Page 2 of Chasing the Flame (The Sacred Flames Of Ruin #1)

There they are—on the highest shelf, naturally—and just beyond my reach. Jettson and Luke are discussing my plans for the home, and I don’t want to bother them, but I need some damn assistance.

Without a word, Jettson comes to the counter and gently moves me out of the way. He reaches toward the top shelf and pulls down several paper plates before putting them on the counter.

I don’t speak. I’m not even sure I breathe. He moves away before I can say anything, and as I turn, I lower my gaze to the ground. Knowing that I didn’t encourage his gentlemanly behavior won't matter to Luke.

All that mattered was he saw me, helped me, and was kind—right in front of him, a direct hit to his ego.

When I lift my eyes from the floor, Luke’s icy gaze stares back at me. His shrewd attention doesn’t miss a thing. My palms sweat, and my heart races as I bring the plates to the island, where they’re both perched on a stool.

“Thank you, love,” Luke says before rising from his spot. He stops by my side and wraps his arms around me in a grand display of affection. He nuzzles into my neck before sliding a hand down my stomach .

Instantly, I cringe, knowing damn good and well that he has an ulterior motive.

Sure enough, he pulls away from me before slapping my ass. “Damn baby,” he says, and the flush that creeps up my neck is enough to make me want to crawl under a rock and never emerge again.

I can’t stand it when he does this. Jettson’s existence alone seems to threaten his fragile male ego, though I’m not sure why. All the man did was see me struggling and step in to help. Shocking, I know—such wild, unthinkable motives.

Kindness?

No. That’s too generous a conclusion. There must be something more sinister at play. I almost roll my eyes at the irony, but his nearness keeps me still—close enough to touch, yet motionless, like a warning.

He’s ridiculous .

It’s not like I had a shot at reaching it—not at my height.

Short is putting it kindly. I barely scrape five feet tall, and being thick doesn't exactly help my case. And I don’t mean "curvy" by today’s trendy standards. No, I’m a solid size sixteen in just about everything, which lands me squarely in the plus size section every time.

Do you know that saying? Thick thighs save lives? Yeah, they fucking lied.

Thick thighs do not save lives. They make it much harder for me to live my daily life. And don’t even get me started on the chafing or the fucking short-leg jokes I’ve been subjected to.

I’ve gained some weight, which is expected, especially during the honeymoon phase of your marriage.

I mean, it’s fucking normal, or at least I’ve always been told that. It doesn’t matter to Luke. He can’t have his trophy wife look anything less than perfect. That’s why he filled the fridge with lots of fruit and vegetables—sans the wine .

I move to serve them, catching the sight of Luke’s empty glass. Of course. I go back and grab the lemonade from the fridge, refilling it like I always do. Not even a thank you. Figures.

Jettson’s rough voice cuts through the awkward silence, “Mrs. Blackthorne, would you like to tell me about your plans for the house?”

The jug of lemonade feels heavy between my fingers. My heart drops, plummeting into the recesses of my stomach, sending a wave of dizziness straight to my head. I know that Luke is watching my every move and tension permeates the air, which spells trouble for me.

My stomach clenches painfully, my throat constricting as I try to force the words out.

“Yes, why don’t you tell Jettson all about your plans? I’ll see you after I make some calls,” Luke says before wrapping me in another hug and planting a wet kiss on my cheek.

The urge to wipe it off is so bad, but I manage to refrain. Luke looks at me before shaking Jettson’s hand again, promising to call Uncle Elliot tomorrow.

I almost snort. He’s not going to call that man. Luke Blackthorne is too busy to be bothered with such trivial nonsense.

Once Luke heads back to his study, I move to clean up.

I’ve just grabbed the veggie tray when a hand clasps around mine, stopping me in my tracks.

A gasp slips from my lips, my gaze meeting those piercing eyes that seem to see straight to my soul.

“I’ll put this away. It’s the least I can do.

Why don’t you have a seat and tell me about your vision for the kitchen? ”

This man keeps taking me by surprise.

All I can manage is to stand there slack-jawed while he returns things to their rightful place. A few minutes pass, and I still can’t seem to force the words out of my mouth. I’m stuck—utterly enthralled—watching Jettson move with fluidity in an unfamiliar kitchen.

I swallow hard.

When the final items are put away, I awkwardly sit at the island, clasping my hands in front of me and nervously swinging my legs.

I’m fidgety, tapping the counter with my fingers as my eyes dart around the kitchen.

“Well,” I say, unsure where to start. “All I know is this…isn’t it.

” I wave my hand around the room, a frown furrowing my brows.

Amusement twitches at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes twinkle mischievously. His gaze lingers too long on my face, the twinkle swiftly dying and turning into something more dangerous. He pinches his brows together, and it seems like he is biting his tongue. Good .

If he’s smart, he’ll keep his mouth shut and leave the whole fiasco with Luke alone. His interference wouldn’t bode well for me.

Then, something shifts, like a wall crumbling down, and his expression shifts—an inferno that burns brighter with every second his eyes trail down my body.

The look he gives me sends a wave of heat barreling straight to my core. I clench my legs together, shocked and mortified by the ache and growing wetness I feel. I don’t understand why I’m not running in the opposite direction. I shouldn’t feel anything—not like this.

His eyes snare mine again, a sinful smirk lingering on his lips. One minute, he’s ever the protector, going out of his way for someone he just met. Next, it’s like he flips a switch, enjoying the way I squirm.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of letting him see how affected I am.

Schooling my features, I sit up straighter, releasing a slow, measured breath.

This isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve had five years of practice when it comes to acting.

When I glance at him again, the expression is gone, replaced with a wall built so high it steals my breath .

Jettson sits across from me, his bulky frame nearly hanging off the stool. He looks like a gorilla trying to sit on a tricycle. My lips twitch, and I cough to cover the laugh begging to escape. It’s a comical sight, but he sure does look uncomfortable.

He scratches his beard before leaning onto the counter.

You can tell he’s weighing his words, but to my surprise, he doesn’t waste a second getting straight to the point, even if he’s giving me shit over my obvious disgust of the floral wallpaper and cheap countertops.

“Well, since this—how did you say it? Oh, yes, isn’t it?

Why don’t I give you a rundown of themes I’ve created?

Then we can narrow it down to color schemes, ensuring you have the appropriate appliances and furniture to mesh well with the concept. ”

Another blush stings my cheeks, but for an entirely different reason. His expression darkens, his gaze molten and searing straight through me. A shiver runs down my spine, one that is unwelcome, especially considering my husband sits in his study just down the hall.

It’s a moment of tension that grows with every passing second. A moment that I can't afford to indulge in.

There’s something about this man that sends a nervous energy swirling in my stomach, whipping through me like a raging hurricane. I can’t put my finger on it. I’m not even sure I want to.

The energy in the room is palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. Molten lava rushes down to my core, heat pooling in my stomach in a delicious way that has me imagining all sorts of things I shouldn’t be.

Things that surprise me. Things I can’t explain, or even begin to understand why I’m thinking them in the first place.

Things that scare me.

It’s likely only a second or two that passes, but it feels like an eternity before the words crawl up my throat. “Yes, that would be wonderful. I’m open to your expertise. I do know that I want something classic and a lot more modern, even a gothic feeling.”

A smile graces his lips. The first genuine smile I’ve seen come across his face since arriving. “That I can do,” he says before rising from his seat.

He moves to the kitchen table, which the previous owner left. The table is white and made from oak, and I plan to remove it as soon as possible.

I never noticed his satchel until he reached for it, the leather bag worn with age.

He must’ve carried it inside the house earlier.

Reaching a hand inside, I’m surprised as he pulls out an official-looking binder and several blueprints and scrolls.

He lays them gently on the table, spreading the original blueprint for Carson Plantation wide.

Just as he goes to speak, Luke comes around the corner.

I hadn’t even heard him, the sneaky fuck.

“Sorry about that. I had to take care of some business. You know how it is, Jettson,” he says as he enters the room.

Jettson doesn’t acknowledge the comment. Instead, he takes the reins and says, “We were just discussing your wife's plans.”

Luke gives me a silent stare, and the shiver that runs down my spine has my heart galloping inside my chest. “Oh, and what plans would those be?” His cruel smile follows, making me wonder how much control I’ll actually get in the design.

“I like her ideas. They have the potential to be incredible, modern, and classy. Add in a few gothic elements, and this will be a design that everyone will want. We could start here in the kitchen, perhaps some black marble countertops from Italy—”

Luke’s harsh voice cuts through the air, interrupting Jettson and sending a cloud over his face. “Averie, baby, don’t you think that’s a little silly ? Turning this beautiful lakeside property into one of your childish gothic fantasies?”

If I wasn’t mortified already, I am now. Crimson stains my cheeks, my palms sweat, and the ringing in my ears is so loud.

The buzzing heightens in a crescendo that sends another wave of dizziness over me. I lower my eyes to the kitchen counter and wait for Luke to say something else that’s demeaning or embarrassing. Silence fills the room, and my skin prickles as if someone watches me intently.

It’s a feeling that makes my skin crawl, and when I lift my head, I see it in Jettson’s gaze.

I know the rage buried in his eyes, that icy steel flashing in warning.

His posture is rigid, his hands gripping the counter with brute strength and bone-white knuckles.

“I rather like creative expression, and if done tastefully, the gothic twists will add an elegant feel to an already beautifully done home. Wouldn’t you agree, cousin? ”

Jettson’s expression darkens as he stares at Luke, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t affect me in the slightest. If Luke’s returning glare is any indication, this little encounter will cost me. Finally, his expression shifts after a beat, and the mask emerges.

“Yes, of course,” he says before stepping close to the counter, reaching for the plans Jettson has already laid there. He looks over them before saying, “This does look promising, and I trust your judgment. You’ve always come highly recommended. Just try not to run the bank account dry. Will you?”

I let loose a breath, chuckling slightly, knowing that’s the response that Luke would approve of. Jettson’s gaze catches mine again, and a silent understanding passes between us. Luke is still distracted by the plans he presented, so I use the moment to mouth, “Thank you.”

Jettson nods at me before turning his attention back to Luke.

He knows his cousin is a condescending prick, and my heart swells at the thought of having an ally, possibly even a friend, in this little country bumpkin kind of town.

So, while the two of them work on the plans, I look out the big windows of the kitchen, watching as the clouds roll in and the waves crash along the sandy beach of Lake Superior, letting my thoughts wander as much as I dare.

As the wheels turn in my mind, I’m reminded of Jettson and how his hands gripped the table in rage.

My thoughts wander, idle curiosity filling me to the brim.

I feel the pull, and don’t try to stop it, even though I know I should—even if I can’t explain it.

And so, as they continue to talk, I sink further into the depravity.

Knowing damn well that this is a dangerous road to walk.