This one,”—I hand him a leather-scented candle from my basket, enraptured by the way our fingertips graze—“actually smells amazing. Now let’s go before the old biddy up front boots us out.” Taking a cautious sniff, he nods thoughtfully before grabbing a duplicate from the shelf and heading to the counter. To be fair, I don’t know much about Austin Wells. But owning a candle or any décor—other than dead animals hung on the wall—isn’t something I expected.
