Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chandler

I bent over the sink and splashed water on my face, hoping it would wash some of the raggedness from my expression.

I’d fucked everything up. I knew that. I knew I was returning to scorched earth—whatever had started to grow between us was charred by how I’d left. But I was here to make it right. To take the risk.

I’d expected Frankie’s anger. Her barbed words and firm resistance. And I’d gotten them that first day. But after…I hadn’t expected her avoidance. Her silence. Her utter lack of curiosity. I’d banked on Frankie’s eagerness for answers. The bold lengths she went to outsmart and be on top of every situation was the first thing I’d learned about her that morning at the Maine Squeeze. I’d counted on her to at least want to know why I’d up and left, even if she still wanted to punish me for it.

But she didn’t. She ran from the conversation like it was a loaded gun, and I couldn’t fucking understand why.

I grabbed my phone and tapped on Tom’s name .

“Hello?” he answered after two rings.

“How is she?”

“Fine. Good. Doctor checked her again last night and said she’s in the clear.”

I let out an unsteady breath. Lately, all my breaths seemed unsteady. Like they were just waiting for the next thing to catch them off guard.

“Good.” At least one thing was going in the right direction.

“How are things going with Frankie?”

I wiped a towel over my face and grunted. “They aren’t.”

“Still won’t talk to you?”

I frowned. “No.” If it were easy, it wouldn’t be Frankie.

He made a noise.

“Are you laughing?”

“No.” He paused. “Maybe a little—oh, hold on.” There was a rustle, and then I heard his muffled voice say to someone else, “I’m laughing because Chandler has found someone who’s just as stubborn as he is.”

My shoulders sagged.

The line rustled again. “Your mom wanted to know why I was laughing.”

“Great.”

“She wants to see you, Chandler,” he said, his voice lower so she wouldn’t hear.

I hadn’t seen Mom since we’d brought her back to Edgewood a week and a half ago—a whole four weeks after my conversation with Tom at the hospital. After what happened, I couldn’t help but think it was my fault she’d ended up in the hospital in the first place. I was the one who’d made her so upset the day before. I was the one who caused the first domino to fall. And now that she was finally healed and home…I couldn’t live with myself if I was the one to make things worse again .

“Maybe,” I croaked. “Maybe after I talk to Frankie…if I ever talk to her.”

For a week, I’d showed up at the Candle Cabin with a blueberry scone and a coffee from the Maine Squeeze the way I knew she liked it. Every day, I walked in the front door, and she walked to the back. So, I left the breakfast on her desk with scribbled notes on the napkin.

I’m not leaving, Frankie.

Please talk to me.

I’m not going anywhere.

At first, I thought it was a good sign that it was gone the following day until I stuck around on Wednesday to see if she’d break down and talk to me and instead watched her take the coffee cup to the back, only to hear liquid down the drain a minute later.

“What would Frankie do?” Tom asked.

I gritted my teeth. If our roles were reversed, who the hell knew what she would do. Kidnap me and tie me to a chair and force me to listen to her. Get her brother or her cousin or some other conspirator to drive her around behind me with a megaphone so there was no ignoring her. Fly a plane and write her confession in smoke signals in the sky.

“She wouldn’t play fair.”

“So then don’t play fair back.”

Maybe that was the answer. She would do whatever it took, and maybe it was time I did, too.

“And if she calls the police on me?” I wondered, only partially teasing.

Tom chuckled again. “I guess it’s a good thing you have me to bail you out.”

I stood at the gate in front of the inn—the rust removed and the iron repainted since the last time I’d walked through it three months ago.If I was going to get through to Frankie, I wasn’t going to do it alone, and the one person—the first person I knew I needed on my side—was Lou.

I looked up at the fa?ade of the building, already so much of it having changed—improved from before. Even the heavy bronze sign, the Lamplight Inn, embossed into the metal, heralded the historic weight of the landmark to the community.

I’d long resigned myself to the fact that I’d decided to sell Lou the inn from the moment Frankie had impersonated her on our date…and we’d kissed. I was used to all kinds of bribes and bets and blackmail to make business deals happen, but I’d never had someone fight for something quite the way she had. And it sold me—unknowingly at the time—on them. On her.

I stepped onto the property, noting the clean-cut grass cleared of sunset-soaked leaves that had just started to fall from the trees. The steps didn’t creak when I approached the front door, and I would’ve knocked if the door hadn’t been open. The tool bags on the front porch and the low rumble of conversations from inside suggested there was a crew busy inside working.

The new hardwood floors gleamed even under a coat of dust from the continuing renovations. Gone were the tattered wallpaper and the torn-up walls, and in their place was crisp new drywall ready for paint. Sunlight streamed through clean glass; the windows repaired or replaced, and the frames refurbished.

I ran my finger along the doorframe into the living room, my gaze skimming the fireplace on the far wall. They’d done a phenomenal job on the restoration, and it wasn’t even finished yet. Honestly, I didn’t expect anything less. Not from Lou. Not from the Kinkades.

I took a deep breath, and beneath the scent of sawdust and stain, I swore there was a trace of cinnamon. A tiny thread that wrapped around all my memories like a bow. No matter what changed here—the floors, the walls, the layout, the decoration—I’d always see that mattress in the center of the floor, the fire in the fireplace dancing shadows across Frankie’s bare skin, the soft canvas a masterpiece of wax and bite marks.

“Can I help you?”

I turned and boxed up those thoughts as a burly man descended the steps. Salt sprinkled his short beard, and the pencil tucked behind his ear introduced him as a carpenter without him saying a word.

“I’m looking for Lou.”

“Think she’s in the kitchen with Hank. Let me grab her for you. What did you say your name was?”

I let out a breath. “Chandler.”

Hopefully she came and didn’t call the police.

Not even thirty seconds later and her familiar braids and glasses appeared at the end of the hall, stopping for a second as though she didn’t believe it could be me. Like there were so many men named Chandler.

Her shoulders rolled back, and then she came toward me, her steps carrying a kind of commanding weight that hadn’t been there before.

“Mr. Collins. I didn’t expect to see you again. What can I do for you?” The politeness to her tone was thin.

“This place looks incredible, Lou,” I said sincerely; it couldn’t hurt to start this conversation with a well-deserved compliment. “Really, you’ve done an amazing job already. You should be proud.”

Red splotched into her cheeks, and she adjusted her glasses. “ Thank you,” she stammered, and then collected herself. “But I don’t think you came all the way back to the middle of nowhere to check on a property you never wanted.”

Touché.

“No.” I gave her a tight smile, shifting my weight. “I came back for your sister.”

She made a sound that fell somewhere between a laugh and a choke—neither of which were particularly hopeful.

“I need to talk to her, Lou,” I went on. “I need to explain…what happened. I know she’s angry, and I understand. I just need her to listen, but she won’t. Even before when she hated me, she didn’t avoid me.”

“Why would I help you?”

My jaw locked. “Because it wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

“Like what? Where I offered you more money and you left without a word?” The color in her cheeks deepened. “I thought my offer would fix things before they went too far, but I was too late. I didn’t…I didn’t know about the two of you. If I did, if I knew you were just going to take the money and run?—”

“I didn’t take the money, Lou.”

She jerked, her jaw going slack before it snapped closed, and she collected herself. “What do you mean? Of course, you did. I know you did. I paid you. I borrowed money from my brother to pay you.”

“Yes,” I croaked. “And who do you think donated that exact difference back to you?”

There were a few things I’d managed to do in the hospital once things with Mom settled down, and the very first was to figure out how to give Lou back the difference that she’d paid for the inn. I’d never planned on taking more than her original offer, but I hadn’t had a chance.

The color drained from her face, her eyes going wide. “No.” Her head started to shake. “That’s from Ms. Laura Todd.”

“Laura Todd is my mother,” I rasped low. “She stayed at the inn a long time ago and had a lot of good memories there. I donated the money in her name—for her.” I cleared my throat. “And because I doubted you’d take it from me.”

Her eyes batted, and she pressed her hand to her mouth. “I don’t…I don’t understand.”

“I wasn’t going to leave, Lou. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” I exhaled raggedly. “I lied when I told you I was going back to Boston. Not lied—” I broke off with a curse. “I told you what I wanted to believe, but it wasn’t the truth.”

“Then why did you take the money in the first place?” Her brow creased.

My chest tightened. “Because I didn’t want your sister to ever doubt why I was staying,” I rasped. “And afterward, I knew you wouldn’t accept a donation from me—or if you would, Frankie wouldn’t. So, I gave it back to you this way.”

“I want to believe you.” Her throat bobbed. “But you left…you left her.”

“I had to. You have to believe me. I need to explain what happened to Frankie, but she won’t listen to me,” I said, watching her chew on her bottom lip, still debating whether or not to believe me. “It was out of my control, Lou. I swear. I’m not like your father.”

Her head snapped up. “She told you about our father?”

I nodded slowly, watching her expression relax. “My father left my mom and me, too. It’s why I didn’t want this inn.”

Understanding filtered into her eyes, not only about me and my actions but also how Frankie and I had connected.

“You tried to talk to her?”

“Every day for the last week. I bring her breakfast. I order lunch or dinner for her, depending on how long she’s working. But she won’t—” I broke off with a huff and dragged my hand along my jaw. “She won’t let me explain.”

“What happened? What did she say?”

My fists balled, pain shooting through me to recall the pained look on Frankie’s face.

“Everything,” I croaked. Everything she could to make it clear what we had was over. “And then she told me to leave. That there was nothing to talk about. That it was a fling and it’s over, but that’s not true. You know it’s as far as hell from true.”

Her eyes widened. “Frankie told you…everything?”

“Yes, of course.” Frustration coursed through my words. Like it mattered that she faked the haunting and the ghosts. Like I’d really believed it was spirits that kept moving and stealing our stuff. So why did Lou seem so surprised? I gritted my teeth and added, “What would be the point in keeping it from me now? It’s not like I didn’t realize it immediately anyway. I might be a lot of things, but I’m not an idiot.”

She still looked shocked. I didn’t get it. The color was gone from her face. Her mouth opened and shut several times like she’d lost the ability to speak. And all because Frankie had told me about her prank? Was she afraid I’d try to take the inn back or something?

“Lou.” I shoved my hand through my hair. “How do I get Frankie to listen to me?”

Her eyes fluttered like the gears in her mind were finally clicking back in sync.

“Well, I think the first thing she needs to hear isn’t why you left, but why you’re here to stay.”

I inhaled sharply, a fresh burst of understanding flooding my brain. “Got it. Easy,” I said. “What else?”

“If you came back for her…” She hesitated, but only for a sp lit second. “If you came back for her, Chandler, she needs to know you’re not staying out of obligation to the baby.”

My heart stopped. Baby. Everything stopped. Not everything. Lou’s mouth kept moving, but I heard nothing except the crash of my world coming down around me.

I checked the floor like it had opened up beneath me. I looked at the walls, sure that a wrecking ball had come straight through the building. But no, everything was stable. Intact. Everything but me.

Baby .

“Chandler? Are you okay?”

“What baby?”

I couldn’t recall the last time in my life when I’d run. Lifting. Rowing. The occasional bike. Sure. But running—full-on sprinting. At least two decades. Until now.

I didn’t trust myself not to break every speeding law and jeopardize any pedestrian who got in my way. Not to mention my fucking car—I couldn’t even remember where I parked it, my brain was on fire. Ablaze with a single, scorching fact.

Frankie was pregnant.

Later, I’d remember the stares I got sprinting down Maine Street in dress pants and shoes. A full-on fool to get to the Candle Cabin and talk to her. Because we were definitely fucking talking now.

I pushed through the door, grateful for small mercies that no one was in the store at that particular moment.

“Frankie!” I boomed, my chest heaving.

There was a commotion in the back room. “Go away, Chandler!” she shouted, but something in her voice was wrong .

“We need to talk,” I said between deep breaths.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Growling, I spun and flipped the sign on the door so it showed Closed, and then slid the deadbolt closed with a loud thwack. I whipped the curtain back with one arm, stopping short when I didn’t immediately see her.

“Frankie?”

“Go away.”

My head turned to the right, her voice slipping out from under the bathroom door.

I took another scan of the back room. Her jars were out. Scale set on the counter. Wax was already cooling in a batch of jars on the center island. She was in the middle of making a batch. From the smell of it, it was the fall pumpkin candles she had on the main display.

“I’m not leaving until you come out.” I rested back against the counter and stared at the door like I could see through it.

Pregnant .

She was pregnant.

I should be shocked. I was shocked. But at the same time, I wasn’t feeling any of the things I thought I’d feel if this moment ever came. Instead, the only thing on my mind was her. Making sure she was okay. Getting through to her. Letting her know I wasn’t going anywhere.

“I told you, I don’t want to hear your explanation right now…” She trailed off, and I swore I heard a noise that sounded almost like she was in pain.

“And I’ve waited a week for you to change your mind.”

“Oh, my goodness. The big bad Mr. Collins doesn’t get his way in a whole week and loses his mind?” she mocked from inside the bathroom.

“I lost my mind the moment I left you,” I said without hesitation. Without thinking .

The door swung open, her expression pained. “Stop,” she insisted, and suddenly, a switch flipped on her face. Her eyes went wide. The color evaporated from her cheeks. And she turned and would’ve shut the door in my face except my foot was there waiting.

“No—” She broke off with a groan and then crashed to her knees in front of the toilet.

“Shit,” I muttered and dropped with her, grabbing her hair just before she vomited…onto my shoes.

She groaned. “I’m sor—” This time, she made it into the bowl, not that there was much in her stomach to heave up.

Gritting my teeth, I continued to gather strands of her hair in my fingers, holding them safe until her stomach settled.

“I’m sorry.” Her voice was raw; she’d clearly been at this for a little bit before I’d arrived.

Dammit .

I should’ve been here sooner. Earlier. All day. Every damn day.

“I don’t give a fuck about my shoes, baby,” I rasped, the endearment slipping out without thinking. “Stop apologizing.”

“I’m pregnant,” she groaned, unceremoniously clutching the porcelain bowl.

“I know.”

She whimpered, and I thought it was from what I said, but then she jerked forward and puked again.

“What can I do?”

“Shut the door,” she said between gasps.

Locking my jaw, I wedged myself inside the tiny-ass bathroom with her and closed the door. For long seconds, I didn’t say anything—do anything except hold her hair and let my fingers trace slow circles on her back, watching as eventually the tension in her body finally relaxed with a deep exhale.

“It’s the stupid pumpkin spice. Makes me sick.” She moaned again, and I tensed, preparing for another bout of sickness, but it never came.

“Then why are you using it?” I said, trying to hold back my growl.

“It’s my most popular…” She pulled the lid over the toilet and flushed it, her shoulders sagging with the effort.

Anything for her business. My jaw tightened. Well, not this. Not while I was here.

“Hold your breath,” I ordered.

“What—” She stopped and filled her cheeks with air when she saw me reach for the door handle.

I slipped back into her workroom and firmly shut the door. From there, it only took me a couple of minutes to give my shoes a quick wipe, clean up the jars, and seal closed the wax, but even then, the scent still clung to the air.

I went back to the bathroom door and asked through it, “Is there a scent that makes it better?” Because, knowing Frankie, she would’ve found it.

“Yeah,” she answered and paused for so long I really thought she was going to make me ask what it was. “The candle on my desk.”

With a few steps, I found the one she was talking about. The candle with no label. I grabbed a lighter from her drawer and lit the wick. I couldn’t help but bring my nose to it as I carried it to the back.

It smelled like…sandalwood and cloves. I wasn’t that good with scents, but I knew what was written on the bottle of cologne I used every morning.

My chest tightened. Did this candle…did she really make one?

“Frankie.” I knocked gently on the door.

“Yeah.” Her voice was weak .

“I cleaned up all the pumpkin spice from the back, and I’ve got your anti-nausea candle right outside the door.”

There was soft shuffling, and then the door opened, her head hesitantly poking through. She snatched the candle from me like it was an oxygen mask in a burning building and took a deep inhale, holding it close to her face as she stepped out of the room.

“Thank you.”

She looked pained and exhausted—defeated—and the sight killed me.

“Does salt air help?”

Her head tipped. “I…it doesn’t hurt.”

“Good.” I nodded and held back the curtain. “Let’s go for a walk.”

She stilled. “And if I don’t want to?”

“You puked on my shoes. You owe me.”

She winced and then grumbled, “Okay.”

Even like this—drained and nauseous—she still wouldn’t let someone try to take care of her without some kind of threat or bet in place. I admired her independence as much as I hated it. But what I hated more was that I’d contributed to it. That I’d made her feel like she couldn’t trust me.

But no more. I didn’t care what it took or how long…Frankie Kinkade was going to learn I was here to stay.

For her.

And for our baby.

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