Page 139 of The Wrong Man

“I’m serious. You’ve had this haunted look for weeks. It’s gone now.” He glances at Dante, who’s heading toward the kitchen to check the ovens. “Did something happen?”

I think about last night. The confession, the tears, Dante’s hands gentle on my face as he told me there was nothing to forgive.

“We talked,” I say. “Really talked. Cleared some things up.”

Sean studies me for a moment, then nods. “Good. You deserve to be happy, Dylan. Both of you do.”

Teagan emerges from the back, wiping her hands on her apron. “Less chatting, more prepping. We open in an hour and the croissants aren’t going to laminate themselves.”

“Yes, boss,” Sean and I say in unison, and she rolls her eyes at us.

The next hour passes in focused chaos. This is what we’ve been building toward for three weeks. The ovens heat up, filling the kitchen with familiar warmth. The bread rises, puffy and perfect. The croissants come out golden and flaky, and I feel a surge of pride at how good they look.

I lose myself in the rhythm of it. Kneading dough, shaping loaves, piping filling into pastries. My hands remember what to do even when my mind is elsewhere. But today my mind isn’t elsewhere. Today I’m fully present, fully here, without the constant undercurrent of guilt dragging me down.

It feels like freedom.

At seven, we flip the sign to Open.

The first customers trickle in, then more, then more. Word has spread about the reopening. Maybe it’s the banner Teagan hung in the window, or maybe it’s just the smell of fresh bread wafting out onto the street. Either way, by eight o’clock, there’s a queue out the door.

I work in the kitchen, turning out pastries and loaves as fast as I can. Every now and then I glance through the doorway to check on Dante.

He’s gotten marginally better at customer service over the past three weeks. Marginally. He still approaches each transaction with intense focus, and his small talk is still stilted and awkward. But he’s learned to smile without looking like he’s planning someone’s demise, which is progress.

When one customer tries to haggle over the price of a baguette, he just stares at them in silence until they pay full price and flee. Some habits die hard.

But he’s here. He’s trying. He’s wearing the “Kiss the Cook” apron that Teagan bought him as a joke, and he now wears without complaint. Three weeks ago, I asked him to be part of my real life, and he’s done exactly that.

I love him so much it makes my chest hurt.

Aunt Moira arrives mid-morning with a bottle of champagne.

“For later,” she says, pressing it into my hands. “You’ll want to celebrate properly once you close.”

“Thank you.” I pull her into a hug. “For everything. For helping with the rescue. For being here now.”

“Where else would I be?” She holds me tight for a moment, then pulls back to study my face. “You look better today. Lighter.”

“I feel lighter.”

Her sharp hazel eyes see too much, as always. “You told him, didn’t you? Whatever was eating at you these past weeks.”

I shouldn’t be surprised she noticed. Aunt Moira notices everything.

“I told him,” I confirm. “Last night.”

“And?”

“And he forgave me.” My voice catches slightly. “Without hesitation. He said there was nothing to forgive.”

Something softens in her expression. She glances across the bakery to where Dante is carefully counting change for a customer, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“He’s a good man,” she says quietly. “Underneath all the rest of it. I didn’t want to see it at first. But he’s good for you, Dylan. I can see that now.”

Coming from Aunt Moira, that’s practically a blessing. I have to blink back the sudden sting of tears.

“Thank you,” I manage. “That means everything.”