Page 64 of Rescuing Aria

Or it could be something else entirely.

I exit my truck, making a show of checking my watch while angling for a better view of the sedan. As I do, it pulls smoothly away from the curb, merging into traffic.

Coincidence? Maybe.

But in my experience, coincidences are usually anything but.

My phone buzzes with a text from Razor:In position at north corner. Storm taking south. Locked and loaded for Operation Dinner Date.

Despite everything, I smile. Then I cross the street toward the warm light of the shop, toward Aria, and toward whatever complications the evening holds.

SEVENTEEN

Aria

My phone liesface down on the counter, a small rectangle of doom I can’t bring myself to check again. That two-line text from my father—“Unacceptable. My office. 7 pm tonight.”—still burns in my mind, the digital equivalent of a summons to the principal’s office. Except that the principal is Marcus Holbrook, and disappointing him has consequences far beyond detention.

I take a deep breath, focusing on the task at hand. A middle-aged woman with kind eyes and an expensive handbag examines our winter collection, lifting each candle to inhale its scent.

“This one is incredible,” she says, holding up Ember’s newest creation. “What’s in it?”

“Pine, cinnamon, and just a hint of vanilla.” I move closer, grateful for the distraction. “Ember calls it ‘Hearth and Home.’ It’s designed to evoke memories of holiday gatherings.”

“It works.” The woman closes her eyes and inhales deeply. “Reminds me of my grandmother’s house when I was little.”

From her workstation, Ember glances up with a small smile of satisfaction. Creating emotional connections through scent is her gift, her art. She understands intuitively how fragrancebypasses the rational mind, speaking directly to memory and emotion.

“I’ll take three,” the customer decides. “One for me, one for my sister, and one for my daughter. Can you gift wrap them?”

“Of course.” I move behind the counter, pulling out our signature packaging—recycled paper embedded with wildflower seeds, tied with jute twine, and a sprig of dried lavender. Sustainable, beautiful, and distinctively ours.

As I wrap each candle, I can’t help thinking about Miranda’s proposal, still sitting in the office.Standardize product line. Eliminate artisanal processes. Outsource.

My father’s vision would turn these hand-poured creations into mass-produced commodities. The personal touch—Ember’s careful blending, my custom packaging, Ryn’s crystal work—all sacrificed for efficiency and scale.

“Here you are.” I hand over the beautifully wrapped package. “The paper can be planted in the spring. It’ll grow California wildflowers.”

“How lovely.” The woman’s delight confirms what I already know—these touches matter. They create connection, loyalty, and meaning beyond the product itself.

After she leaves, Ember wipes her hands on her apron and approaches the counter. “You okay? You’ve been staring at your phone like it might bite you.”

“I texted my father.” The words come out more strained than intended. “About Miranda’s proposal.”

“And?” Ember’s expression turns guarded. Her relationship with my father has always been complicated—gratitude for his investment mixed with wariness of his control.

“I told him no.” My voice strengthens as I say it aloud. “I said we can’t proceed with the plan as outlined. That it doesn’t align with our values.”

Ember’s eyebrows shoot up. “You told Marcus Holbrook no?” A slow smile spreads across her face. “Damn, Aria. I didn’t think anyone could do that and live to tell the tale.”

“The jury’s still out on the survival part.” I flip my phone over, showing her his response. “He summoned me. Like a disobedient employee.”

“That’s bullshit. This is your business. Our business.” Ember reads the text, her smile fading.

“Exactly.” I square my shoulders. “That’s why I’m not backing down. The Little Matchstick Girl isn’t just a business opportunity—it’s your creation. Your dream. I won’t let him turn it into something unrecognizable.”

“Ourdream,” Ember corrects gently. “I may have started it, but it’s ours now. Yours and mine. And Ryn’s too.”

From across the shop, Ryn glances up at the sound of her name. She’s arranging a display of her newest crystal candles—amethyst and clear quartz suspended in pale purple wax; the effect is ethereal and somehow hopeful.