Candlelight Conspiracy

by Dana Volney

  “Lobster roll, and the second time I ordered the yellow curry. Your menu is eclectic.” She scooped into her ice cream. Good thing she wasn’t afraid to try new food. The sweet and spicy taste was delicious. This man is talented. Three guesses where else he probably showed talent.

  “I like being able to experiment with different foods. Figured people might want a variety and didn’t want to tie myself down to one type.”

  “There isn’t anything like that in town. We’re pretty specialized where food is concerned. I hope you do well.”

  “Me too. We’re, well, we’re picking up steam.”

  She studied the line of his square jaw, his smooth cheek, and the weariness she could see in his eyes. The candlelight was brighter where he sat, and the hard set to his face was evident. She wanted to reach out and caress his face—feel his hard body next to hers. The day had been long, her week had been long. Hell, her year had been long. She hadn’t experienced a connection like the one with Marc in a long time—if ever.

  “Then why are you so worried?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Listen, I’ve known you for all of a second, and I can tell you take your work too seriously.”

  “There is still so much to do. We aren’t full every day. We need to be full.”

  “You realize we don’t have the population of Tacoma, and there are a ton of places to eat in town?” Her palms flicked toward him as she shrugged her shoulders; she wasn’t trying to be offensive. “Maybe you need a bit of a lower metric for success.”

  She understood goals to define success, but not building in any room to improve or be happy with accomplishments led to miserable days and nights. Songwriting had given her new perspective on wins and losses. At first, she set the bar so high that even though people liked her songs, she considered not hitting number one on any charts “failing.” Now, she was very happy when people liked her original music and purchased Orange Heart’s CDs, and she knew that someday she would experience wild success with writing—because she was practicing and learning the business more than ever. It was a slow build—like Marc and his restaurant.

  “I can’t fail.” The statement seemed to be more to himself than to her.

  “Why?”

  His brows rose. “Because failing is not an option. It would be devastating. I don’t know. What? Do you like failing?”

  “I don’t like it, but I’m also not afraid of it. Sometimes, when you look back, it’s not a total loss.”

  “I like that you’re optimistic.”

  His words gave her a feeling of warmth. “It’s easy to be optimistic about your life.” She chuckled.

  “Then I’ll be positive about yours, and you can return the sentiment.” He moved his head toward her and then back as he spoke, his blond hair swaying. She pictured running her hands through his thick hair, and her heartbeat sped up.

  “Deal,” she said.

  His lips touched his metal spoon, wiping it clean of ice cream, and she licked her lips. What am I doing? There was no doubt she wouldn’t stop Marc if he kissed her. Her body felt light with anticipation—a hope that was made up in her head, of course. Does he even like me? She touched her hair; it was dry but probably looked like a stringy mess—not very sexy. Great. Marc was the most interesting guy she’d met in forever, and she hadn’t even brought her A game to the power-outage party.

  • • •

  His wasabi ice cream had turned out decently. He might put in a little more wasabi when he served it at the restaurant—add to the kick. Sophie seemed to enjoy it. His cooking could’ve been horrible tonight, and he’d have enjoyed eating it because Sophie was there.

  “Where’s your Christmas tree?” she asked.

  “I don’t really celebrate.”

  He watched her eye his apartment and wondered what she’d do if he set down his bowl, encased her cheeks with his hands, and kissed her. Not a sissy kiss either. A real, hard, wanting kiss.

  “Me either. I used to—would put up a real tree and everything. Go all out every year. Somewhere along the way, I just stopped.”

  This was the first year he’d opted to skip holiday decorations. Putting everything up and taking them down with barely time to enjoy them seemed like a waste of time. His former restaurant, The Plum Leaf, that he’d worked so hard to create with Felicia’s father, was no doubt decorated, and his home had always been, too. Felicia had made sure of that.

  Felicia. He hadn’t thought about her in a while. He’d kept himself busy—too busy to wallow. Not that he needed to sit in a pot of pity at the moment, or ever again. It had taken him all of an hour to decide what to do after she’d walked out on him two days before their wedding. Leave. All he knew was that he needed to start over and find his own life. The kicker was that his sadness didn’t even stem from losing her, but from losing his restaurant. In hindsight, if he’d slowed down he would’ve noticed the signs. He knew that now. He also knew that if he was ever going to get involved with someone again, he’d have to love that person more than he loved the restaurant, and that was impossible.

  “I decorated my restaurant; that’s where I can appreciate the tree and lights the most.” He forced himself to get back into his present—he’d already spent too much time living in the past as it was. “Was your dad a chef? You said he worked at a restaurant?” he asked.

  “No. He was the manager, took care of the front of house. He loved his job. The restaurant is gone now, but the food was delicious.”

  “The food is always important.” He nodded in agreement.

  She finished the last of her dessert.

  Lights flickered on, and Marc felt the disappointment deep in his gut. Say something clever to get her to stay. The hour wasn’t too late yet. He stole a look at Sophie, and she glanced back—the same gloom he felt reflected in her eyes.

  “Well, I … ” she started to say, then the lights cut out again and she fell silent.

  He barely breathed. If she wanted to leave, he wouldn’t stop her. Should he make another date with her, wait to bump into her in the hall again, or stick with his original plan? Shit. One hour with Sophie and he’d forgotten about the promise he’d made to himself to get the restaurant going, pour his heart and soul into it, and swear off dating.

  “Guess we’re still out of luck,” he said, but he meant the opposite. Perhaps he could convince her to try a friends-with-benefits arrangement, and then he’d have his risotto and eat it too. This was beginning to look like the luckiest power outage of his life.

  She sighed. “I don’t mean to impose on you.”

  “You’re not.”

  She stood, her dishes in hand, and reached for his. “Can I help?”

  “I’m going to wait until there’s power to clean up. I tidy as I cook, so the kitchen isn’t a total mess.” He took the dishes from her, momentarily grazing the softness of her skin. The act was simple, fleeting, and damn nice.

  What could they do next? TV was out, which eliminated a movie too. Damn, he hadn’t had to entertain anyone in a while. He’d already fed her, now they needed an activity and suggesting the one he had in mind would be indecent—more than likely.

  He walked back to the living room, trying to remember if he had any board games. She stood, grabbed the blanket off of the couch, and turned, bumping into him.

  “Oh.” She stepped back.

  He didn’t move a muscle. Her brown eyes widened. Flames flickered on the wall behind her and shadowed her innocent features. How could he feel so close to a woman he barely knew? God, he wanted to reach out and touch her—feel her soft skin under his fingertips, touch her pink lips with his.

  As he debated a proper, or improper, next step, she reached up, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him. Surprise caught his breath. There wasn’t a hint of sweetness in her kiss—no, she’d led with fiery want. He slipped his hands around her hips to her lower back and pulled her closer. Returning her zeal, he opened his mouth to her and entwined their tongues. There wa
s no way in hell he was going to say no to Sophie. Her hands worked their way up, sliding around his neck and up into his hair, creating a powerful mix of need, submission, and panic. This is what I’ve been missing.

  Their bodies pressed together. He found the bottom of her t-shirt and slipped his hands under to the softness of her belly. He felt her gasp, causing his heart to pound. He ran his hands up her back, needing to touch every inch of her warm and silky skin, claim her. She pulled away slightly, and before he could ask why, she grabbed his shirt and pulled it up. He helped her, not wanting to be separated for long. She shed her shirt at the same time, revealing a white cotton bra and slender torso. Their skin collided, and Marc’s mind went blank. The contact with her soft skin burned him, and he needed more. Now.

  His lamps and the kitchen lights sprang to life. Dammit. Sophie pulled away, and they stood there, arms wrapped around each other, inches apart. Neither spoke.

  The question on her face was hard to ignore. And he didn’t have an answer. He wasn’t sure what they were doing or where their kissing would lead, either.

  Sophie stood on her tiptoes and kissed him once on the lips before fully breaking their embrace. His chest chilled—he didn’t like the new sensation. He wanted the old one back. His arms fell to his sides as he watched her step away.

  “Um … thank you for the outstanding dinner,” she said.

  Her brows rose, and pink started to tinge her cheeks. Sonuvagun, she’s adorable. He wanted to reach out, wrap his hands around her hips, and pull her back to him.

  “No problem. Anytime,” he said, when he really wanted to say, “Stay.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sophie couldn’t sleep. After a jaw-dropping, tingle-inducing, soul-calling kiss, how could she? And knowing that the man who could kiss her like that was right across the hall made her pillow and bed very uncomfortable.

  There was only one thing she could do tonight, and it wasn’t sleep. She sat up, turned on her lamp, grabbed the pen and notepad she kept by her bed, and curled her knees to her chest. Writing always helped her process situations and emotions. Don’t fail me tonight.

  She started to hum various melodies to match the way she’d felt at Marc’s—she needed to find the right mood for the song. A silky, tender tone stuck; she closed her eyes, swaying her head side to side. His apartment was identical to hers and yet, with her eyes shut, she didn’t see the walls—she saw the candlelight, the sincerity in his eyes, and allowed herself to explore what the flutters in her belly meant.

  Her heartbeat sped up with the excited energy that bounced around from limb to limb. She opened her eyes and began to write words associated with what she was feeling. Candlelight, flickering light, darkness, shadows, curious eyes, watchful glances, freaking delicious food, spices. She wrote KISS in capital letters and circled it and circled it and circled it. She was really going to have to move past the fact their lips had touched and she wanted it to happen again. That daydream wasn’t productive—other than helping her write music.

  So tonight she’d let herself daydream a ton but definitely shut it off in the light of day.

  She continued to write down words and phrases while humming more of the melody. Marc’s eyes were beautiful—the way he looked at her, questioned her, laughed with her. What was it like to be him? How did he see the world? She had a pretty good idea after spending the evening with him, but still she wondered how he saw her. He was driven and lived in the black and white—she saw all the colors of the world and understood why people did even the craziest of things.

  The darkness had helped hide identities, literally. She chewed on the end of her purple pen cap. So why had she talked so much? Why had she volunteered information to him so willingly? It’s not like she even liked the guy at first. She was just kind of screwing with his uptight ass, and dinner smelled good. Went for the food, stayed for the man. She laughed out loud. She was so cheesy. Maybe if she wrote a country song that would be a line. She wrote it down in the back of her notebook with her other odd one-liners.

  Ugh. She let her head fall back on her propped-up pillow. She wasn’t doing this again—she wasn’t jumping in eyes closed, head first, no questions. Her heart would remain guarded and hidden, for good. Or at least for the foreseeable future.

  Her norm was dating a series of guys with whom she was never too serious but just enough to feel lousy when she ended it. And she was determined to change her future by not making the same mistakes of her past. Steve, her latest ex, she’d actually liked, but there was something missing, and the final straw had come at Thanksgiving, when he hadn’t invited her to his family’s celebration.

  It was a dumb final reason, probably; she hadn’t even really wanted to go to dinner. It was just a sign, one reason in a long list. They weren’t serious, and she didn’t want to waste time. Being with a partner should be something you looked forward to—what they were going to say next, how sharing with them wasn’t scary, and the empowerment to be better that each gave to the other Steve hadn’t met any of those criteria. No one she’d ever dated had. That’s why she was alone in her apartment reminiscing about a kiss and the fallout that was sure to be better in her estimation than in reality. Hence her vow—she wasn’t going to date just anyone anymore. Taking a break from chasing love and focusing on her dreams—writing songs, performing—was the best choice she’d made in a long time. Doing what she loved for her and no one else. She didn’t need unnecessary distractions.

  Guess I have that in common with Marc, after all.

  She spent the rest of the night on her guitar, putting words down on paper, scratching them out, and remembering their night in detail. After showering when the sun rose, she milled around her apartment, writing more lyrics, cleaning, and finishing other projects on her to-do list, and tried not to listen for Marc’s door. A couple of times she thought she heard the familiar clicking and latching, but when she’d tiptoed to her peephole to see, the hall remained empty. He’d turned her into a schoolgirl. Crap on a cracker. She wasn’t a teenager anymore and preferred not to act like one. It was the candlelight’s fault—it had been conspiring against her for the perfect backdrop to kiss Marc. His sexy body in the dim, dancing light of candles—who could resist? She sure couldn’t. She couldn’t grab him and pull him to her lips fast enough.

  Candlelight conspiracy. That should be the title of the song. He’d probably never go to her shows to hear it anyway. Uptight Marc probably didn’t believe in listening to music about love and life unless it mentioned cooking techniques or a recipe. She was safe from him ever finding out she’d written a song about him.

  But it wasn’t until night fell that she heard faint footsteps and the jingle of keys. She snuck to her front door in time to see Marc disappear behind his door. Disappointment spiked her chest and settled in her stomach. What were you going to do anyway—pop out into the hall right when he got home to say hi? Stalker much? She wasn’t exactly dressed for the occasion either, with her beat-up navy sweatpants, white tank top with a bra built in, red zip-up hoodie, and fuzzy slipper socks. Yeah, she was the picture of sexy, all right. At least today her hair was combed and in a respectable ponytail.

  She turned and walked back to her guitar on the couch to work on the melody to her late-night lyrics when the power failing silenced her apartment. The one thing she was going to do today was get candles—but she hadn’t left her apartment. Great. Stuck in the dark and no Marc.

  She heard the distinct noise of creaking and froze. Could he be in the hall? Her belly fluttered, and she bit into her lower lip. She swiveled on her heels and opened her door, masking the smile that she felt everywhere.

  There he was, standing in his door frame, looking at her. Or, at least, she imagined he was—the hall was dark and she could only see his strong physique.

  “Funny meeting you here.” Oh, great, she was the lamest person she knew.

  “They really need to do something about the breakers in this place.” His voice was rich and wrap
ped around her like the hug she’d been waiting for all day.

  She didn’t like his words—she now looked forward to the outages—but she did like his tone. He sounded friendly and, if she was really stretching the bounds of her imagination, happy to see her.

  “Good luck complaining; the city owns this place.”

  “Did you buy any candles or flashlights today?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “I just got home and brought some food from the restaurant with me. Are you hungry?”

  She paused. In her head she’d already said yes and was kissing him hello. In reality, she wanted to seem not so readily available. Flirting was an art form, one she was still trying to master.

  “I’d hate to impose again.”

  “Nonsense.”

  He paused for so long she couldn’t tell if that was his answer in total or if he’d forgotten what else he was going to say.

  “I,” he chuckled, “actually brought home enough for two, thinking the chances of another outage were pretty good.”

  Oh, really? The darkness was a nice cloak for her reaction to his honesty. He either wanted her over for dinner or he’d assumed she’d crash the party again. Nah, she shouldn’t be so hard on herself. She was fun—they’d had a nice time last night. And maybe their kiss was still on his mind, too.

  “Okay, cool, let me grab my phone and keys, and I’ll be over.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  She heard a soft noise that sounded like him leaning on his door frame. Mmm. Such a gentleman. She gathered her two necessities, locked her apartment, and walked into his as he held the door.

  “Seems like yesterday,” she joked.

  He laughed. “I don’t want to alarm you”—he stepped in front of her, his cheekbones high and serious—“but there is a possibility we are in our very own Groundhog Day situation.” He winked and moved to let her by, her arm only missing his chest by an inch.