Page 67 of The Wrong Man

Except it feels like something. And that’s the dangerous part.

“Right,” I say, clapping my hands together in a way that comes across as far more enthusiastic than I actually feel. “Macarons. Let’s do this. Prepare to witness a disaster of epic proportions.”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

“They won’t be. Macarons are temperamental beasts. They require perfect technique and ideal conditions and probably a blood sacrifice to some ancient baking deity. I’m zero for three on all counts.”

Dante moves to sit at the tiny kitchen table, the same spot he occupied during the scone incident. The scone incident. That’s what I’m calling it now. As if it was a natural disaster rather than a morning of intense awkwardness and accidental innuendo.

“Tell me what to do,” he says. “If you need help.”

He’s rolled up his sleeves at some point. I don’t know when. I don’t know why I’m noticing now. But his forearms are right there, olive skin over corded muscle, and I have to physically turn away before I do something stupid like stare.

I have a problem with forearms. It’s a known issue.

I pull out the cookbook and flip to the macaron section. The pages are crisp and new, unblemished by flour fingerprints or butter stains. Give it time. If I keep baking, this book will end up looking like Aunt Moira’s old recipe collection, held together with tape and love and years of accumulated kitchen debris.

If I keep baking. If I’m still here. If this strange, terrible, confusing situation continues.

I push the thought away and focus on reading the recipe. Almond flour, sifted. Powdered sugar, sifted. Aged egg whites at room temperature. Everything precise, measured, exact.

The technique the book describes is different from my prior disaster attempts. That’s hopeful. But it also scuppers my attempt for today.

“I need to age the egg whites,” I say, more to myself than to Dante. “That means separating them and letting them sit out for a day or two. Something about the proteins relaxing. The book says you can skip that step if you’re impatient, but your shells might not be as smooth.”

“We have time,” Dante says.

We have time. Such a simple statement. Such an enormous implication.

I’m not going anywhere. He’s not letting me go anywhere. We have all the time in the world, trapped together in this flat with its locked doors and metal shutters and horrible orange sofa.

My hands are shaking again as I separate the eggs. Yolk into one bowl, white into another. It requires focus, precision. A single drop of yolk will ruin the whole batch.

“You’re good at that,” Dante observes.

“Practice. Aunt Moira made me separate a hundred eggs before she let me move on to actual baking. Said you had to master the basics before you could attempt anything fancy.”

“She sounds like a wise woman.”

“She’s the best person I know.” The words come out fierce, protective. “She took me in when my parents didn’t want me. Taught me everything. Gave me a home when I didn’t have one.”

The silence that follows is heavy. I can feel Dante’s eyes on me, that intense gaze that sees too much and reveals too little.

“You were unwanted,” he says finally. Not a question.

“My parents had two sons. One was perfect, charming, destined for great things. The other was... me.” I crack another egg with more force than necessary. “Guess which one they kept?”

“Declan.”

Just the name makes my stomach clench. My brother, my identical twin, the person who shares my face but nothing else. The person whose mistakes and choices landed me in this nightmare.

“He was always better at everything,” I continue, even though I don’t know why I’m telling Dante this. It’s not part of the plan. It serves no strategic purpose. But the words just keep coming, like water from a tap I can’t turn off. “School, sports, making friends. He was charming where I was awkward. Confident where I was nervous. People loved him. They barely noticed me.”

“Their loss.”

I look up sharply. Dante is watching me with that soft expression again, the one I don’t know how to interpret. The light from the single overhead bulb catches his features in a way that’s frankly unfair. High cheekbones, strong brow, that mouth I’m definitely not thinking about.

He can’t be much older than me. Late twenties, maybe early thirties at most. Too young to be this dangerous. Too handsome to be this kind.