Page 54 of Rescuing Aria
“Glad to hear it.” I kiss her—slow, deep, a promise tucked into every pass of my lips over hers.
We move around each other with a rhythm that feels older than it is—passing shirts, brushing shoulders, sharing the mirror. I hand her one of my shirts to replace the one we destroyed last night, and she slips it on without hesitation. It hangs loose on her frame, swallowing her in cotton and the scent of me. Something primal stirs in my gut.
At the door, I tug her close again. One last kiss. One last brush of lips against skin before the day starts pulling us apart.
“Dinner?” I ask. “My place again?”
“I’d like that.” She smooths the front of my shirt, fingers lingering at the collar like she belongs there. Like she’s always belonged there.
“Good luck at training.” She lifts on tiptoe to kiss my cheek.
“Stay out of trouble,” I warn, opening the door for her.
“Where’s the fun in that?” She glances back over her shoulder with a wink that hits like a match to dry kindling.
I watch her walk to her car, the early sunlight turning her hair to gold, and stand there until she pulls away, my heart thudding, and my pulse still echoing her name.
Only when she’s gone do I head to my truck, already calculating how fast I can get through the day and back to her.
FOURTEEN
Aria
Jon’s shirtstill smells like him—cedar and something spicy, distinctively masculine. I catch myself inhaling deeply as I push open the door to The Little Matchstick Girl, the brass bell jingles announcing my arrival. Two hours later than usual, but who’s counting?
Ember, apparently.
She looks up from her workstation, a knowing smile spreading across her face as she takes in my disheveled appearance and borrowed clothing. Even through the haze of scented wax and essential oils filling the shop, I feel her amusement.
“Well, well, well. Look who the cat dragged in.” Her smile turns positively feline, green eyes gleaming with mischief.
“Good morning to you too.” I set my purse on the counter, trying and failing to suppress my own smile. My body still hums with the ghost of Jon’s touch, a pleasant soreness in muscles I’d forgotten I had.
“It’s almost noon,” she points out, eyebrows raised as she gestures to the vintage clock on the wall. “And that’s definitely not your shirt.”
I glance down at Jon’s black shirt, several sizes too big and rolled at the sleeves to keep my hands free. The soft cotton against my skin feels like an embrace, a reminder of this morning’s goodbye.
“Very observant,” I reply, aiming for dry but landing somewhere closer to smug.
“So.” She sets down the candle she’s working on and leans forward, elbows on the worktable, wax-stained fingers tented beneath her chin. “What kept you? Or should I say who?”
Heat rises to my cheeks, but I don’t mind her teasing. This easy friendship we’ve built still surprises me sometimes—the socialite and the street kid, now business partners and confidantes. If anyone had told me six months ago that I’d be standing in a candle shop in borrowed clothes, trading innuendos with a former street kid, I’d have called them delusional.
Yet here we are, and it feels more real than anything in my previous life.
“I was conducting important business negotiations.” I primly echo the text I sent her earlier when she bombarded me with question marks and fruit and vegetable shaped emojis.
“Oh, I’ll bet you were.” Ember laughs, the sound bright and knowing. “With Jon, I’m guessing? Since you’re wearing his shirt and all.”
From the corner, Ryn glances up from where she’s carefully placing crystal inclusions in her signature gemstone candles. She’s still finding her footing after everything she’s been through, but she’s talented, with an eye for beauty that transforms Ember’s practical creations into works of art.
Barely eighteen, Ryn seems both younger and older than her years—her slender frame and wide eyes giving her a deceptive fragility, while the shadows behind those eyes speak of experiences no one should have to endure.
“Fine, yes.” I move behind the counter, checking the register out of habit. The familiar routine grounds me, bringing me back from memories of Jon’s bedroom to the present moment. “I was with Jon.”
“And?” Ember prods, not about to let me off that easily. She abandons her workstation to follow me, the scent of cinnamon and clove clinging to her clothes.
“And, what?” I busy myself with straightening a display of travel-sized candles, though it doesn’t need it. The glass containers catch the morning light, sending prisms dancing across the polished wood counter.
