Page 97 of The Candlemaker

“What can I do?”

“Shut the door,” she said between gasps.

Locking my jaw, I wedged myself inside the tiny-ass bathroom with her and closed the door. For long seconds, I didn’t say anything—do anything except hold her hair and let my fingers trace slow circles on her back, watching as eventually the tension in her body finally relaxed with a deepexhale.

“It’s the stupid pumpkin spice. Makes me sick.” She moaned again, and I tensed, preparing for another bout of sickness, but it never came.

“Then why are you using it?” I said, trying to hold back my growl.

“It’s my most popular…” She pulled the lid over the toilet and flushed it, her shoulders sagging with the effort.

Anything for her business.My jaw tightened. Well, not this. Not while I was here.

“Hold your breath,” I ordered.

“What—” She stopped and filled her cheeks with air when she saw me reach for the door handle.

I slipped back into her workroom and firmly shut the door. From there, it only took me a couple of minutes to give my shoes a quick wipe, clean up the jars, and seal closed the wax, but even then, the scent still clung to the air.

I went back to the bathroom door and asked through it, “Is there a scent that makes it better?”Because, knowing Frankie, she would’ve found it.

“Yeah,” she answered and paused for so long I really thought she was going to make me ask what it was. “The candle on my desk.”

With a few steps, I found the one she was talking about.The candle with no label.I grabbed a lighter from her drawer and lit the wick. I couldn’t help but bring my nose to it as I carried it to the back.

It smelled like…sandalwood and cloves. I wasn’t that good with scents, but I knew what was written on the bottle of cologne I used every morning.

My chest tightened.Did this candle…did she really make one?

“Frankie.” I knocked gently on the door.

“Yeah.” Her voice was weak.

“I cleaned up all the pumpkin spice from the back, and I’ve got your anti-nausea candle right outside the door.”

There was soft shuffling, and then the door opened, her head hesitantly poking through. She snatched the candle from me like it was an oxygen mask in a burning building and took a deep inhale, holding it close to her face as she stepped out of the room.

“Thank you.”

She looked pained and exhausted—defeated—and the sight killed me.

“Does salt air help?”

Her head tipped. “I…it doesn’t hurt.”

“Good.” I nodded and held back the curtain. “Let’s go for a walk.”

She stilled. “And if I don’t want to?”

“You puked on my shoes. You owe me.”

She winced and then grumbled, “Okay.”

Even like this—drained and nauseous—she still wouldn’t let someone try to take care of her without some kind of threat or bet in place. I admired her independence as much as I hated it. But what I hated more was that I’d contributed to it. That I’d made her feel like she couldn’t trust me.

But no more. I didn’t care what it took or how long…Frankie Kinkade was going to learn I was here to stay.

For her.

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