Page 14 of The Candlemaker

What I could tell was that he was closer—too close.When had he gotten so close?

“Yes.” I nodded uncontrollably. “Unfortunately, several of them were caught right here in Friendship—at the Lamplight Inn—by a particularly vile British soldier, Captain Simcoe, and were killed.”

“Simcoe?”

You know, I probably should’ve double-checked to make sure he was a real character.

“They say while the inn was still running, the ghosts took comfort in the gossip of the guests,” I continued, ignoring his question and hoping he didn’t decide to fact-check it later. “But since it closed, they’ve done nothing but haunt the grounds.”

“Interesting…” And he sounded far too interested. Great. The last thing I needed was some gorgeous ghostbuster gallivanting around the inn that I was fake-haunting.

“You said you’re visiting family near here?” I veered sharply into a different topic and grabbed a candle from the display. “If they don’t live right by the ocean, I’d recommend this for a host gift.” I shoved the beach-scented candle awkwardly toward his face without shame. “It’s been so popular for summer?—”

“Wait,” he ordered, and I froze. His dark eyes weren’t so dark anymore, but they were sparkling with bright bits of electric light. “What’s that smell?”

Could he smell it through the lid? That would be impressive.

“It’s a limited-edition seaside scent I made for my other cousin—” I broke off when a very large—very warm—hand clasped around my wrist. Shackled it, really, since his fingers locked easily around theentire thing.

“No,” he rasped. “This.” He pulled my wrist up to his face and took a deep breath.

Oh god.My inhale tangled deep in my chest, inextricably knotting itself to the inside of my lungs.

“It’s…” His rough voice trailed off into a groan that moved over me like hot coals, charring heat wherever it touched. His eyes roamed my skin, his thumb brushing over the small scar at the base of my palm where I’d burned myself with hot wax a few years ago.

My lips parted, losing all thought and sense between them. A little more bend to my fingers or a slight sway of his head and his mouth would touch my skin. Those perfect lips and bright teeth. I wondered what it would feel like if he decided to bite my finger. Or my palm. I wondered if the heat of him would burn me, too.

The idea of him making a mess of my skin sent heat pooling between my legs. But that was nothing compared to the thought that came after. A man like Chandler didn’t leave things a mess. He struggled to unbutton his shirt and roll his sleeves.No,whatever mess he made with his teeth, he’d surely clean up with his tongue.

Jesus, Francesca, you’re losing your mind.

One touch and I was tangled in a web I’d neither made nor saw coming, and I was as surely trapped to the moment as if the whole of me were held down in chains.

But it was all because of the sight of him.

The slight crease of his brow. The hard knot at the corner of his jaw. Like he hungered for something he couldn’t understand or deny. Something too feral for his immaculately refined life.

I knew the power of smell. The way a scent could transport someone…or transform them. The way it coaxed and comforted, lingered and lured…scent was the most effective spy. It snuck into the brain under the cover of aroma but had tied to it all the details to encode a memory or a moment for eternity.

Like this one.

Though every second that passed and every press of his touch went beyond encoded to something that felt like it had been carved straight into my bones.

“Chandler…”

His eyes flung open, and there was no mistaking the anger that flared in them or the way he abruptly released me.

“That scent. What is it?” His demand cut through the warm fog blanketing my body.

“Cinnamon,” I said quickly, linking my hands in front of me. “I was working with it in the back…”And now, I was afraid I’d never be able to work with it again.

Not after this.

“Right.” He cleared his throat and took a step back, his eyes darting for the nearest exit. “I should get going.”

“Yeah,” I agreed lamely, losing the mental capacity to fabricate some acceptable explanation for why he had to go.

“I’ll just take—” He lifted the candle I’d handed to him. “This.”

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