Page 56 of The Wrong Man

My hands are shaking.

It’s ridiculous. I’ve made scones a thousand times. Ten thousand times. I could make scones in my sleep, blindfolded, with one arm tied behind my back. Scones are the first thing Aunt Moira taught me when I moved in with her, the gateway recipe that led to everything else.

But standing here in Dante’s tiny kitchen, surrounded by the beautiful equipment he bought for me, I can’t seem to remember how to hold a measuring cup.

Get a grip, Dylan. It’s just baking. It’s just flour and butter and a bit of buttermilk. Nothing to have a crisis over.

Except it’s not just baking, is it? It’s part of my grand plan. My scheme to manipulate a dangerous man into trusting me so I can escape. A plan that seemed so clever when I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling, and now seems completely mental now that I actually have to execute it.

What if he sees through me? What if I’m being too obvious? What if I’m not being obvious enough? What if I accidentally poison him with bad scones and he thinks I did it on purpose and then he kills me?

Can you even poison someone with scones? Probably not. But my brain isn’t exactly operating at full capacity right now.

I take a deep breath and try to focus on the flour. White. Powdery. Familiar. I scoop it into the bowl and immediately spill half of it on the counter.

Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Master manipulator Dylan O’Shea, defeated by basic motor skills.

“Are you alright?”

I nearly jump out of my skin. I’d almost forgotten Dante was there, sitting at the tiny kitchen table, watching me with those intense dark eyes. Of course he’s watching me. He’s always watching me. It’s deeply unnerving.

Also slightly flattering, which is even more unnerving.

“Fine!” My voice comes out approximately two octaves higher than normal. “Grand. Everything’s grand. Just a bit of spillage. Happens all the time. Well, not all the time. I’m usually quite coordinated, actually. Sean says I have excellent spatial awareness. Not that you’d know it from looking at this mess. Ha.”

I’m rambling. Sweet Jesus, I’m rambling like an absolute fool. This is not how seductive manipulators behave. This is how nervous wrecks behave. Declan would be ashamed of me.

Actually, Declan being ashamed of me is probably a good thing. I don’t want to be anything like Declan.

Dante’s expression hasn’t changed, but there’s something around his eyes that might be amusement. Or concern. Or homicidal irritation. It’s hard to tell with him.

“Can I help?” he asks.

“No! I mean, yes. I mean...” I stop and press my floury hands against my face, which is a mistake because now I have flour all over my cheeks. Wonderful. “Maybe just sit there and don’t look at me? I perform badly under observation.”

The words are out before I can stop them, and immediately my face flames red. Perform badly under observation. What kind of thing is that to say? Now he’s going to think I’m talking about... about performance in other contexts. Bedroom contexts.

Not that I’m thinking about bedroom contexts. I’m absolutely not thinking about bedroom contexts.

Oh God, now I’m thinking about bedroom contexts.

I turn back to the flour and try to will my blush away through sheer force of desperation. It doesn’t work. It never works. I have the complexion of a tomato with a sunburn.

“I’ll look at the wall,” Dante says, and when I risk a glance over my shoulder, he’s actually turned his chair so he’s facing the peeling paint instead of me.

Something warm blooms in my chest. Something that feels dangerously like gratitude.

No. Not gratitude. Strategy. This is all strategy. He’s being considerate because I’m making him be considerate through my clever manipulation. The manipulation that currently consists of spilling flour everywhere and making accidental innuendos.

I’m doomed. I’m absolutely doomed.

But the lack of eyes on my back does help. My hands steady slightly as I measure out the rest of the flour, and this time I manage to get most of it in the bowl. The butter comes next, cold from the fridge, and the familiar action of cutting it into cubes soothes my jangled nerves.

“You need the butter cold,” I say, because apparently I can’t cope with silence either. “That’s the secret. Cold butter, cold hands, minimal handling. Overwork the dough and you’ll end up with hockey pucks.”

“Hockey pucks?” Dante’s voice comes from his position facing the wall. He hasn’t turned around.

“Dense. Hard. Fit only for sporting equipment.” I work the butter into the flour with my fingertips, feeling the texture shift from sandy to coarse crumbs. “My first batch of scones could have been classified as weapons. Aunt Moira was too kind to say anything, but I saw her trying to dunk one in her tea and it nearly cracked the mug.”