Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
PAIGE
It’s been a week since the Color Wheel, and things with Benji are … fragile.
I’ve waved hello in the mornings. I’ve let myself smile when we make eye contact through our shop windows.
I’ve written and deleted a hundred texts before Skye threatened to take my phone away.
But it’s not like it was before. It’s too new; the ice feels thin and ready to break. I think Benji is worried that I don’t want him anymore, but I do. I just … want more.
I need to know that this Benji—the one who shares what he’s feeling, even when it’s hard for him—is going to stick around. That this isn’t temporary. That we can last.
I’m staring at his number again when Skye pushes into the shop, thirty-five minutes late. She made way better time than I’d thought she would after hitting up a concert with Rhys last night.
“Look who the hangover dragged in,” I tease, leaning my elbows on the counter and taking in her haphazard appearance. “You didn’t get caught in this morning’s rain, did you? There are puddles up and down the alley.”
My least favorite pothole looks like a small pond right now. Fucking council.
Skye walks by, sliding her feet along the floor, her eyes half shut. “Last night … amazing.”
I snort. “Must have been if you can’t form complete sentences.”
“Shh,” she whispers. “Want my birthday now.”
She continues past me to the studio, and I let her go without a fight. She needs it more than me today. Instead, I change over to our hangover playlist and text Marcie to add an extra shot to Skye’s coffee.
The reminder of her birthday gives me pause.
I love our store. I love the hand-painted sign with an E that looks like it’s jumping for joy because we were too excited to draw guiding lines before Skye started painting.
I love the fake plants we hung in the corners of the room, even though we both hate dusting them.
I even love the fingermarks that kids leave on the windows when they’re begging their parents to let them inside.
Kids never hold back their reactions to smells, and it’s the best part of any day.
So, yeah, I love this store, and, dammit, we’ve worked so hard to get here. So hard to keep it going. Two years is an amazing accomplishment, but I’m tired. I want a break, and Skye needs one too. That’s why I offered her the week off for her birthday. She’s earned it. We both have.
I hate how much I’m dreading that week though.
Who gets upset at a gift they offered in the first place? Awful people—that’s who. So, I smile and shut up because I would do anything for Skye, and she deserves this.
It’s just that … have you ever worked in retail?
It’s … how do I put this nicely? A psychological torture like no other, which will leave you questioning exactly how much you like people anyway.
Case in point: “Excuse me. How long do these last?”
Calm Candles gets customers of all ages and walks of life. Unfortunately, it also seems to attract a few of the most disrespectful, entitled assholes I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.
I take in the woman at the far side of the store.
Mid-forties. Dark hair in a painfully tight, slick-backed ponytail.
She’s holding up one of our hundred-hour candles.
The jars are actually made from reclaimed glass bottles, recycled by an artist who crushes the top halves and turns them into hilarious stained-glass hangings they sell online.
We made the labels simple—100 hours. That’s it. That’s the label, along with some fine print on the bottom.
Skye and I started making them after a customer came in, complaining about how pointless candles were—“because they don’t even last that long.” Surprisingly, she never ended up buying anything.
I know; we were shocked too.
“Those are our hundred-hour candles,” I inform her.
She sighs like I’m the one who doesn’t understand. “I know that. I’m asking how long they burn for.”
She’s still not looking at me. I keep my smile up anyway.
You do not know what other people are going through. This isn’t personal. Let it go. Let it go. Let it go.
“They last one hundred hours. Give or take.”
“Are you sure?”
Are you? I hold my tongue.
“Mmhmm. Tested them myself.”
She hums, unimpressed, and places the candle back down. In the fifteen minutes that follows, she picks up everything, smells it, makes a face, but buys nothing. It’s fine. She’s not the first, and I sell seventeen candles to other customers in the time it takes her to leave.
She doesn’t say thank you. Or wish me a good day.
Over in Benji’s shop, a guy with pink streaks in his hair is throwing his head back on a laugh. Benji has his hands buried in his pockets and a hint of a smile on his face. His customers seem lovely, always smiling or gushing over his pieces.
Fuck it. I send the text I’ve been debating and turn away from the window. If Benji can put himself out there, so can I.
* * *
The shop is empty when the scuff of Benji’s boots sets my heart off.
“Yo.”
I spare a glance toward the studio, where I know Skye will be listening to every word.
Benji crosses the room until we’re sharing the same square foot of concrete. Doesn’t seem to have any concept of personal space when it comes to me. I haven’t complained yet. I should, but I don’t want him to stop.
“You smell good,” he says, low.
I duck to hide my blush. “That’s the shop, not me.”
He grunts his disagreement. “Got your text. What’s wrong?”
I needed to see you.
“There’s a fly.”
“A fly.”
From this angle, his shoulders almost block out the light. I’ve always loved how much of the room he encompassed, beyond the physical. He walks in, and my whole world fills up.
I bite down on my lip and then give in, pulling on his shirt, which is exactly as soft as I remember. “He followed us inside this morning, and he won’t leave. I’m worried he’ll fly into the wax and hurt himself.”
“And you want me to …”
My gaze is trapped on his chest, but I can hear the smile in his voice.
“Help. Please.”
Benji brings his hands up to my arms, and my eyes flutter at the touch.
“Where did you last see him?”
“Above the shelf there.” I point to the corner closest to the entry.
He runs his palms up to my shoulders, where he twirls a lock of hair around his finger before stepping away. “All right, buddy, you heard the lady. Time to leave.”
Benji has as much success convincing him to leave as I did, and after fifteen minutes, I’m ready to accept our new friend for good.
“Why won’t he go?” I ask. “There’s nothing for him in here. I don’t want to come in tomorrow and find his little body somewhere.”
“Maybe he was escaping a spider and thought this looked like a nice place to be. I know I do.” Benji refocuses his attention on me, invading my space again.
His boots knock against my sneakers, and I can’t help but like how they fit together. How we fit together.
I bat his arm. “Don’t say that. Now I’m scared to make him go back outside.”
“You’d let a poor spider starve?”
“You’re supposed to be helping,” I remind him.
“Sorry,” he says, kissing my cheek. His grin marks my skin like a brand. “He’ll want to leave eventually, and once he starts testing the window for a way out, you can open the door and wave him through.”
I hope so.
“Thank you for trying.”
Anyone else might have complained, but he doesn’t even look put out. In fact, he looks … pleased that I asked.
“I’ll always be here for you, anything you need—you know that.”
I suppose I do.
I don’t hike—I prefer the beach to a hill any day of the week—but I’d give anything to climb him right now. God, he used to pick me up like I was nothing. Curl his fingers around my ass, grip my thighs, hold me close.
His pupils are blown out, and I wonder if he’s remembering it too.
Skye’s groan reverberates through the shop. “Is he leaving soon?”
Benji’s eyes burn into mine. “She doesn’t like me much.”
“She’s protective of me.”
His low hum rumbles down my spine. “Makes two of us.” He takes my hand. “Come with me.”
“What? I can’t go.”
He tugs gently, his smile luring me in. “Of course you can. Skye can handle this place while you take a lunch break—I’ve seen it.”
“I didn’t—I mean, she can, but …” My throat tightens.
I want to go. Skye perked up somewhere around her fourth shot this morning and would do it if I asked, but can it really be this easy? Slipping into old habits like the last year didn’t happen?
I hesitate long enough to be an answer, even though I don’t know what that answer is. Benji uses his free hand to lift my chin, gently guiding my head up so I meet his gaze. All of my senses are firing at once, like the adrenaline that hits right as you think you’re going to fall.
He drags his thumb gently under my lips. “Okay then. If the lady won’t go to food, food will come to you.”
And then he walks out. Just like that.
Air rushes back into my lungs in a gasp, and the shop becomes a hundred times emptier. I watch as he leaves, glued to every step as the gap between us widens. I’m itching to run after him.
Why the hell didn’t I say yes?
Benji dodges an idiot who’s clearly speeding down the alleyway—tourists, I swear—but he’s stopped when the car hits the pothole. Water sprays everywhere.
It drips off Benji’s hair, soaks into his shirt, stains dark patches across his jeans.
“Oh my God,” I whisper to myself.
He’s drenched.
Our eyes meet through the glass, and I feel terrible. I pushed him away, and look at what happened. Is this one of those signs Marcie is always telling me about? Now he’s going to spend the day in damp clothes, probably getting sick while he’s at it, all because of me.