Candlelight Conspiracy (2 page)

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Marc Sizzo closed the door to his apartment gently behind Sophie. His guest was taller than he’d initially surmised—the top of her head reached his chin; she probably stood at five-nine. He’d seen his pushy neighbor for months now, always trying to get him to notice her.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked.
I just
had
to mention I was cooking and have tons of food.

“Water would be nice, thank you.”

As he moved past her, he lit the candles he still had lying around from the last outage. It would probably be awkward to only have one candle lit with a guest he didn’t know. As he made his way to the kitchen on the right, a sweet soap smell caught his attention. He couldn’t put his finger on the fruity scent.
Orange? Honeydew? Berries?

Since the end of the power outage probably wasn’t in the near future, he grabbed four bottles out of the fridge. The food he’d purchased today would go bad if he kept letting out cold air.
Last time the power went out, my beef Wellington was ruined.
If he had more free time he’d look into moving, but his clothes were unpacked and the power outages were the only bad thing about his setup.

“Considering the circumstances, why don’t we eat in the living room?” He set two of the plastic bottles on the counter. “That way we’ll be able to at least see some of our food and utensils.”

Sophie stood by his couch, jacket in hand. Their eyes locked as he extended a bottled water. The hard edge he normally witnessed on her face and in the way she walked had morphed into something approachable and soft. She’d been gorgeous before, there was no denying that fact, but now she had an innocent, kissable quality.
It’s only the candlelight. And maybe her lips.

“Have a seat anywhere you’d like.” He motioned with his bottle in hand before dropping it on the loveseat, lighting the last of the candles in the living room, and returning to the kitchen. “There’s a blanket on the couch if you get cold. I just need to plate the food.”

Sophie sat on the couch, her wet, red hair and bangs moving neatly with her, and looked over the back toward him. “Where’d you move here from?”

Personal questions—they always showed up after saying more than a hello outside of work.
Why did I invite her in again? Oh, yes, because I’m a sucker for showing off my cooking.
Keeping to himself in Wyoming had worked well so far for his career. The alternative, the friends-making business, wasn’t for him—it wouldn’t get him anywhere at this point in his life.

“How do you know I’m not from here?” Marc grabbed two white plates and set them on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room.

“It’s a look.” She rested one arm on the back of his cream microfiber couch and nestled her chin on her forearm. “You have it.”

“A look?” he scoffed as he put the white asparagus on the risotto he’d finished three seconds before he’d lost power. Nothing made him want to smash his plates and pans against the wall like rapidly cooling burners. Stress and this journey to perfection he was always on were challenging his naturally non-violent demeanor lately. “So, from a look, can you tell where I’m from?”

“A look and three questions.” She nodded.

“I doubt that.”

“Wanna make it interesting?”

He froze, hunched over the plates with the pan of beef medallions in hand, until a couple of heartbeats went by.
Is this woman for real?
Who in the world was Sophie, and how had he gotten himself into this mess? Maybe mess was overstating the turn his night had taken. She was sexy, and he’d found her attractive from second one, but getting involved with someone wasn’t his plan—especially not his hot neighbor, who could be a psychopath for all he knew.

Their eyes met in the darkness, and he felt the heat surge between them.
No. She’s not in the plan.
Friendly and civilized he could offer, nothing more.

“I’m already cooking for you. What more do you want?” Okay, so he was a flirt. Some reactions were hard to turn off. Hell, he’d been not flirting for three months now; he wasn’t made of stone.

“Good point.” She tapped her index finger to her lips.

“Assuming you don’t have a gambling problem and can move past betting, let’s hear these magic questions.”
No human being could move on without knowing the questions.

Sophie chuckled in a hearty, low tone that made him smile—one he didn’t think she could see with his head down.

“What age were you when you had your first kiss?” she asked.

His head shot up, and he squinted in the dim light. “That’s your first question?” He laughed and thought about refusing to answer.
What are a couple of innocent questions going to hurt?
“Fourteen. Do I get to ask you questions?”

“Only if there’s something you have to guess about me. Second question. What was your favorite movie growing up?”

“Do you have a specific age in mind?”

“Nope. In general, when you were a kid, what was the movie you wanted to watch all the time? Or two. You can give me two answers if you’d like.”

“Would that count as your third question then?” He wiped the sides of the plates clean like he did before sending all meals out for service. Satisfied, or as much as he could be with his incomplete meal, he picked up the plates.

“No.”

“Let’s see … I’ll give you two.
Ghostbusters
and
Field of Dreams
.”

“Interesting. Okay, I think I know the region.”

“Oh, really?”

“The Pacific Northwest.”

He stopped cold in front of her.
How in the hell does she know?
The plates in his hands suddenly felt like bricks, and he swallowed hard. “What?”

Months had gone by in anonymity and now, in two questions, a person he’d only just met nearly guessed where he was from. And, surprisingly, he was okay with her presence in his apartment and answering her ludicrous questions. Tomorrow, or when Sophie left tonight, he was going to re-visit all the reasons he’d moved to Casper and embrace the privacy oath he’d taken in the first place. Even though remembering hurt.

“Nailed it,” she sang and smiled proudly at him.

He forgot why he was standing there. A hint of mischievousness played in her eyes as he studied her sleek, creamy face that hinted at freckles, bangs cut to her eyebrows, thick hair that fell mid-chest, high cheekbones, slender lips, and a slightly pointed nose. A need pulled at him in the deep recesses of his mind, but he refused it. He glanced down at the food in his hands.

Oh, right.

“Third question,” she continued. “What do you do for fun? I mean, besides cooking. Which, clearly, you love.”

He handed her a plate and set his on the matching loveseat while he assembled two TV trays. There was a chance to make this situation better—he could get some feedback on his food.

“You’re scaring me a little,” he said over his shoulder as he retrieved utensils. “You’ll have to share your secrets with me.”

“Those are reserved for a very few.” Her voice lost its cheer, and she stared at her plate, the playfulness gone in her body language. “I didn’t mean … ”

Get back on track, back to the questions.

“I know.”

A sweet smile crossed her pink lips, but it was short-lived.

“Fun, hmm … and you nixed cooking. Sleeping? Does that count? I don’t get enough of it. It’s a luxury.”

She slipped a fork full of risotto into her mouth—the best part of being a chef was watching people enjoy his creations. This meal wasn’t his best, thanks to the sudden lack of power, but Sophie wouldn’t be sitting in his apartment asking him ridiculous questions, like she cared, if his meal had turned out perfectly. The give and take of life struck again.

“What do you think?” he asked, but he already knew the answer—the edges of her mouth turned up and the happiness in her eyes clearly said she loved it.

“Tasty, but it’s a little … hmm … the same as I’ve had somewhere else.” She shrugged and took another bite.

Tasty? The same?
This was his family’s recipe. It was the best.
What the hell?
He watched her enjoy the next bite, too.

He stabbed a beef medallion and part of an asparagus. “Would’ve been better with the sauce. That’s what I was experimenting with.”

“I may actually catch up on sleep this week. I think, as an adult, sleep is always a luxury. You’re not off the hook, by the way.” She pointed her fork at him before choosing a medallion off her plate.

“I like to fish for fun. When I have the time. What exactly don’t you like about the meal?”
Is she screwing with me?

“Have you been able to go fishing since you moved here?” she asked.

“No. I don’t ice-fish. It thaws around here in April, right?”

“Sometimes. There’s great fishing on the Platte River, though. That starts earlier than the lakes, I believe.” She glanced down at her plate. “It’s a good meal, don’t get me wrong. Thank you for sharing. Just no
wow
factor, if that’s what you were going for.”

“Wow factor?” Seriously? His food was very full of wow.

“Yeah, like, I don’t know if I’d crave it in the middle of the night.”

“And what do you usually crave in the middle of the night?” The question left his mouth before the innuendo registered in his mind.

She blinked, and a flirty smiled appeared and stayed as she glanced up and down his body. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He could practically feel the color red tinge his cheeks. She sure had a way of detouring the subject, and he didn’t want to keep asking about his food since he evidently wasn’t going to get a precise answer. What where they talking about before? He cleared his throat. “Do you fish?” Great, now he was sucked into question-land.

“I grew up fishing. On my dad’s days off we’d go out early in the morning.” She paused. “Like, before-the-sun-is-up-so-we-can-get-the-best-spot-on-the-lake early.”

“You’ll have to tell me that spot.”

She shrugged one shoulder and pushed around the risotto. “That was a long time ago.”

He picked up on the sore subject. Life could suck. Didn’t he know it. That’s why he’d come up with his plan—and not even Sophie could deter.

He lightly cleared his throat, hoping his innocent questions hadn’t ruined their night. “That was three questions. So, where am I from?”
This should be good.

Candlelight shadowed the walls behind her and shaded half of her beautiful face. He wished they were sitting on his big couch together. Then he could really see what she was thinking.

“Tacoma, Washington.”

She spoke so confidently, he’d swear he’d told her. There was no question in her voice, and she was correct. Tacoma had been his home for thirty-one years, and then he’d made a conscious decision to leave and never return.

“Wrong,” he said.

“Liar,” she instantly retorted and raised her brows.

“I do not buy for one second that those questions helped you guess Tacoma.”

“I’m psychic?”

“Try again.” He swayed his head, and the sides of his eyes crinkled.

Marc couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed getting to know someone. Wait. He didn’t know much about Sophie—certainly not as much as she’d been able to get out of him in the span of fifteen minutes. He’d only invited her in because he felt bad he had all this food and she was clearly hungry—he wasn’t supposed to actually like her company and she wasn’t supposed to lie about not liking his food. Her entire plate of food was nearly gone. Yup, she’d definitely been needling him for a rise.

Her brown eyes sparkled in the dimness of his apartment. “If you don’t want people to know you, you should probably set your Facebook profile to private.” A phone appeared in her hand, and she waggled it, obviously pleased with her sleuthing skills.

Facebook? He’d forgotten about the profile he didn’t keep up with anymore. In his haste to leave town to pursue the life he’d only dreamed about, he’d failed to keep up with what had been routine in his past.
Smart woman.
“I never said I didn’t want people to know me.”

“Then how come you’ve lived in this building for three months and never said hello?” Her phone screen went black, and she pushed the buttons on the side. “Shoot.”

Because you’re extremely good-looking, and I knew the smallest encounter would suck me into your obviously chaotic world.
He stared at her, unable to come up with an excuse on the fly. His past—Felicia leaving him—no longer controlled his future. So why did he sense that the path he’d laid out for his future was about to change?

“I like to keep to myself,” he said as he ran a hand through his blond hair.

“You seem pretty friendly to me.” She finished the last of her meal and laid her utensils across her plate. Marc’s cooking was amazing. She almost felt bad for not telling him just how much of his risotto she would eat in the wee hours of the morning. Almost.

“They aren’t mutually exclusive.”

The darkness cradled Sophie and gave her license to be bold, even brazen, in her conversation with Marc. Her multiple questions were a faint punishment for him not acknowledging her in the hallway for the past three months. She’d have had to be blind to miss his shock when she’d guessed his hometown, and it was all she could do not to laugh at his squirming.

What perplexed her now was why an evidently determined man like Marc didn’t care to be known or let people into his life. Who moved and didn’t care if he kept in touch with anyone or make new friends? Where was his family? Focusing on a career wasn’t a bad thing at all—ambition was admirable—but to close out an entire section of life was insane, especially if that area was always the most thrilling.

What kind of mystery are you, Marc?

She could feel his intense blue eyes as they traveled up her arm and to her mouth, where they lingered before he met her gaze. If the food had put her into a lull, his gorgeous stare woke her right up, and the adrenaline rejuvenated her spirits. Maybe she didn’t have to cut out all hope of a future love life after all. Not with Marc, of course, he was too uptight, but she could stop dismissing potential dates just on principle from now on.