Novel Candle Co Novels & Stories

Without hesitation, I dropped my backpack near the door, secured the locks, entered my code on the keypad, and made my way toward the kitchen. The table near the large windows was set for two, complete with unlit candles. The way the wax beaded along the tall spindles made my tummy flip and lower muscles clench—after our night in Del Mar, I'd never look at candle wax the same way again. Wine glasses were waiting for their contents while plates awaited our meal. A bottle of oil sat near the candles and next to a basket of bread, its crust crisp while the center appeared decadently soft. On the counter I found a note from Lana and grinned as I read what she wrote:

Owen found a box of thick pillar candles in the storage closet. They were leftovers from a cancelled reading event, vanilla scented. He carried them back to the main reading room, where Jax had arranged two of the heavy leather armchairs near the big window. The rain was still lashing against the glass, and the only light came from the occasional flash of lightning that lit up the room in stark, white bursts.

I add a third figure at the edge of the drawing, at the periphery of the fire. Watching. The candle I keep on the kitchen counter, a plain white one in a glass holder that I light sometimes in the evenings the way other people put on background music, has been unlit all day. I am closing my sketchbook at four in the afternoon when it lights. No match. No lighter. No draft from an open window, because the windows are closed. The flame is small and steady and it burns with the particular quality of a candle that has been lit deliberately, with intention, by someone who knows what they are doing.

About the book that had ten lines and was becoming the thing it was supposed to become. The inside view. From someone who had lived it. I opened the document. Did not add a line. Instead I scrolled back to the first line and read all ten from the beginning. What I Know About Starting Over. I bought the candles on sale. They were ivory tapers, twelve dollars for a pair, and I lit them at seven o'clock and waited for a man who had already chosen somewhere else to be. What I know now, that I did not know then, is that the candles were never for him.

This dinner was part of my strategy to win her over to my proposal. Setting the candlestick on the table, I carefully placed the tall, white candle in its holder and lit it, casting a warm glow across the room. I knew the allure of a homemade candlelight dinner was hard to resist for any woman. Soft music wafted from the speakers in the ceiling, creating an ambiance of intimacy and romance. The lighting was just enough to create a cozy atmosphere without being too dim, and I dressed in a pair of slacks and a crisp white long-sleeved shirt, sleeves casually rolled up to just below my elbows.

At lightning speed, I took out the match that I've been hiding since earlier and crawled on his bedside table to light every scented candle on display so as to not appear so suspicious. “What are you doing?" I stopped midway, blood rushing to my ears. Fuck, this is it. I've finally been caught. Slowly, I turned around to face Conrad half-naked and still soaked from his shower. The towel on his lower body does so little to cover the outline of his dick. "D-don't tell me, you're in for another round?" I swear that the tips of his ears turned red. "What?" “Why are you lighting my pheromones candle, then?" My mouth formed an involuntary o when I realized my perfect escape. So these aren't just n

The kitchen by candlelight was a different room. She had not found the candles — he had, from a drawer she had not opened in forty-seven days, a drawer below the island that turned out to contain the specific provisions of someone who had thought about what a penthouse needed in emergencies and had assembled them without drama: candles, a lighter, a small flashlight with batteries that still worked. He had put three candles on the island and two on the counter near the range and had lit them with the lighter and the kitchen had become, in the specific way of kitchens by candlelight, something both more intimate and more functional than it usually was — the flame making the immediate space cl

I smiled despite myself, typing back: "Very mysterious, Mr. Carver. Should I be preparing myself for something crazy?" "Define crazy..." "Miles." "Okay okay, not crazy. Just... different. Good different. I promise you'll love it." "I'm trusting you." "You won't regret it." I pocketed my phone and grabbed the "First Snow" candle. The smell was so great. It was like pine and peppermint and something clean and cold, and brought it to the counter. It was forty-five dollar only, so I bought it.

Azrael felt as though he was staring directly into the heart of creation itself—a feeling of wonderment that left him breathless. And then there were the candles. Every single one of them had been magically infused with an intense red glow, the light flickering gently over their wicks like fiery eyes reflecting the fireflies. The scent of burning cinnamon and cloves mingled together to create a sweet fragrance that seemed to emanate from the candles themselves. The candles were placed at strategic points in the garden, some in the ground, some hanging from vines, and others dangling between trelliswork. The entire garden glowed in the candlelight as if the Cerulean sun had dipped behind the

I can't even buy rice or coffee. As I was changing my clothes for the rendezvous with Audillon tonight, the only source of light was the candle I bought with a genie lamp for seven bucks, it came with four candlesticks and I hope maybe a genie would come out once the first candlestick melted. As if that would really happen especially to me so as I was in my room removing my top, a gust cause the balcony window to open, the curtains almost drop to the floor, and the only candle in the room was knocked over to the floor.