Candlelight Conspiracy Read Free Page B

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