Candlelight Conspiracy (3 page)

“Hmm. What do you do for a living? You don’t look like you sit in an office all day.”
Or skip the gym.

“I think it’s time I get to ask you questions.”

“Okay. What do ya want to know? I’m an open book.”

Not the truth, but what did he know? She’d smile pretty and answer like she always had—telling about her fantastic childhood, loving family, and how performing onstage made her feel alive. What she wouldn’t share was the horrific tragedy of losing her parents, her commitment issues for fear of losing another person, and that some days being alone in this world was too much to handle. Those were the days she couldn’t get out of bed.

“What do
you
do for a living?” He sat back in the couch with ease, his white shirt clinging to his sculpted body.

She purposely took a moment to appreciate the hardness of his chest.
Is it smooth?
Then he moved his arm to take a drink, and she noticed the strength in his lean bicep. Before she met his eyes again, she took a deep breath filled with longing.

“I work full time as a florist at Kiss from a Rose with my best friend, and I’m the lead singer and guitarist for Orange Heart. We mainly cover eighties songs, but sometimes I write an original.”

“Anything I would know?”

She laughed at his serious tone. “Probably not.” If a complete stranger knew her songs, she’d faint. As it were, sales weren’t exactly skyrocketing.

“I’ll have to check them out.” He moved his tray to the side.

“Please do.” She turned to her left to see him better and pulled her legs up so she could rest her chin on her knees.

The silence stretched but was not static—she could feel the nothingness flow between them as if they were attached to the same wire with electricity passing between them. She’d known Marc for less time than it would take her to walk down to the street and two blocks west to buy new guitar strings. Still, she felt like she’d known the man sitting three feet away from her for years.
This must be what instant friendship is like.

“Was that the burning question that’s been on your mind about me?” She reached behind her, found her jacket, and slipped it on over her dark-green t-shirt.
I hope the power comes back on soon.
Marc’s strong arms and hands rested easily on his thighs as he ignored her question.
Or maybe not.

He was nice and sexy and mysterious in a good-boy sort of way. Maybe they could be neighbors with benefits. She was figuring out how her fantasy scenario would work when his soothing, rich voice broke into her thoughts.

“If you could relive any moment in time again and again, whenever you wanted, what would it be?”

We’re getting right into the hard questions, aren’t we?
To be fair, she’d started it. “Define moment.”

“A scene in time, could be five minutes or an hour.”

That was easy. She was sitting down to dinner with her family at age fourteen. Spaghetti was hot on the table along with French bread that had been buttered, sprinkled with ranch seasoning, and heated. There was nothing uniquely special about the moment—she couldn’t even remember the conversation. Her life though, during that dinner, had been complete. Less than a year later nothing from that moment survived. Not the feeling of contentment. Not the homemade food. Not the love.

“I would relive the first time … ” A tear escaped her right eye, and she brushed it away, hoping somehow he hadn’t noticed. Unexpectedly, and rather impulsively, stories she hadn’t shared with anyone, ever, were not so scary to talk about in the flickering light. Her defenses softened. Telling Marc wouldn’t matter; this was probably the only time she’d ever have a conversation with him anyway. She cleared her throat, unsure of her voice. “A dinner with my parents,” she whispered.

He leaned forward. “Tell me.”

“Mom insisted on making dinner every weeknight. I helped.” She smiled faintly at the memory. “My favorite was spaghetti. Dad would come home from the restaurant, and we’d all eat together. Life was good.”

She risked a glance in his direction just as he raised his eyebrows and prompted her to continue.

“They died. Car accident.” The words were automatic but always stung. Usually she hid her reaction; tonight she didn’t even try. She sniffled and took a deep breath.

“Sorry to hear.” His voice was low and sincere.

Sophie appreciated the sentiment that usually followed that particular fact about her life. Marc’s tone, his face, and his entire body conveyed a heartfelt response. She closed her eyes.
Not the time to cry.

When she opened her eyes, he was watching her, closely, and looked ready to hear more. But she wasn’t as ready to divulge her story, the one that sometimes didn’t feel real, as she’d initially thought. She’d shared enough. “Next question.”

His pause, the hesitation in the air, caught her breath.

“When did you first pick up a guitar?”

Her exhale was audible, but she didn’t care.

“I was about six, I think, when my mom put me in lessons.”

Music was a part of her very being. When she was really into the process, she felt the notes, could see their lyrics, and craved it in her soul. The world made more sense when put to music. It never got old. Normally songs came fairly easy to her, but she’d been in an epic slump lately—which is why Candace closing the flower shop was the perfect opportunity to reconnect to her muse. Or find a muse. Or put her butt in a dang chair and not leave until her writing mojo returned.

“Did you study music in school?” he asked, stopping her internal freak-out that she would never put a whole song together again.

“No. I wish. I have a general business degree.” She chuckled with no humor. The one time in her life she’d tried to be super practical. “I thought maybe that type of education would help me more in the long run. If I had to do it over, I would’ve applied for a music composition program, maybe minored in business.”

“You still could.”

“I’m learning from the school of reality now. Sometimes jumping in and experiencing is better.”

“Do you play any other instruments?”

“Nope, never had any interest other than the guitar and singing. My mom found me a teacher who specialized in both.”

“Smart woman. How long have you had your band?”

“Three years. This the best band I’ve ever been in.”

“I always wondered how that works. Do people jump from band to band, or do you meet people you feel the most creative with and become a band? Who names you?”

“I’ve done it both ways. College days it was whoever had an opening. With Orange Heart though, we all met in different ways, and it just sort of happened. Our name is because we have some serious
heart
”—she smiled—“and were
really
into orange pop at the time. Like, embarrassing amounts.”

He laughed. “So I’ve found your weakness.”

“Oh, geez, no, can’t touch the stuff. I drank enough for a lifetime, and now it seriously grosses me out.”

He stood and collected their plates.

“Do you want help?”

“Nah, I got it. I also have dessert.”

“Dinner was delicious. Thank you. And you made dessert? How are
you
still single?”

There was a micro-faltering in his posture, and his face tightened for only a second before he brushed off her comment. “Let me see if the power outage ruined it, too, before I get your hopes too high.”

He rifled around in the kitchen, but she couldn’t see what he was messing with. For the first time, she examined his apartment. The couch and love seat they’d been occupying formed a square with the TV and outer wall, which contained a window to the alley. A faint light shone through but didn’t add an abundance of light to his apartment. His bedroom door, a couple feet away from his front door, was behind the love seat. The layout was the same as her apartment, only reversed. Nothing hung on the walls—no pictures of family or artwork he favored. There was a plain, brown square rug under a smaller coffee table between her and the TV and a couple of cooking magazines at the foot of the couch. Behind her, the kitchen looked like the most used room in his apartment, with oven mitts, a stand holding a cookbook, and pots on the stove.

A quick sideways glance at his bedroom door again made her wonder what was behind it. What that where he displayed his personal pictures? Would it be tidy or have clothes strewn about? Meanwhile, Marc was moving about the kitchen with a knowing that must have come from years of training.

“Are you a chef or something?” she asked.

He walked around the counter, holding two big, white bowls. “Yes.”

“Where at?”

“Heard of Sizzo’s?”

“Yes.” She’d eaten there a couple of times and finished everything on her plate, nearly licking it when she was done.

“That’s me.” He handed her a cold bowl. “Hope you like ice cream.”

It wasn’t every day someone served you two green, fist-size balls of ice cream. “Green?”

“Wasabi.” He pointed to the empty cushions on the couch next to her. “Do you mind?”

“No,” she said and scooted back so there was almost a full cushion between them before she twisted around, crossing her legs.

He sat with ease, all his muscles working in defined, sexy unison.

“Your restaurant is pretty cool. Is Sizzo your last name?” She kept the questions coming, not wanting to think about how attracted she was becoming to her neighbor, not wanting to acknowledge the personal bombshell she’d dropped, and hoping to avoid the intimacy the candlelight brought to their conversation.

“Yes, it is. I couldn’t think of anything else to name it.”

“It fits.”

“It’s more in honor of my dad than me. We used to cook together, and I just kept going with it I loved it so much.” He cleared his throat. “I’m glad you liked the place. Do you remember what you had?”

“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.