Page 65 of The Candlemaker

“Frankie…”

Her head jerked to the side, and she plopped the cloth onto the counter, reaching for the alcohol wipe next.“I don’t think there’s any glass in the cut.”

My throat tightened. “Good.”

“I’m going to clean it with some alcohol and then put some tape over it for the night.” She ripped open the packet and looked at me again with a warning. “This is going to sting.”

I breathed out slowly, making sure I still had her eyes when I replied, “Maybe I enjoy the burn.”

I’d never not enjoy surprising her. Ever.Her jaw went slack, her cheeks dusting a color of pink that made me want to heat the rest of her body to match. I imagined pouring hot cinnamon wax all over her tits to see if she’d enjoy the burn, too.

She didn’t say anything, just pressed the pad to my forehead with more force than intended, the way she instantly let off the pressure.

“Sorry.”

My breath hissed out, the alcohol disinfecting the exposed flesh. I no longer cared about the wound. Hell, I wasn’t sure I ever had. I only cared about her. Her closeness. Her softness. Her warmth. I wanted to pull her to me—step right into her fucking flame and let it burn through me. Burn down the wall. Burn down the work. Burn down all the barriers I’d built to convince myself I was only made for business and let myself feel. Pain. Pleasure. Want. Hunger. I wanted to feel it all. Just once.

And then a burst of cool air rushed over the cut. My eyes snapped open, stunned by the sight of Frankie fucking blowing on my damn wound like I was a little kid. Her full lips puckered, and my cock started to weep. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t do anything but watch this woman work her magic on me—healing me as surely as she destroyed me.

“What are you doing to me?” I growled low.

Frankie opened her eyes. There was no time—no way to hide how I watched her or how I wanted her.

She drew back, the color in her cheeks spreading to her neck. “I just want to put a little tape over it so you don’t get too big of a scar.”

I tried to steady my breathing and curb my lust. I’d done it for how long, why was I failing now? Why was it because of her? The stolen kisses were one thing, but to want more…I couldn’t. If I fucked her, I couldn’t sell the inn to her family; I could be cold. Ruthless. Callous. But I couldn’t do that. How would it look? How would it make her feel?How the hell would I walk away?

“Worried it will make me less handsome?”

“Maybe it will make you just the right amount of charming,” she teased, tearing a few small strips and sticking them to the back of her hand.

I wanted the answer to the question that had come next—the one where Mom asked about our kiss and Frankie had gotten out of answering, but I didn’t get the chance.

“What kind of butterfly was in that frame?” she asked quietly as she reached for my face again.

“A monarch.” I forced my breath to stay steady again when she touched me. “They’re her favorite. Tom brings them for her.”

“That’s sweet of him.”

I tensed. I’d never thought of it like that. Of him—of them.No.I shoved the idea to the side along with the hundreds of memories that now suddenly begged to be revisited.

“It was the newest one in her collection, and she couldn’t find it. That was what…set her off,” I said low, closing my eyes as she put small pieces of tape over my wound and picturing Mom’s frantic face. “It was my fault because I’d stuck it in a drawer last week where she’d put all her other picture frames, and she didn’t know.”

Mom was so upset. Hysterical. The nurse was trying tocalm her, but it was only making it worse. She was frantic and unsteady, stumbling and banging into furniture to look for the frame and to avoid her nurse.

“As soon as I realized, I got it and gave it to her; I thought it would fix everything.”I was a fool.

“She didn’t remember you.”

My jaw pulsed against her palm, a Morse code of my misery. “No,” I croaked. Mom immediately thought I was Geoff. “She accused me of trying to take the picture—steal it.”Steal her happinesswere the words she’d used. “I reached for her. I don’t know…I thought maybe if she looked right at me, I could make her see me. And when I did that…”

“She walloped you with it.”

“Walloped?”

“Do you have a better word for it?” Her eyes flicked to mine.

I grunted.

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