Page 48 of The Candlemaker

“Scents that evoke a personal memory can trigger slower, deeper breathing. A reduction in stress.”

I cleared my throat and willed my focus to stay on her and her story. “So, the blueberries brought him back…”

“We’d all grown up making that blueberry jam together with Mom and Gigi. Mom joked that she made so much jam while she was pregnant with us that there might be blueberries rather than blood running through our veins.” Frankie sighed. “Kit moved out not long after that, but when he left, he asked me to keep making him candles.”

My jaw pulsed as I watched her tongue swipe over her lips and her lashes flutter against her cheeks. She didn’t have to be staring straight at me for me to see the way her eyes glistened.

“And that’s when you started your business.”

Her head bobbed. “Everyone always thinks the candle’s light is the only way out of the darkness, but it’s not. You don’t always need a light to be able to find peace.” A shadow of a smile teased her lips, and holy hell, I was never going to look at a candle the same way.

My jaw pulsed, and I managed only an “I see,” my mind consumed with thoughts of Mom—of telling Frankie what that damn beach candle had done for her.

“I can prove it,” she declared softly, taking my silence as doubt when it was nothing short of pure, humbling admiration.

Frankie lifted her chopsticks from the pitcher and stuck them right under my nose, leaving me no choice but to breathe in the final result. I’d expected the black cherryand had a good guess at the other scents she’d incorporated. I hadn’t expected the memory—the scene.The restaurant.

“The steakhouse.”

Her wide smile made my chest pound. “Black cherry. Rosemary. Peppercorn. Cedarwood.”

I inhaled again, but it was more than the memory of the restaurant that assaulted me this time. It was those seconds that seared into my mind of that kiss, and when my eyes opened and met hers, I knew she was thinking the same.

The wine. The ambiance. The attraction.The lies.That night, we’d been people who didn’t have to be enemies.

“Frankie…” My voice was hoarse.

Her hand wavered, and I grabbed her wrist. The scent didn’t matter anymore, but I didn’t want her to pull away. She shivered, goose bumps rising to the call of heat on her skin.

This woman was fire. Bold. Bright. Burning with life and determination. And all I wanted was to make her melt for me.

I left my chopsticks sitting in the wax and reached for her neck. Just the catch of her breath made my dick even harder in my pants. Maybe it was the scent of her—maybe later I’d blame the damn cinnamon for making me think…making me want something I’d never otherwise consider.What fucking asshole would do this? What asshole would kiss the woman whose sister was trying to do business with him?It blurred so many goddamn lines—opened up so many avenues for legal and ethical impropriety…but for the first time, I just couldn’t fucking care.

Not when her lashes fluttered shut, dusting her cheeks with a deeper shade of pink. Not when her lips parted—lips that had both criticized and cursed me all within the last hour.She was fire, and I was Icarus, who flew too close to her flame.

I growled and brushed my mouth to hers, softly at first like I was diffusing a bomb; one wrong move and this whole place would go up in smoke. But soft—slow—wasn’t in Frankie’swheelhouse. Not when it came to what she wanted.Not according to her grandmother.

Once Frankie knows what she wants, she’ll do anything to have it.

And she wanted this kiss.

Her mouth surged up to mine, her small frame tipping into me when she went up on her tiptoes and demanded something deeper.

This time, the sound I made was feral as I hauled her to me. I wasn’t mixing business with pleasure, I was fucking obliterating it for one more taste of her. My arm locked around her back, holding her almost aggressively to my front, where there was no mistaking the way she affected me. We could banter and bicker—hell, she could legitimately hate me, but that wouldn’t change this.

The wick might hate the flame, but that wouldn’t alter how it would burn.

My thumb pistoned underneath her chin, tilting her head back, but it was her tongue that searched out the seam of my lips first. Fearless. Fierce. I gave her what she wanted—at this point, I was sure I’d give her anything as long as she kept moaning the way she was.

I tangled my tongue with her silky one, the sweet bite of cinnamon setting off a chain reaction in me I was powerless to stop. It made me weak. Ravenous. Desperate for more. My hand slid to her ass, and that was when she started to move—gently rocking against the ridge of my cock. Stars erupted in my brain.

“Fuck,”I hissed into the warmth of her mouth and spun her against the counter. Too forcefully because the whole thing jostled and rattled, something tipped over with a crash, and instantly, Frankie pulled back.

Panting, our eyes locked. Her fists curled intomy shirt. My hand bracketed around her neck. Our hips wedged together like the heat between us could evaporate our clothes. This was wrong. All wrong. But neither of us wanted to move—to burst the bubble where it felt so right.

“The wax.” Her voice was firm but fragile like an eggshell as she slid out of my hold,leaving my hands gripping the edge of the counter for support.

Her attention returned to the long-forgotten pitchers on the counter, meanwhile, my concern was solely focused on whether or not I was going to be able to walk—move—with how fucking hard I was.

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