Page 57 of The Wrong Man

A sound comes from Dante’s direction. It takes me a moment to identify it as a laugh. Short and rusty, like he’s not used to making it, but definitely a laugh.

I made him laugh. With a silly story about bad scones.

Something flutters in my stomach. I ignore it firmly.

“You can turn around now,” I say. “I’ve got past the embarrassing bit.”

He turns, and I catch the tail end of an expression on his face. Something soft. Something almost... fond.

My heart does a strange little skip. I ignore that too.

“My aunt taught me everything,” I continue, adding buttermilk to the flour mixture. “She used to say that baking was like therapy, except you got cake at the end. Though I suppose that’s not technically true for scones. Scones aren’t cake. But you know what I mean.”

I’m rambling again. Why am I always rambling? Normal people can have conversations without turning into verbal waterfalls. Normal people can share anecdotes without providing seventeen unnecessary clarifications.

“She sounds like a wonderful woman,” Dante says.

The genuine interest in his voice catches me off guard. I look up from my mixing to find him watching me. Not with that unnerving intensity from before, but with something quieter. Something that looks almost like curiosity.

“She is,” I say softly. “She’s the only person who ever...” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence. The only person who ever wanted me? The only person who ever made me feel like I wasn’t broken? Both true, both too painful to say out loud.

“The only person who ever made you scones?” Dante offers, and there’s a gentle humor in his voice that I haven’t heard before.

I huff out a surprised laugh. “Something like that.”

The dough has come together now, shaggy and rough. I tip it onto the floured counter and start pressing it with my palms, folding it over itself, being careful not to overwork it. The motions are automatic, ingrained so deeply they’re practically instinct.

“Can I watch?” Dante asks. “Closer, I mean. I’d like to see how it’s done.”

My hands falter for just a second. Him standing close to me. Looking over my shoulder. His body heat warming my back.

This is what I wanted, isn’t it? Physical proximity. Building intimacy. All part of the plan.

So why does my heart feel like it’s trying to escape through my throat?

“Sure,” I manage. “Just don’t breathe on the dough. It doesn’t like that.”

That’s not even a real thing. Dough doesn’t care about breathing. What is wrong with me?

Dante rises from his chair and moves to stand beside me. Not behind me, thank the sweet infant Jesus, but beside me. Close enough that I can smell his soap and something underneath that’s warm and male and distinctly him.

I focus very hard on the scones.

“You fold it like that?” he asks, watching my hands.

“Just a few times. You want to create layers, but not develop the gluten.” I demonstrate, pressing the dough flat and folding it over. “See how it’s starting to smooth out? That’s when you know it’s ready.”

“It looks like you’re making a bed.”

I blink at him. “What?”

“The folding.” He gestures at my hands. “Like tucking in sheets.”

It’s such an unexpectedly domestic observation that I don’t know how to respond. This man who tortures people for a living, comparing my scone-making technique to making a bed.

“I suppose it does,” I say finally. “I never thought of it that way.”

We stand in silence for a moment. Me with my hands covered in dough, him watching with that quiet intensity. The kitchen is so small that I can feel the warmth radiating off his body. If I shifted just slightly to the left, my shoulder would brush his arm.