The garage had been transformed into more than a workspace—it was part of the brand and my happy place. String lights hung from the rafters, casting a warm glow, and open shelves displayed finished candles, soothing bath salts in amber glass bottles, and small tins of lip balm. It smelled like cinnamon, lavender, and vanilla, with a hint of fresh citrus from the zest I had set aside for an upcoming scrub.
I started recording, talking through the first steps as I poured the melted wax into molds. Five minutes in, I paused to check my setup, making sure the shot captured the flickering candlelight just right.
That’s when I felt him.
Owen’s presence filled the space before he even spoke.
I turned to look at him. Dark brown hair, blue eyes, and an athlete’s build were all illuminated by the workshop’s golden light. I nearlyaudibly gulped.
“Am I interrupting?” His voice was low, somewhat raspy, as he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe.
“No.” A second too late. It sounded like he was.
His gaze skimmed over the table, the jars, the half-finished candles. “Sorry,” he said, but he didn’t look sorry. “I took a peek in here before. It looks great.”
Inside, I knew he was interrupting. Not my work. Not my video. But my peace of mind.
8
Owen
AFTER DROPPING WALTERat the Blueshore Seniors’ Club, I came back home to find Rio’s car parked outside. The house was quiet, but her voice drifted from the garage.
Inside, she sat among jars, bottles, and bags of ingredients, still in her work clothes under an apron that tied around her waist, hands moving with practiced ease—Demi Moore-pottering-in-Ghost-like. Her phone stood on a tripod between the entrance and the table.
I knew I should’ve stepped back as soon as she hesitated in responding, but I felt anchored to my spot at the door. Like I was caught in the pull of a magnetic field.
“I took over the space, but if you need the garage for your car, I can clear it.”
“What? No. I don’t need it.”
“But if you do—”
“I don’t.” I glanced around. “You’re putting it to great use. You’re making all these yourself?”
“Yeah. They’re organized by product type, then by scent. I sometimes run out of labels—” she pointed to a sage andlavender sticker roll on the table “—so I group them like this. That way, I don’t have to smell them to know what’s what.”
“So you smell good all day?” I blurted out. Rio wasn’t supposed to be on the receiving end of my automatic flirting.
She chuckled. “More like wax and essential oils.”
“Like strawberries,” I mumbled.
She tilted her head. “I didn’t use strawberries.”
“You’re the expert,” I said, but I knew what I remembered.
“How was physiotherapy?”
“Painful. So it works.”
Rio laughed. “I’m sorry. But after watchingTed Lasso, I figured if you could handle those ice tubs, you can do anything.”
“All athletes use them. You likedTed Lasso?”
“Yeah.” She smiled. “Who are you most like?”
“Who do you think I’m like?” I straightened up from leaning against the doorframe.
