as it disappeared in her side mirror.
I hesitated, but not out of embarrassment. There were only a handful of people who knew about Mom’s condition—people who cared about her. People I trusted. I wouldn’t risk someone trying to take advantage of her because of who I was—because of how much I was worth. And somehow, Frankie— my adversary— was about to become one of those people.
Because I’d brought her here with me.
“Five years,” I rasped, the trees becoming a blur on either side of the road as I drove us back toward town.
Somehow, it was the afternoon already. The sky was void of color. The passing scenery was void of detail. My chest…was void of everything—pain and guilt and regret. Everything was hollow except the woman sitting next to me.
Frankie was full.Full of color from her cheeks to her clothes—a yellow tee and a pair of orange patterned pants that flowed so loose, when she stood still, it looked like she had on a skirt.She was full of courage. To step in where my fear had locked her out. To put herself in the middle of everything to try and help. To expose her own feelings when Mom…
“Is it dementia or…”
“Alzheimer’s.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spoken the diagnosis out loud to anyone other than Tom or Mom’s care team. “The last year and a half has gotten worse, especially with her recent memory. She gets more forgetful. More irritable.” My jaw clenched. “They would’ve sedated her if…”
“You hadn’t come.”
My heart slammed against my chest. “No,” I admitted hoarsely. “If you hadn’t.”
The truth fisted around my throat. When Cathy called earlier and told me Mom was hysterical, I ordered them not to sedate her unless they truly felt she was at risk of harming herself. I said I’d be there—that I would calm her. And then I’d hung up, and instead of just leaving, I’d gone back into the candle shop for Frankie.
Why? Because I didn’t trust her out of my sight? Bullshit.
Sure, I’d aimed to spend every minute with her because I damn well knew the inn wasn’t haunted. I wanted to prove I was right. And I wanted to see how resourceful she’d be to do the same. But that rationale—that excuse—it disappeared days ago. It disappeared the second she told me why she started making candles in the first place.
And that was the reason I’d gone back—the reason I brought her with me.
Because underneath it all—underneath the woman who pretended to be her sister, who faked a séance on the sidewalk, and who slept next to a stranger every night—Francesca Kinkade was a woman who would do anything for her family. And maybe I was hoping she would do the same for mine.
“I’m sorry for telling her about our date…and after. I was just trying to distract her.”
Mom wasn’t the only one distracted by the story. Frankie could’ve told her anything—real, fake, it wouldn’t have mattered; Mom would’ve been enrapt by whatever it was. But Frankie chose to tell her about us. About our first fake date…and that kiss. And the way she described it wasn’t a lie. Not the pink in her cheeks or the flutter of her pulse against the side of her neck.
“Don’t apologize,” I ordered, a little more gruff than intended. “Please. I can’t thank you enough.” I parked in front of her shop and killed the engine; the closed sign hanging askew on the door reminded me that she was off for the rest of the day. “Do you want me to drop you off somewhere else?”
Her head angled, and my hand on the wheel tightened as her brow creased.
“You’re…dropping me off?”
“Yeah.”
For what she’d just done for me—for Mom—the least I could do was leave her in peace. At least until tonight. She’d already helped me in a way she hadn’t needed to, a way I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to repay. For the first time in a long time, I worried about what this would cost me. I worried about the price I would pay for needing Frankie Kinkade.
“What are you going to do?”
I had no idea. I couldn’t go back to Edgewood; there was nothing more I could do there except stand around like a poster boy for pity. I should call Tom. Update him, even though Cathy probably already had. But to update him meant I had to explain Frankie…and I didn’t have words to explain her right now.
Gorgeous. Defiant. Clever. Loyal. Generous. Persistent.
Okay, maybe I had plenty of words to describe her, but none to explain what she was doing to me.
“Work.” My default. My shelter.
“Are you sure?—”
“Just go, Frankie.” My voice cracked.
She’d done enough. Too much. And if she stayed, she’d do more. Give more. And I wouldn’t be strong enough to resist her.
“Okay.” She opened the door and got out.
My head turned, following the sway of her hips toward her shop. That was too easy. My frown deepened, expecting her to turn around at any second and insist—demand something. To ask something. To say anything. But then she unlocked her shop and disappeared inside, and the weight on my chest that I’d hoped would lift only intensified.
“Dammit,” I muttered and pounded my palm on the steering wheel.
What was I thinking, wanting her to stay? Wanting her to fight for me? Christ. She’d already saved Mom today, who the hell was I to need saving, too?
I punched the start button, my hand landing on the shifter just as the dash beeped an alert.
Key not detected.
“What the…” My head whipped around, checking my pockets. I had it when we left Edgewood—obviously—or we wouldn’t have made it back. My hand stilled, my fingers feeling in the cupholder where I remembered putting the keys, and then I slowly lifted my head, my gaze zeroing in on the door to the Candle Cabin .
Frankie.
My breath whooshed out. I should be angry, not relieved. I shouldn’t be laughing that she’d stolen my damn keys so I couldn’t leave. But I was. My insides felt like a tangled-up mess of emotions, and she managed to make me smile. Without even fucking being here.
I got out of my car and closed the door loudly, knowing she was listening. Waiting. Knowing I wasn’t going to get far.
I tried the knob first. Of course, she locked it. I reeled in the smile that wanted to break free and rapped on the glass pane in the door. It opened almost instantly.
“Oh, you’re still here,” she said, blinking up at me.
God, I wanted to fuck that look of feigned innocence off her face. I wanted to the first time I saw it—standing on the damn sidewalk next to her fake séance. That was why I’d thrown down the challenge.
“Hard to go anywhere without car keys.”
Her lashes fluttered again. “You don’t have your car keys?”
“You know I don’t.”
She pressed her hand to her chest, incredulity masking everything but the dance in her eyes. “You think I have your keys?”
My head cocked. “I know you do.”
The door swung wide. “You’re welcome to come in and look for them.”
I stepped inside, my arm brushing hers as she closed the door behind me.
“Frankie…”
“While you’re here, let me clean your face.” She strolled ahead of me like there was no chance I’d protest.
Moving wordlessly through her shop, I felt the edge of my brow, wincing as my fingers brushed the slight swelling around the cut. Damn. I’d forgotten about that .
In the back, Frankie tugged out a stool from underneath the counter; it was the one she always sat on to review her orders. It was a simple wood piece that looked damn uncomfortable until I sat in it myself. The way the seat was carved forced my back straight.
“Jamie made it for me,” she said, seeing me examining her chair. “He made all the shelves and furniture in here; he’s incredible.”
I slowly admired the craftsmanship of the work, my gaze sliding around the room until it landed on Frankie’s ass. I stiffened. My cock stiffened. Hell, everything but my restraint stiffened.
She was bent under the sink, practically crawling completely inside the cupboard, leaving her ass up in the air. Christ. Wasn’t it bad enough I had to feel those curves pressed warm and soft against me every night?
She made a sound of triumph and appeared with a smile on her face and a first-aid kit in her hand.
I cleared my throat and banded my arms over my chest, hoping she didn’t look too long south of my waist.
“Doesn’t seem like a great place for a first-aid kit.”
“Says the first person I’ve had to use it for,” she returned smartly, opening up the box and pulling out what she needed. She went to the sink next and wet a cloth with warm water.
“I’m going to wipe off the dried blood first and make sure there’s no glass in there,” she said and came to stand in front of me. Cinnamon burned into my nostrils, pulling my jaw tighter.
I winced at the first brush of her hand. Not because it hurt, but because it was her.
“I’m sorry.” She dabbed gently, andher teeth clamped into her bottom lip.
“Don’t…” I closed my eyes, unable to look at her—to know she was damn close and so fucking kissable .
Nothing existed outside the warm drag of the cloth over my skin. The uneven catch of her breath. The heat making the air between us buzz with electricity. It wasn’t painful; it was torture. So, I kept my arms tight over my front, afraid if I loosened them an inch, the first thing they’d do was reach for her.
“It’s a good gash you’ve got here,” she murmured, attempting to add some lightness to her tone.
“Will I survive?”
She hummed, pretending to consider her answer. “Too soon to tell.”
I let out a weak laugh.She wasn’t wrong about that.
“If I don’t, maybe I’ll join the inn ghosts.”
She stilled for a split second. “You’d have to expire there for that to happen.”
My chest rumbled. “I didn’t realize there were rules to haunting.”
“Oh, many,” she replied matter-of-factly, pulling the cloth away.
I opened my eyes, instantly finding hers. “So, if I expire here, then I guess I’d be stuck haunting you.”
Her mouth parted, and I bit into my tongue to hold back a grunt of pain. My cock was so fucking hard, if skin had seams, mine would’ve split by now.
“You already do,” she murmured, and the husk in her voice, the look in her eyes…she wasn’t talking about the way I hovered around her all week.
My gaze dropped to her lips, and the hold I had on myself started to loosen. My fingers uncurled. The fire in my chest burned hotter.
“Frankie…”
Her head jerked to the side, and she plopped the cloth onto the counter, reaching for the alcohol wipe next.“I don’t think there’s any glass in the cut. ”
My throat tightened. “Good.”
“I’m going to clean it with some alcohol and then put some tape over it for the night.” She ripped open the packet and looked at me again with a warning. “This is going to sting.”
I breathed out slowly, making sure I still had her eyes when I replied, “Maybe I enjoy the burn.”
I’d never not enjoy surprising her. Ever. Her jaw went slack, her cheeks dusting a color of pink that made me want to heat the rest of her body to match. I imagined pouring hot cinnamon wax all over her tits to see if she’d enjoy the burn, too.
She didn’t say anything, just pressed the pad to my forehead with more force than intended, the way she instantly let off the pressure.
“Sorry.”
My breath hissed out, the alcohol disinfecting the exposed flesh. I no longer cared about the wound. Hell, I wasn’t sure I ever had. I only cared about her. Her closeness. Her softness. Her warmth. I wanted to pull her to me—step right into her fucking flame and let it burn through me. Burn down the wall. Burn down the work. Burn down all the barriers I’d built to convince myself I was only made for business and let myself feel. Pain. Pleasure. Want. Hunger. I wanted to feel it all. Just once.
And then a burst of cool air rushed over the cut. My eyes snapped open, stunned by the sight of Frankie fucking blowing on my damn wound like I was a little kid. Her full lips puckered, and my cock started to weep. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t do anything but watch this woman work her magic on me—healing me as surely as she destroyed me.
“What are you doing to me?” I growled low.
Frankie opened her eyes. There was no time—no way to hide how I watched her or how I wanted her .
She drew back, the color in her cheeks spreading to her neck. “I just want to put a little tape over it so you don’t get too big of a scar.”
I tried to steady my breathing and curb my lust. I’d done it for how long, why was I failing now? Why was it because of her? The stolen kisses were one thing, but to want more…I couldn’t. If I fucked her, I couldn’t sell the inn to her family; I could be cold. Ruthless. Callous. But I couldn’t do that. How would it look? How would it make her feel? How the hell would I walk away?
“Worried it will make me less handsome?”
“Maybe it will make you just the right amount of charming,” she teased, tearing a few small strips and sticking them to the back of her hand.
I wanted the answer to the question that had come next—the one where Mom asked about our kiss and Frankie had gotten out of answering, but I didn’t get the chance.
“What kind of butterfly was in that frame?” she asked quietly as she reached for my face again.
“A monarch.” I forced my breath to stay steady again when she touched me. “They’re her favorite. Tom brings them for her.”
“That’s sweet of him.”
I tensed. I’d never thought of it like that. Of him—of them. No. I shoved the idea to the side along with the hundreds of memories that now suddenly begged to be revisited.
“It was the newest one in her collection, and she couldn’t find it. That was what…set her off,” I said low, closing my eyes as she put small pieces of tape over my wound and picturing Mom’s frantic face. “It was my fault because I’d stuck it in a drawer last week where she’d put all her other picture frames, and she didn’t know.”
Mom was so upset. Hysterical. The nurse was trying to calm her, but it was only making it worse. She was frantic and unsteady, stumbling and banging into furniture to look for the frame and to avoid her nurse.
“As soon as I realized, I got it and gave it to her; I thought it would fix everything.” I was a fool.
“She didn’t remember you.”
My jaw pulsed against her palm, a Morse code of my misery. “No,” I croaked. Mom immediately thought I was Geoff. “She accused me of trying to take the picture—steal it.” Steal her happiness were the words she’d used. “I reached for her. I don’t know…I thought maybe if she looked right at me, I could make her see me. And when I did that…”
“She walloped you with it.”
“Walloped?”
“Do you have a better word for it?” Her eyes flicked to mine.
I grunted.
After a beat of silence, she spoke again. “Does she always think you…”
My jaw flexed. “Are my father?”
“Yeah.”
“Not always,” I said, suddenly finding it hard to get the words out. “Some days, she thinks I’m a younger version of myself. Still in college. On her bad days, I’m my father.” Something broke inside my chest, and the weight resting on it carried out on my heavy exhale. “Or maybe I’m the reason for her bad days because I remind her of him.”
I could claim it was work that kept me from visiting or even the pain of being mistaken for my father, but this was the truth. What if seeing me worsened her condition? What if the way it upset her—made her angry—made everything worse? After today, what the hell was I supposed to think? She almost had to be sedated, and it was because of me—because of seeing me.
“I don’t think that’s how it works.” Frankie lifted her chin as she said it like she was a damn expert on the subject.
“How do you know?”
“Because of the way she talked about you and the way she looked when she did it,” Frankie said, and the way she looked at me… “For so long, we tried to bring my brother, Kit, out of his darkness in ways that made sense to us. We’d do the same things we used to. We’d have the same meals. Watch the same movies. Visit the same places. We thought reminding him of all the good in his life before would help him.”
“But it made it worse.” Because that was how it fucking felt every time Mom looked at me and saw him. The man who hurt her. Used her. Left her. Abandoned us.
“No,” she said with a little sigh. “It was like we were trying to open a locked door with the wrong key. We didn’t make the door more… locked; we didn’t make it worse. We just didn’t have the right way to reach him. But it didn’t change that we were there, waiting on the other side of the door for him to come through it.”
“And if she never comes through it again?” I rasped, bitterness leaching into my tone from where it welled inside me. “Wouldn’t it be better for me to stay away? To never see her, so she’s never reminded of him? To not risk causing her pain?”
Her breath caught as though my pain had reached out and grabbed her by the throat. The color of her eyes darkened, but they also flickered with light. Twin flames that burned with emotion.
“How do you think she would feel on the days she does remember? On the days she is lucid and wonders where her son is? Why he doesn’t see her? What if she does peek through that door just a little bit? ”
In an instant, all that bitterness transformed into something else. Something stronger but lighter. Something that filled my chest and fluttered, the cocooned bitterness transforming into something completely different.
“There’s going to come a time when she has no memory, only moments,” she continued, her voice turning breathless. “After that, a time when you will have no more moments, only memories…but only if you decide to keep making them.”
The words landed like a pin in the cogs of time, stopping everything with the simplest, subtlest suggestion. To be there. To be present. My gaze caught like kindling in her stare. My pulse thumped heavily on the side of my neck up to where her palm rested on my cheek.
She was right. What she said was right. How she felt was right. But it was more than all of that; it was everything about her that was right…for me.
And there was going to come a time when I would have no more moments with her if I didn’t do something about it now.
I cupped her face, the touch like a lever that parted her mouth. my thumb skimming the soft skin of her cheek.“Because a light isn’t the only way out of the darkness.”
Her breath hitched, her full lips parting like an invitation. “Exactly.”
I wanted to kiss her again. Hell, I wanted to kiss her at every moment, and I wasn’t going to waste any more of them.
My head dipped, a growl reaching from my chest—reaching for her. And then a boom of thunder reverberated so loudly it shook the entire cabin. Jars clanked and rattled. And it was only her quick lunge that stopped a precariously stacked beaker from toppling off the counter.
“Crap.” She steadied it and said softly, “We should get going. If we leave now, we can probably pick up food and make it back to the inn before the rain hits. ”
“Okay.”
Our eyes met. There was a powerful storm brewing. And it had nothing to do with thunder or rain or lightning and everything to do with my little candlemaker and the fire she’d started inside me.