Page 54 of The Candlemaker

The hard edges of his expression. The thump in his jaw muscle. The ferocity bubbling under his typical veneer of calm.

“Are you all right?”Four little words made me melt.

Four little words spoken by a gorgeous man crouched beside the air mattress. Four little words quelling my racing heart as his gaze raked over me, the protectiveness in it as obvious as a lit match in the dark.

A nod hadn’t been enough to assure him. Warm fingers gripped my chin, holding it firm for his demand: “Say it.”

The words “I’m alright”trembled and fluttered from my lips, my unsteady breath drawing him closer like a fishing line pulled taut.

Once again, we tiptoed at the edge of detonation. Destruction.Desire.

And then there was another rattle—one I wished I’d never asked for as it drew him away.

The second time Chandler returned, he was all business. He saw nothing upstairs. Nothing outside the windows. Hisgruff explanation last night was the same answer he gave this morning.

“The wind.”

Was it the wind? Was it rocks against windows? Was it Nox running along the hall to the back staircase and then out the broken kitchen window?

“If you say so.” I bit the corner of my lip and grabbed my bag. “I’m heading out.”

Chandler moved on the mattress, and before I could catch myself, I found myself staring at his bare, muscled chest rising from the blankets.

“I’ll see you soon.”

I shouldn’t want to hear those words. Shouldn’t want to know he planned on spending another day babysitting my every move.

But as I left the inn, all I felt was relief, knowing he wasn’t far behind me.

Every day the routine was the same.

I’d head home for a quick shower and change, and then open up my shop. Within forty minutes of that open sign posted on my door, Chandler would stroll in, and I’d spend the rest of the day with my adversary. The one who helped me make candles. Who ordered food to the store when most days I would’ve forgotten to eat. And who talked to my customers like they were his own.

Like now.

I stood with my back to the wall, my head tipped to listen through the curtain as Chandler spoke with a young couple who’d wandered in; they were in Friendship on their honeymoon, headed further north from here to hike Acadia.

I’d been on my way out to introduce myself and my candles, but when I reached the curtain and saw how Chandler strode forward to greet them, I held back.

Some people had chocolate or wine or candy. But this was my guilty pleasure: listening to him market my candles. My business.My dream.

“Oh, is this cinnamon?” I heard the woman ask.

“Yes, that’s our Cinnamon Swirl.”Our.My breath caught.Why was he so… him?“But if you’re here on your honeymoon, I’d recommend this.” I bit my bottom lip, curious what he was going to suggest. “Our Blueberry Bomb.”

Our.

It was a good choice even though the cinnamon was my favorite; he always seemed to turn people away from the cinnamon, I’d noticed. Maybe he didn’t like the smell. Strange though, since it was the cinnamon candles I’d lit at the inn and he hadn’t said anything.

“Maine is famous for their blueberries, and the scent used in this comes from the blueberries grown by Stonebar Farms. You can find their shop a few blocks down with some of their famous jam.”

“Oh, yes! We stopped there yesterday and met the owner, Ailene. She’s wonderful.”

Minutes later, two more Blueberry Bombs were off the shelves and leaving with their new owners.

For over a decade, it had only been me. My dream. My candles. My store. But in a matter of days, he’d become a staple here.

A man I should hate because, in a few more days, he was going to break my sister’s heart and sell her inn to someone else.It’s businesswas always his response whenever we touched on the topic.

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