Page 39 of The Candlemaker

I pretended to examine the amber liquid. “I’m sure it could summon some ghosts,” I drawled, catching his gaze over the top of the cap. “But probably not the ones we’re looking for.”

“You’re looking for,” he corrected, and my smile went flat.

“The ones that are here.” I shoved the tiny bottle into my pocket and went back to unrolling my sleeping bag.

It was almost comical how flat and uncomfortable it looked compared to the plush air mattress inflated next to it.Almost.

“Thank you.” I plucked my pillow out of his hold and set it on the sleeping bag.

While I continued to arrange my things, Chandler made good on his word and unwrapped one of those slow-burning logs. There wasastack of them tucked next to the hearth, mostly in shadow.

“Has the chimney been cleaned?” I asked, hearing him place it in the fireplace, followed by the unmistakable clicks of a lighter.

“A few months ago.”When he was given ownership of the property.“I also had them come and double-check it today.”

“You thought of everything.”

“He who fails to plan, plans to fail.”

I stilled, the husk in his voice catching my attention and driving a shiver along my spine. It sounded like something Jamie would say—would’ve said to us growing up. Iglanced over my shoulder, taken for a moment by the sight of Chandler crouched only a few feet away, his gaze locked on the small but growing flame.

I couldn’t look away. He appeared so…unguarded. Like the moment I realized his full name, this was like I was seeing the whole of him for the first time.

“Who gave you that nugget of wisdom? Dear old dad?” A faint laugh pushed through my lips.I had an image in my mind: a small Chandler bouncing on his father’s knee, the older man waving a wad of cash, chiding,he who fails to plan…“I’d say he failed to plan when it came to this inn.” It was the ambiguity of the will that gave my family the inn and then took it away again.

“No,” Chandler clipped and stabbed the log with the end of the lighter like it had insulted him. “My father was a selfish, careless prick who failed at nothing so spectacularly as being a father.” The words were harsh and direct and so cold, they might as well have been carved from ice.

Crap.I hadn’t meant to upset him. Not like this. I knew what it was like to have a poor excuse for a father, but I just assumed because Chandler had been given the inn, well, whatever I assumed about their relationship, I’d been wrong. And while I wouldn’t feel bad taking a jab at his atrophied penis, I did feel guilty about this.

“I’m sorry.” I turned and sat on my sleeping bag, pulling my knees to my chest.

The light bounced off the pulse of his jaw. “I’m going out back to piss.”He rose abruptly, grabbed the lantern, and stalked out of the room.

Smooth, Frankie.

I let out a small groan and rested my chin on my knees, watching the flames dance in the shelter of the hearth.

I didn’t know why I said that—no, I did.

I wanted him to be a stereotype. To be easily hated for what he was doing with this inn and how it affected my sister. And part of me did dislike him for that—strongly—but another part of me warmed to him like a flame to a wick, wanting to melt away all his layers until I found the man underneath.

I didn’t hear him return until the groan of the air mattress announced his weight.

“Any séances you want to perform before we go to bed?” he drawled, almost as though our last exchange hadn’t occurred.

“Not tonight.” I turned to slide into my sleeping bag, and my breath caught almost as sharply as the light hooked on the muscles of his back—his bare back.

Frozen in place, one foot under the blanket in my sleeping bag, I watched his long fingers crawl the fabric of his shirt higher up his back until the seam was in his grip and then lifting it completely over his head.

My mouth parted, drinking in the sight.He was gorgeous. Perfectly bronzed and made of muscle. Why didthishave to be the one stereotypical thing about him?

I should’ve turned over and gone to sleep—or pretended to. He clearly didn’t want to continue the conversation about his father, and I shouldn’t want to either. I shouldn’t want to know more about him, I shouldn’t want to know what had happened, how it shaped him. I shouldn’t want it for all the same reasons I shouldn’t want to kiss him:because it only spelled trouble.

But trouble was who I was.

“My father was a selfish, careless, gold digger,” I offered to the silence.

Several long seconds passed, and I didn’t realize I was holding my breath for his reply until the low tenor of his voice reached out and unlocked the air from my lungs.

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