Page 2 of Rescuing Aria
I reach for the mug, fingers brushing ceramic, but they won’t steady. Tremors betray me—tiny at first, then stronger, a pulse of tension radiating out from my core. The silence presses in, heavy and sharp-edged, scraping nerves already frayed raw.
The cup tips.
Time slows.
Coffee arcs in midair, splashing across the wood floor as the porcelain shatters. A sharp gasp—not mine—breaks the moment. I stare at the mess, heat rising in my throat, unable to breathe past the sudden sting behind my eyes.
Before I can even react, Jon is there. His hands catch mine, steadying me, checking my fingers for any sign of burns or cuts. His touch is gentle but thorough, professional yet intimate.
“Are you hurt?” His voice is soft, concerned, meant only for me.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, though I don’t pull my hands away. “Just clumsy.”
He doesn’t let go immediately, his thumbs brushing over my knuckles like he’s memorizing the shape of them. Charlie and Brett exchange knowing looks, and my cheeks flame with embarrassment.
And then the moment passes—slips between us like breath—and the rhythm of the morning presses in to swallow it.
Brett crouches to mop up coffee with a wad of paper towels while Charlie mutters something about needing stronger mugs. Jon finally releases my hands, his touch leaving behind a phantom heat that lingers far longer than it should.
The front door chimes again.
Controlled chaos descends like a well-rehearsed play.
Jenny strides in with Mac on her heels, both scanning the space like they’re prepping a battlefield instead of a candle shop. Mitzy’s right behind them, already scrolling through her tablet and muttering something about wireless dead zones.
“Don’t start,” Ember warns from across the counter, without looking up. “No robots, no drones, no laser grid.”
I watch the familiar banter, but my attention keeps drifting to Jon.
The way he moves—deliberate, coiled, predator-smooth—makes it impossible not to stare. Six-foot-something of silent intensity, all broad shoulders and cut muscle stacked like he was carved, not born. His shirt stretches just enough across his chest to make my thoughts indecent, and when he pivots, that narrow waist and thick arms pull heat straight into my bloodstream.
He doesn’t just look like danger. He wears it like a second skin. Eyes sweeping the space, cataloging exits, reading threats I can’t even see. But then his gaze snags on mine—and holds.
Too long. Too deep. Like he sees everything I’m not saying.
And God help me, I don’t look away.
The front door jingles, and Blaze fills the space with his effortless swagger. Ember turns like she’s gravity-bound to him, her whole face lighting up. That look between them? It’s a slow-burning fire. A promise. Something so real it makes my heart twist in my chest.
“Morning, beautiful.” His voice is a low caress, and their kiss draws out a collective groan.
“Gross,” Ryn calls from the workshop. “Some of us are trying to work here.”
The laughter that follows is familiar, grounding, and I use the distraction to step toward the front shelving. One of the signs is crooked—barely, but it bothers me. I reach up, stretching onto my toes, fingertips grazing the bracket.
A shadow moves in.
“Here—let me.” Jon’s voice slides down my spine, all quiet power.
Before I can react, he steps in close, reaching above me, his body a wall of heat and muscle. We’re not touching—barely—but my whole body buzzes like we are. I lower my arm slowly as his takes its place, and now he’s towering above me, breath warm against my temple.
I turn my head. He looks down.
The moment sharpens—tense, electric.
His face is inches from mine. Sharp jawline, dark eyes with flecks of amber catching the light. One hand still raised above me, the other dropping slowly to his side. We’re frozen, suspended in something fragile and dangerous.
I forget the sign. Forget the shop. Forget how to breathe.
