Page 4 of Rescuing Aria
My hand stills on the bag handles.
Jon’s reply is soft. Embarrassed. “I don’t… She wouldn’t…”
“Dude.” Mac’s grin is audible. “She knocked over an entire display just to get your attention.”
“That was an accident,” Jon protests, scandalized.
“Sure it was,” Mac drawls.
I stand frozen, heart thudding in my throat. Heat crawls up my neck as I replay every clumsy moment—every stolen glance. I squeeze the paper handles tighter, cheeks flushed, lips curved into a secret smile as I step back out into the fray.
The morning passes in a whirlwind of sales and stories, the shop pulsing with warmth and movement. Customers drift from table to table, inhaling the air thick with the scents of cinnamon, lavender, and melted wax. But it’s not just the scents that pull them in—it’s the women behind the counter.
Ryn starts off tentative, her voice barely rising above the music. But with every sale, every compliment, she straightens a little taller. She answers questions with growing confidence, her posture relaxing, her eyes lighting up when a woman tells her the “Midnight Ember” scent reminds her of dancing barefoot in the rain.
By the time a teenager insists on buying three of Ryn’s kintsugi candles “for aesthetic vibes,” her smile is a mile wide. She’s cracking jokes and wrapping products like she was born for retail therapy.
At the front of the store, Ember is in her element.
She doesn’t just sell candles—she sells stories.
“This one’s lavender,” she says to an older couple, her fingers grazing the soft purple label. “It’s my bestseller. I like to say it soothes your soul more than your senses.”
The woman clutches the jar to her chest like it’s precious.
“And this one…” Ember lifts another, her voice taking on a soft reverence. “Vanilla. I blended it to smell like my grandmother’s kitchen. It reminds me of home.”
A teenage boy quietly places it in his basket, cheeks flushed.
When a man in a suit picks up a pine-scented candle, Ember grins. “That one’s for new beginnings. You planning one?”
He hesitates. Nods. “Just moved. Divorce was—rough.”
“Then this is your fresh start.” She doesn’t pry. Just presses the candle gently into his palm.
I stand near the center display, folding bags, pretending to organize ribbon, but really, I’m just watching Ember shine.
This girl, who once sold candles off a milk crate on a street corner, now commands a shop filled with laughter, light, and purpose. Customers lean closer when she speaks, drawn not just to the scents but to the strength threaded through her words.
My throat tightens. Pride swells in my chest until it’s almost too much. She built this. From ashes. From trauma. From nothing.
And it smells like hope.
By lunch, I’m back on my tiptoes, reaching for something on the top shelf—this time, genuinely needing it. My fingers graze the edge of the box, but it wobbles, teasing, just out of reach. I don’t hear Jon approach.
I feel him.
The heat of his body brushes against my back as he steps in behind me, calm and unhurried. His arm lifts beside mine, steady as he grabs the box like it weighs nothing. Our bodies align with startling ease—his presence fitting into mine like some long-missing piece.
He lowers the box, but doesn’t move away. I turn—and he’s already watching me.
Close.
Too close.
Not close enough.
“Thanks,” I murmur, but it comes out breathless.
