Page 13 of The Candlemaker

“What else did you see?” Something tiptoed over my cheeks—almost imperceptible and warm—was I blushing?

“We stopped at the bakery for some blueberry muffins. The chocolate shop. Passed by your brother’s art gallery and finished at the Stonebar Farms store,” he said and picked up another candle—my new honey-orange scent—and uncapped the lid.

“Sounds like you got all the highlights.” I wasn’t blushing—I didn’t blush. I didn’t get embarrassed, because why would I? I loved myself more than I cared what anyone else thought, and I had no problem making mistakes and laughing at myself for them.

There were enough things in life to take seriously.

“It sure felt like it,” he said, bringingthe candle to his nose. His eyes closed and his expression softened, and even though I’d only known this man for the equivalent of maybe an hour—if I was being generous—it was striking to see his face relaxed. Like even here, on a little vacation, he still couldn’t let loose.

“Damn, that smells good.”

My face split with a smile for an instant before I reeled it back. I’d heard the phrase hundreds of times before; there was no reason for my face to react like it was the first.

“Thanks,” I murmured. “It’s a honey-orange scent made with honey from my cousin’s bee farm; she’s really into beekeeping.”

His eyes found mine over the edge as he took anotherwhiff, and I swore I felt the rush of his breath as though it were directly on my skin rather than across the room.

And then I dropped the lid to the candle in my hands.Get a grip, Francesca.I crouched to pick it up, willing my traitorous body to calm down before I got into trouble. I knew trouble—I was trouble—but never like this. Never in a way that affected me the way that being attracted to him did.

“Well, I’m glad you enjoyed your morning with Lou?—”

“There was one place she didn’t tell me much about,” he interrupted with a low voice, clearly intent on whatever he wanted to say.

My heart tripped, and I let out a weak laugh. “Not much to tell about a candle store.”

“Actually, it was the big building in the center of town. An old inn.”

My cheeks were on fire.So much for being able to deny the blush.What would make me think he was talking about my shop? I mentally pulled my foot out of my mouth and exhaled.

“The Lamplight Inn,” I confirmed and started to ramble, as though it would erase the moment when I’d assumed he was talking about me. “It was a landmark in town for decades—even before my family was here—but it’s been abandoned for a little while now, unfortunately.”

“Abandoned? Do you know who owns it?”

“Someone who’s got too much money to care about an old inn that needs some TLC,” I answered without filtering the sentiment or the snark from my tone.

His head tipped, dark eyes swirling. “He sounds like a jerk.”

“I haven’t met him, so I can neither confirm nor deny,” I quipped with a tight smile. “But I can safely say he has no idea what the inn means to this town or the people in it.”

“Oh? How’s that?” That perfect brow arched once more,and it pierced the fog of frustration that led me a little blindly into this conversation.

I shouldn’t be talking about this. Chandler was a stranger—a visitor—and that meant he needed to hear the same story anyone else who came into town did.

“Well, for starters, the inn is haunted.”

The energy in the room—andthe energy around him—changed. Sharpened. His eyes narrowed suspiciously at me. Nothing surprising considering what I’d just said. It was usually disbelief I faced first, but by now, I had my story pretty much down pat.

“Haunted?” His voice, formerly the perfect blend of strength and steadiness, faltered.

“Yup.” The p popped before I could stop it. “Legend has it several of George Washington’s spies used the inn as a meeting point before venturing down to Boston and even further to New York,” I said blithely as I returned to the display at the front of my shop, arranging the candles like they needed arranging. “They even say that Paul Revere stayed here before his infamous ride.”

The thread of my story frayed as he moved toward me.“Spies?”

I swallowed over the lump in my throat, fighting to keep the fabric of my tale unblemished from uncertainty.

“Informants, really, who passed information to the Culper Ring,” I barreled on, fishing for the facts I’d preserved from that one spy show Nox convinced us to watch a few years ago. “They relayed information about the counterfeit Continental currency plot as well as evidence of Benedict Arnold’s betrayal.”

“Hmm…the wolf in sheep’s clothing.” He folded his arms over his chest, and I couldn’t tell which part of him it made look larger—his shoulders that stretched the seams of his shirt or his arms that appeared to have grown more muscle.

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