17. Aria
SEVENTEEN
Aria
I take a deep breath, focusing on the task at hand. A middle-aged woman with kind eyes and an expensive handbag examines our winter collection, lifting each candle to inhale its scent.
“This one is incredible,” she says, holding up Ember’s newest creation. “What’s in it?”
“Pine, cinnamon, and just a hint of vanilla.” I move closer, grateful for the distraction. “Ember calls it ‘Hearth and Home.’ It’s designed to evoke memories of holiday gatherings.”
“It works.” The woman closes her eyes and inhales deeply. “Reminds me of my grandmother’s house when I was little.”
From her workstation, Ember glances up with a small smile of satisfaction. Creating emotional connections through scent is her gift, her art. She understands intuitively how fragrance bypasses the rational mind, speaking directly to memory and emotion.
“I’ll take three,” the customer decides. “One for me, one for my sister, and one for my daughter. Can you gift wrap them?”
“Of course.” I move behind the counter, pulling out our signature packaging—recycled paper embedded with wildflower seeds, tied with jute twine, and a sprig of dried lavender. Sustainable, beautiful, and distinctively ours.
As I wrap each candle, I can’t help thinking about Miranda’s proposal, still sitting in the office. Standardize product line. Eliminate artisanal processes. Outsource.
My father’s vision would turn these hand-poured creations into mass-produced commodities. The personal touch—Ember’s careful blending, my custom packaging, Ryn’s crystal work—all sacrificed for efficiency and scale.
“Here you are.” I hand over the beautifully wrapped package. “The paper can be planted in the spring. It’ll grow California wildflowers.”
“How lovely.” The woman’s delight confirms what I already know—these touches matter. They create connection, loyalty, and meaning beyond the product itself.
After she leaves, Ember wipes her hands on her apron and approaches the counter. “You okay? You’ve been staring at your phone like it might bite you.”
“I texted my father.” The words come out more strained than intended. “About Miranda’s proposal.”
“And?” Ember’s expression turns guarded. Her relationship with my father has always been complicated—gratitude for his investment mixed with wariness of his control.
“I told him no.” My voice strengthens as I say it aloud. “I said we can’t proceed with the plan as outlined. That it doesn’t align with our values.”
Ember’s eyebrows shoot up. “You told Marcus Holbrook no?” A slow smile spreads across her face. “Damn, Aria. I didn’t think anyone could do that and live to tell the tale.”
“The jury’s still out on the survival part.” I flip my phone over, showing her his response. “He summoned me. Like a disobedient employee.”
“That’s bullshit. This is your business. Our business.” Ember reads the text, her smile fading.
“Exactly.” I square my shoulders. “That’s why I’m not backing down. The Little Matchstick Girl isn’t just a business opportunity—it’s your creation. Your dream. I won’t let him turn it into something unrecognizable.”
“ Our dream,” Ember corrects gently. “I may have started it, but it’s ours now. Yours and mine. And Ryn’s too.”
From across the shop, Ryn glances up at the sound of her name. She’s arranging a display of her newest crystal candles—amethyst and clear quartz suspended in pale purple wax; the effect is ethereal and somehow hopeful.
“What’s going on?” She approaches, wiping wax from her hands.
“Aria just stood up to her father.” Ember’s voice carries pride I’m not sure I deserve. “Told him we’re not selling out.”
“What did he say?” Ryn’s eyes widen slightly.
“He’s not happy.” I try for casual, though my stomach knots at the thought of facing him tonight. “But that’s not new. I’ve been disappointing Marcus Holbrook since I was about six years old.”
“That’s his problem, not yours.” Ember’s matter-of-fact tone cuts through my anxiety. “You’re running a successful business, making your own choices. If that disappoints him, he needs to adjust his expectations.”
The bell above the door chimes, interrupting our conversation. A young couple enters, holding hands and looking around with interest. Ember moves to greet them, slipping into her role as creator and guide.
“Welcome to The Little Matchstick Girl.” Her smile is genuine and welcoming. “Is this your first visit?”
“Yes.” The woman looks around, taking in the warm atmosphere. “It smells amazing in here.”
“That’s kind of our thing.” Ember’s laugh is easy and confident. “Each candle tells a story through scent. Are you looking for something specific?”
As she leads them through the shop, I’m struck again by how far she’s come from the wary street kid I first met. The transformation isn’t just in her circumstances but in her presence—the confidence of someone who knows her worth, who has built something meaningful with her own hands.
“This one is called ‘Ocean Memory.’” Ember holds up a sea-glass blue candle. “Salt, citrus, and a hint of driftwood. It captures that moment when you’re sitting on the beach at sunset, when the day’s heat is fading and the first cool breeze comes off the water.”
The couple exchange impressed glances. The man lifts the candle, inhaling deeply.
“Wow. That’s exactly what it smells like.” He looks at Ember with new respect. “How do you do that?”
“It’s about understanding what makes a memory powerful.” Ember’s passion shines through as she explains her process. “Scent is the sense most directly connected to emotion. The right combination can transport you instantly to a specific moment in time.”
“What about this one?” The woman points to a deep amber candle.
“‘Campfire Stories.’” Ember smiles. “Smoke, pine, and marshmallow. For when you want to feel like you’re sitting around a fire with your favorite people, telling stories under the stars.”
They move through the shop, entranced by Ember’s descriptions and the emotional journey she creates. This is what would be lost under my father’s plan—the artistry, the personal touch, the connection between creator and customer.
My phone buzzes with another text. Not my father this time, but Jon: Picking you up at 6:30 for dinner. Dress sexy.
The message sends a flutter through my stomach, momentarily displacing my anxiety about facing my father. Jon is coming with me. I won’t be alone.
“Good news?” Ember asks, returning to the counter after the couple leaves with four candles and Ryn’s business card for a custom order.
“Jon’s coming to dinner with me.” I show her the text.
“Smart move.” She nods approvingly. “Marcus’s less likely to go full dictator with witnesses present.”
“You underestimate his capacity for public tyranny.” I sigh, tucking my phone away. “But yes, having Jon there will help.”
“Your father’s never met a man he couldn’t intimidate or buy off.” Ember begins cleaning her workspace, methodically organizing tools and ingredients. “I’m curious to see how he handles Jon.”
“Jon can’t be intimidated or bought,” I say with complete conviction. After last night, after this morning, I know this with absolute certainty. “He’s not motivated by money or power.”
“Which makes him completely incomprehensible to your father.” Ember’s laugh holds a hint of satisfaction. “Oh, to be a fly on that wall. It should be an interesting dinner.”
The bell chimes again, but this time it’s not customers.
Storm and Razor step through the door, casual enough to fool a civilian—but their gazes sweep the shop with the precision of men trained to spot threats in their sleep.
“Ladies.” Storm flashes a charismatic smile, the kind that should feel easy, but doesn’t. “Just in the neighborhood, thought we’d stop by.”
“Since when do you guys make social calls during working hours?” Ember’s brows draw together, confusion hardening into wariness.
“Can’t a guy visit his favorite candle shop?” Storm’s tone is light, bordering on amused, but there’s an edge beneath it. “Maybe I need another candle?”
Razor says nothing as he crosses to the front window, scanning the street, cataloging exits, shadows, and movement.
“Nice display,” he mutters, but it’s clear he’s not looking at the jars of wax.
“Hey, everything okay?” Ryn steps out from the stockroom, ponytail swinging.
The moment Razor registers her, something shifts in his posture. Almost imperceptible—but I catch it. Shoulders relax. Head tilts. Eyes soften just a notch.
“Didn’t know you were here,” he says, voice low, almost thoughtful.
“Inventory day.” Ryn grins, unaware—or maybe not—of the way his gaze lingers a fraction too long.
“You always do the labels by hand?” He nods toward the tray of calligraphy tags she carries, then steps closer to examine one, closer than necessary.
“I like the way it looks,” she says. “Cleaner. More personal.”
“Yeah. Looks good.” His fingers brush the edge of a tag, not touching her, but close enough to notice her scent—citrus and clove from the oils she mixes.
My brows lift. Razor doesn’t do small talk. Doesn’t compliment, but here he is, all subtle shifts and soft edges.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles. Something’s off.
These men don’t show up together unless it’s tactical—and whatever Razor’s doing now, the rest of his body screams alert.
“What’s going on?” I ask, stepping closer. “Why are you here?”
Storm and Razor exchange a glance, a silent confirmation of what I already suspect.
“Just keeping an eye on things,” Storm says with a shrug that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Jon asked us to swing by.”
“Why would Jon—” I stop mid-sentence. “This is about my father, isn’t it?”
Storm hesitates. And that tells me everything I need to know.
“Not exactly.”
“Then what exactly?” Ember’s voice sharpens, the old edge cutting through. “Because you’re scaring off customers with the whole Men in Black routine.”
Razor tears his gaze away from Ryn—reluctantly—and turns back toward us.
“Sorry. We’ll tone it down.” He gestures toward the back table. “Mind if we hang out for a bit? Promise we’ll buy something.”
“Better be the expensive stuff.” Ryn arches a brow.
“Only the best.” His grin flickers, real this time.
But even as he takes the seat closest to her station, I clock the way he angles his body—half-alert, half-interested. I can’t tell which instinct is stronger.
“Is someone in danger?” I press. “Is it the shop?”
No one answers right away.
Which is an answer all by itself.
The men exchange another glance. Finally, Storm sighs.
“Look, it’s probably nothing. Just some chatter that has Jon concerned. He thought it might be good to have extra eyes around until things settle.”
“What kind of chatter?” Ember asks, her voice suddenly tight.
The bell chimes once more.
This time it’s Jon.
His tall frame fills the doorway like he owns it—like he owns me. His broad shoulders, stormy eyes, and lethal calm are barely reined in. His gaze locks with mine the second he steps inside, and the noise of the shop fades to static.
Everything else disappears. The shop. The people. The air.
It’s just him. And me.
Something inside me loosens, unclenches, breathes. Then tightens all over again at the look he gives me—dark, searching, and a little too intense.
He crosses the room in long, purposeful strides, no wasted movement. That quiet intensity that turns my blood to wildfire. His hand comes to rest at the small of my back—hot, firm, possessive.
But it’s not just the way he touches me. It’s the weight of memory behind it. That mouth on my thighs, my breasts, my name rasped against my skin as he shattered me, slow and unrelenting. The way he held me open with nothing but his voice, whispering filth and worship in equal measure.
The way he took his time.
The way he didn’t.
I suck in a sharp breath, my body already reacting—spine straightening, thighs clenching, heat unfurling low in my belly.
“Hey.” His voice is pitched for me alone, low and rough with something he doesn’t bother to name. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
He doesn’t move his hand. If anything, his fingers curl a little tighter against my back, like he doesn’t want to let go.
“Good.” His mouth finds mine, slow and molten—nothing frantic, nothing rushed. Just a kiss that owns. That seals the promise in his words with the heat of his mouth and the sure grip of his hand.
When he pulls away, I’m flushed, breathless, my whole body humming.
“Will you be okay here?” I turn to Ember, struggling to sound normal, to remember the world beyond Jon’s kiss.
“We’ll be fine.” She gestures to Storm and Razor. “Apparently, we have our own security detail now.”
“Just until closing,” Razor clarifies.
Ember rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. She’s been through enough to recognize when protection is necessary, even if she chafes at the constraint.
“Call me if anything happens,” I tell her, gathering my purse. “Anything at all.”
“You too.” She meets my eyes directly. “And, Aria? Don’t let your father bulldoze you about the business. We’ll figure it out our way, whatever happens.”
“Our way. Not his.” I nod, drawing strength from her confidence.
Jon’s hand settles at the small of my back as we exit the shop, the warm weight both reassuring and thrilling.
Whatever my father has planned, I’m not the same woman who was kidnapped months ago. I’ve changed—found my voice, my strength, my place.
And I’ve made my choice. Now I have to stand by it.