Page 140 of The Wrong Man

She pats my cheek. “Now get back to work. You have customers waiting.”

Carlo and Ginni stop by around noon. Ginni is wearing an outfit that includes a billowing silk blouse that probably costs more than all my specialized equipment combined, completely impractical for a bakery visit, and he surveys the shop with the air of a critic assessing a questionable establishment.

“The croissants have improved,” he pronounces after taking a bite. “Still not as good as Paris, but acceptable.”

“High praise from Ginni,” Carlo says drily.

“It is! I don’t give acceptable to just anyone.” Ginni takes another bite, looking thoughtful. “You could charge more, you know. People will pay for quality.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Ginni beams at me, then turns to Dante. “Insegnante, you have flour in your hair again. It’s becoming a signature look.”

Dante reaches up to brush at his hair, looking faintly resigned. This is apparently a regular occurrence now.

The day flies by. Customers come and go, the display cases empty and refill, and before I know it, we’re flipping the sign to Closed.

“We did it,” Sean says, slumping against the counter. “Reopening, officially a success.”

“The sourdough sold out by noon,” Teagan adds, looking pleased. “We need to double the batch tomorrow.”

“Agreed.” I’m exhausted and exhilarated and happier than I’ve been in longer than I can remember. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Same time tomorrow.”

We clean up together, all four of us. Dante loads the dishwasher beside Sean, sleeves rolled up, looking more relaxed than he ever does around other people. Teagan sweeps the floor while I wipe down the counters.

This is what I wanted. This is what I asked for, that first night in the penthouse. To have Dante here, in my world, part of my real life. And here he is, flour in his hair and dish soap on his hands, fitting in like he was always meant to be here.

When we finally lock up and step out onto the street, the evening light is golden and soft. Sean and Teagan head off toward the tube, waving goodbye over their shoulders.

“Good day?” Dante asks, taking my hand.

“The best day.” I lean into him, letting myself soak up his warmth. “The reopening was a success, Aunt Moira gave us her blessing, and I actually enjoyed it. All of it. Without feeling like a fraud.”

“Because you’re not a fraud.” He squeezes my hand. “You never were.”

We walk toward the car in comfortable silence. The city moves around us, oblivious to everything we’ve been through to get here. I don’t mind. Let them be oblivious. Let the world keep spinning. All that matters is this moment, this man, this life we’re building together.

“Take me home,” I say.

The drive back feels different than it did this morning. Slower. More peaceful. Charged with quiet contentment. Dante keeps one hand on my thigh, warm and grounding, and I watch the city lights begin to twinkle as evening settles in.

When we walk through the door of the penthouse, I head straight for the window. The view still takes my breath away, all of London spread out below us like a glittering map.

Home. The word wraps around me like a blanket.

For so long, I didn’t know what home truly meant. My parents’ house in Ireland was never safe. My flat near the bakery was comfortable but lonely. Dante’s old place was complicated, tangled up with fear and the strange, unexpected tenderness that grew between us.

But this. The penthouse, the bakery, the life we’re building together. Dante’s arms around me and the city glittering below and the knowledge that tomorrow I get to do it all again.

This is home. This is everything I never dared to hope for.

Dante comes up behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder.

“I have something to tell you,” Dante says.

My heart stutters for a moment before I catch myself. After last night’s confession, I don’t think I’ll ever hear those words without a flicker of panic.