Page 25 of The Candlemaker

“Oh? What did you think?”Lou would ask; Lou would care,I continued to tell myself…and held every ounce of my breath, waiting for his answer.

“Very impressive.” His nod of appreciation—admiration—was genuine.

I exhaled, unable to stop my smile from pulling higher on my cheeks as though it were lifted by the butterflies in my stomach. Chandler Collins, billionaire broker extraordinaire, was impressed by my candle shop. Warmth oozed through me like it stemmed from my very bones, heating my cheeks, my chest, and then lower—no, that had to be the wine.

“Thank you”—shit, that had to be the wine, too—“for her,” I stammered with a quick smile. “She’s worked really hard…since she was sixteen…to bring her candle-making business to life.”

“Wow. Sixteen? She must really love it to sacrifice for a business so young.” His head tipped, a lock of dark-brown hair breaking from its mold ever so slightly and trespassing onto his forehead. “Seems like entrepreneurship runs in your family’s genes.”

I inhaled swiftly, catching on the hook. This was my chance—the perfect opportunity to segue into the conversation I came here, as a pretender, to have. This wasnotmy opportunity to tell him about my candles or my business or the fact that I wanted to create something that smelled like cedarwood, thyme, and a hint of dark cherry like the steakhouse and the wine. No, this wasn’t my opportunity at all, no matter how much I wanted to bask in the heat of his compliments.

I’d never been one for praise. I worked hard. I was certainly proud of what I’d accomplished. But even after all the years of running my business, I still felt a surprising awkwardness when people complimented me. Saying they liked my candles or that the scents were different. Of course, I enjoyed that. But praise for my business—it was like they were trying to fan an alreadystrongly-burning flame. At least, that was how it usually felt. This time, though, his words were like small bursts of accelerant tossed on my inner fire.

But I didn’t want his praise, I reminded myself.I wanted his inn.

“My mom. My brothers. My sister. My cousin…I hope it runs in the genes for me, too…”

“Oh?” One of his brows lifted, belying the fact he already knew.

Hooked.

“I want to run an inn,” I began softly, my brief smile wistful. “The Lamplight Inn…where we ended our walk yesterday.”

“The one that’s rundown?”

Oh, you think you’re good, Mr. Collins, you have no idea.

“Yeah.” I took another sip of my wine. “For a long time, I thought I was the only one in the family who didn’t get the entrepreneurship gene, but then my sister-in-law was going to take over the inn, and it…it was like a match. The idea…the purpose ignited inside me, and planning how to restore it became the only thing I could think about.”

“So, you’d try to restore it?” He swirled the wine in his glass and scrutinized me.

You can do this—you have to do this. For Lou.

“Oh, absolutely,” I gushed. “The center of Friendship—the center of its history—is that inn.” For long minutes, I stitched together for him Lou’s plans for the inn like they were the fabric of my own dreams. What would stay. What would change. What would be better. “It would be so incredible to have that focal point and piece of the past be returned to the town. How many inns can boast registers showing Paul Revere and John Adams and George Washington all stayed there?”

“Really?” He dug into the last of his food.

“It was the only visit George Washington ever made toMaine, and it was for a fishing trip.” Lou loved that part of the story, and “twin thing” or not, I felt her enthusiasm for the tale bubble through me. “There’s so much history at the inn…so much that’s been forgotten as it’s fallen into disrepair. Don’t you think something that has seen so much, something that has lived a life of its own, deserves to have those memories be honored? Brought back to life? Shared with everyone who can appreciate and love them?”

I fought for Lou’s dream because it had been my own—to remember something or someone or someplace exactly as it had been, staking it to memory with the tines of scent.

Somewhere in the restaurant, a champagne bottle opened, and the sound popped the bubble of my thoughts. I quickly looked at Chandler and found him staring at me, something tumultuous in his gaze. Everything else about him might have been crafted to look relaxed—in control—but the pulse of his jaw and the storm of his stare made me think I’d said something wrong. Something that pained him.Angered him.

“Chandler?”

Instantly, the emotion was gone. Dissolved from his face like it had been doused in acid.

He blinked and flashed a tight smile. “Unfortunately, sometimes, those memories are no longer memories but simply ghosts,” he declared and then gave a slight flick of his wrist, calling Marty to the table to ask for the check. My brow creased, wondering what had wounded him—thatwas what he’d looked like. Wounded.

Who would be upset about preserving history? Or revisiting cherished or important memories? I shouldn’t care—he certainly didn’t. But I did wonder: what could wound a man who had every defense that life and privilege could possibly give?

Marty rushed off, and Chandler reclaimedthe conversation before I could reel in my thoughts. “Speaking of ghosts…your sister mentioned the inn was haunted.”

Crap.

My throat bobbed. “Many people do believe that to be the case.”

“Do you?”

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