Page 59 of The Wrong Man

Something flickers across his face. That soft expression again, the one I don’t know how to interpret. Then it’s gone, and he’s back to his usual unreadable self.

“I’ll take the lonely one,” he says. “We misfits should stick together.”

The words land somewhere unexpected in my chest. I busy myself with transferring the scones to the baking tray, pretending I didn’t hear them.

The oven has been preheating while we worked. I slide the tray in and straighten up, wiping my floury hands on a tea towel.

“Twelve to fifteen minutes,” I announce. “Depending on how this oven runs. I’ll keep an eye on them.”

“What do we do while we wait?”

It’s an innocent question. Practical. But something about the way he asks it, something about the quiet intimacy of this tiny kitchen with flour on the counter and the warm smell of baking starting to fill the air, makes my heart rate tick up.

“We clean,” I say firmly. “A good baker always cleans as they go.”

I turn to the sink before he can see my face. Before he can see whatever expression is currently betraying my sensible, strategic brain.

We wash up together. Him at the sink, me drying and putting away. Our elbows bump occasionally in the cramped space. Each accidental touch sends a small shock through my system that I steadfastly ignore.

This is fine. This is good. This is exactly what I wanted. Domestic intimacy. Shared tasks. Building the foundation of trust that will eventually lead to my escape.

So why do I feel like I’m the one being caught in a trap?

I squish my thoughts down and focus on the practical tasks at hand. We finish tidying the kitchen, and then I check on the oven.

The scones are perfect.

Golden brown on top, light and fluffy inside, with that distinctive crack around the middle that says they’ve risen properly. I pull them from the oven with a flourish that I hope looks confident rather than desperately relieved.

“They smell incredible,” Dante says, and there’s something almost reverent in his voice.

“They need to cool for a few minutes. Then we can eat.”

We end up on that horrible orange sofa again, plates balanced on our knees, the scones arranged between us with butter and jam and the double cream that isn’t quite clotted cream but will have to do.

“You have to split them with your hands,” I instruct. “Not a knife. A knife compresses the crumb.”

Dante follows my demonstration, pulling his scone apart with careful fingers. Steam rises from the break, and I watch his face as he takes in the texture.

“Butter first,” I continue. “Don’t be shy with it. Then cream, then jam. Some people do jam then cream, but those people are heathens and not to be trusted.”

That rusty almost-laugh again. The sound does something strange to my insides.

I watch him assemble his scone with intense concentration, then take his first bite. His eyes close. A small sound escapes him, something that might be a groan of pleasure.

My face flames. I look away quickly and busy myself with my own scone.

“This is...” He pauses, seemingly searching for words. “I’ve never had anything like this.”

“It’s just a scone.” My voice comes out embarrassingly high. “You’re lucky I didn’t inflict a macaron on you. I’ve mastered most baking but macarons elude me. Although I’ve only attempted once, the hollow shells were a disaster…”

I trail off and gulp loudly. Now that was an epic ramble. “Umm… so, yeah, I’ve dazzled you with my best recipe, but it’s just a scone.”

“No. It’s not just anything.” He opens his eyes and looks at me, and there’s something in his expression that makes my breath catch. “You made this. With your hands. Out of flour and butter.”

“That is generally how baking works, yes.”

“I’ve never...” He stops. Swallows. “No one has ever made anything for me before.”