Chapter 5
FIVE
SERENA
Watching Welles experience Spellbound After Hours is a joy.
I mean, I love our shop. I never take it for granted. But there’s something really special about watching someone else experience the transformation for the first time.
It makes all the nights of dreaming and lost sleep worth it.
“You seem surprised.”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “It’s crazy to believe it’s the same place…”
“It’s all smoke and mirrors.”
He gives me a look.
“Poor choice of words?”
“For a place currently under investigation by the fire chief? Maybe.”
I grin.
The transformation is surprisingly simple.
The pale cupboards behind the counter that look like part of the wall during the day open to reveal rows of liquor bottles, glassware, and everything Valerie needs to work her magic.
We roll out the bar mats, bring the velvet stools out of storage, and rearrange a few pieces of furniture.
The biggest change comes from above.
“Curtains,” Welles says.
“Curtains,” I confirm.
Dark velvet panels unroll from the ceiling, covering most of my candle displays and transforming the bright Scandinavian-inspired shop into something darker, warmer, and infinitely moodier.
Welles slowly turns around.
“This is impressive.”
I preen.
I can’t help it.
“Thank you.”
“You really do this every day?”
“Almost every day.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” I smile. “But look at it.”
People are already settling into the seating areas around us. Candles flicker on the tables while low music plays. Valerie moves behind the bar, setting up for the night.
Welles takes it all in.
“Worth it?” he asks.
“Every time.”
He nods like he understands.
For some reason, I think he actually does.
“So…” He turns toward me. “Candles.”
“Candles,” I confirm, curious to see where he’s going to take this.
“What made you decide to open a candle shop?”
“It was kind of a whim, to be honest. Then again, it also feels like something my whole life was leading toward.”
“How so?”
“I’ve loved candles forever. My grandma used to make them with us in her utility room off the kitchen.”
“Your production studio?”
“Yes! And even after I started my grown-ass woman job, candles were still a huge part of my life. I’d light one the moment I got home. The scent would transport me to a memory. Or at least make my brain shift from work mode to relaxation mode.
“I started making my own again a few years ago. Gran sent me her old kettle and thermometer. I started making them on my stove as gifts. Then I’d do a few custom orders here or there.
“When Gran gave us the house… it was a surprise. But it also seemed like a sign.”
“A sign?”
“To stop going to a job every day that was just about a paycheck. To stop working for people who demand respect and loyalty but don’t give either in return. It was a sign to stop dreaming about doing something more and start living for mine.” I wrinkle my nose. “That probably sounds cheesy.”
“No, I get it.” He clears his throat. “I had my own moment of life clarity.”
“You did?”
“You know me as a local. And I am. But I actually moved away for a few years. I played ball in college. Took a finance job in the city.”
“You were a finance bro?”
“I guess I was.” He chuckles. “You seem surprised.”
“You just… you don’t seem like the type. Which I guess makes me an asshole for making assumptions.”
“No, you’re right. It wasn’t me. I didn’t hate the job, exactly. I was good at it. But…”
“It just wasn’t who you are at your core.”
“Exactly. I was a volunteer for the department in high school and on breaks during college. I never forgot about how much more natural it felt to fight fires instead of make deals. I was thinking about a career change when, well, I had my own sign of sorts.”
“You didn’t inherit a helmet and boots from a grandpa, did you?” I ask to cut through the tension.
He gives a sad smile. “Not exactly. There was a fire at my office.”
I suck in a breath.
If he notices, Welles doesn’t show it. He’s already deep in his story.
“I wasn’t there. Some college friends and I had gone skiing for a long weekend.”
Something in the way he says it makes my stomach tighten.
“The fire started after everyone left?”
He shakes his head.
Oh.
“It was late. Most people had gone home. But my boss was still there, along with a few other people.” He looks down at his hands. “From what they pieced together afterward, he got out.”
“But?”
“He went back.”
My heart sinks.
“There were still people inside. He went back for them.”
“Welles…”
“He got one person out. Went in again.” His jaw flexes. “He and two of my coworkers never came back out.”
I don’t know what to say.
There probably isn’t anything to say.
So I don’t offer him some bullshit about everything happening for a reason. I don’t tell him his boss died a hero, because I’m sure he already knows that.
I just reach across the bar and cover his hand with mine.
“I’m sorry.”
He looks at our hands.
“So am I.”
The words are quiet.
Too quiet.
“You weren't there,” I say gently.
“No.”
“That wasn't your fault.”
“I know that.”
His mouth says it.
The rest of him doesn’t.
He draws a breath.
“I kept thinking about how I’d spent years training to run toward exactly that kind of situation. Then, when it happened to people I knew, I was hundreds of miles away having a good time.”
“You were allowed to have a weekend away.”
“I know.”
Again, he says it like something he has memorized rather than something he believes.
“I went home after that. Took some time off. Started volunteering with the department again.” He shrugs. “Eventually, I stopped pretending I was going back to finance.”
“And became a firefighter.”
“Full time. Then chief.”
I look at him differently now.
I can’t help it.
All those questions about my wax and wicks and jars. The warnings. The irritation every time I make light of those fires.
It wasn't about proving me incompetent.
Not really.
Fire took people from him.
Of course he wants to understand every flame he can.
Something shifts inside my chest.
Not pity.
Definitely not that.
Something considerably more dangerous.
I think I like him.
Really like him.
Well, shit.
“Well, I suppose there’s only one thing left to do.” I hop off the bar stool and give Valerie a little wave. “Let’s go.”
“Go where?”
“You’ll see.” I roll my eyes when he remains firmly planted in his seat. “I promise, I’m not leading you off into my dungeon.”
His dark brow shoots up. “Do you have a dungeon?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” I smirk. “Come on.”
When he still doesn’t move, I grab his hand to pull him to his feet.
I ignore the jolt of electricity that shoots through me as his work-hardened palm presses against mine.
“Come on,” I repeat. “There’s only one way to prove I’m not doing anything to my candles to make them start any of those fires.”
Welles groans, but he doesn’t drag his feet as I pull him out of the public part of the first floor and toward my production studio.
It’s a small victory, but I take it.
I reluctantly release his hand to push open the fire-rated door and flip on the light.
Unlike the public rooms, there’s nothing particularly enchanting about my workspace. Stainless steel worktables. Shelves of supplies. Pouring equipment. Boxes of empty vessels. Everything has its place.
Welles looks around.
I can practically see the fire chief taking over again.
“What are we doing?”
Instead of answering, I grab one of the black aprons hanging beside the door.
“Come here.”
He eyes me warily but steps closer.
I slip the apron over his head.
I have to reach higher than expected.
Which brings me closer than expected.
His chest is right there.
His very broad, very solid chest.
For a second, I forget what I'm doing.
Then he looks down at me.
Right.
Apron.
I step behind him to tie it around his waist.
“We,” I announce, “are going to make a candle.”
He raises his eyebrows. “How?”
“With a little magic, of course.”
I catch my bottom lip briefly with my teeth.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
There’s no mistaking the flash of fire in his eyes.
Well.
That changes things.
“Magic,” I repeat, a little more breathlessly than before. “And a little wax, oil, and heat.”
“Wax. Oil. Heat.” His voice drops. “Are you sure this isn’t your sex dungeon?”
I blink.
Then grin.
“You wish.”
He mumbles something under his breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Uh-huh.”
I turn toward my supplies before he can see exactly how much that little exchange affected me.
Because apparently learning about his tragic backstory wasn't enough.
Now I know Grumpy Fire Chief can flirt.
Fantastic.
I pull out what we need and set everything on the worktable between us.
Soy wax. Wicks. A clean vessel. Fragrance oils.
Welles watches every movement. Only now, I don't feel like I'm being investigated.
It feels like he's actually interested.
“First,” I say, sliding the empty jar toward him, “you have to decide what you want.”
“I have to decide?”
“I know you can do it.”
His expression turns skeptical again. There he is.
I smile.
“Come on.” I give him a nudge with my hip. “There’s a little magic inside of you. I can tell.”