Page 66 of Rescuing Aria
“Can’t a guy visit his favorite candle shop?” Storm’s tone is light, bordering on amused, but there’s an edge beneath it. “Maybe I need another candle?”
Razor says nothing as he crosses to the front window, scanning the street, cataloging exits, shadows, and movement.
“Nice display,” he mutters, but it’s clear he’s not looking at the jars of wax.
“Hey, everything okay?” Ryn steps out from the stockroom, ponytail swinging.
The moment Razor registers her, something shifts in his posture. Almost imperceptible—but I catch it. Shoulders relax. Head tilts. Eyes soften just a notch.
“Didn’t know you were here,” he says, voice low, almost thoughtful.
“Inventory day.” Ryn grins, unaware—or maybe not—of the way his gaze lingers a fraction too long.
“You always do the labels by hand?” He nods toward the tray of calligraphy tags she carries, then steps closer to examine one, closer than necessary.
“I like the way it looks,” she says. “Cleaner. More personal.”
“Yeah. Looks good.” His fingers brush the edge of a tag, not touching her, but close enough to notice her scent—citrus and clove from the oils she mixes.
My brows lift. Razor doesn’t do small talk. Doesn’t compliment, but here he is, all subtle shifts and soft edges.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles. Something’s off.
These men don’t show up together unless it’s tactical—and whatever Razor’s doing now, the rest of his body screams alert.
“What’s going on?” I ask, stepping closer. “Why are you here?”
Storm and Razor exchange a glance, a silent confirmation of what I already suspect.
“Just keeping an eye on things,” Storm says with a shrug that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Jon asked us to swing by.”
“Why would Jon—” I stop mid-sentence. “This is about my father, isn’t it?”
Storm hesitates. And that tells me everything I need to know.
“Not exactly.”
“Thenwhatexactly?” Ember’s voice sharpens, the old edge cutting through. “Because you’re scaring off customers with the whole Men in Black routine.”
Razor tears his gaze away from Ryn—reluctantly—and turns back toward us.
“Sorry. We’ll tone it down.” He gestures toward the back table. “Mind if we hang out for a bit? Promise we’ll buy something.”
“Better be the expensive stuff.” Ryn arches a brow.
“Only the best.” His grin flickers, real this time.
But even as he takes the seat closest to her station, I clock the way he angles his body—half-alert, half-interested. I can’t tell which instinct is stronger.
“Is someone in danger?” I press. “Is it the shop?”
No one answers right away.
Which is an answer all by itself.
The men exchange another glance. Finally, Storm sighs.
“Look, it’s probably nothing. Just some chatter that has Jon concerned. He thought it might be good to have extra eyes around until things settle.”
