Page 77 of The Wrong Man

I turn away before he can see whatever expression is crossing my face. “I should clean up while they rest. A good baker always cleans as they go.”

We fall into the routine that’s becoming familiar. Him at the sink, me drying and putting away. Our elbows bump occasionally in the cramped space. Each accidental touch sends a small jolt through my nervous system.

He’s different today. More watchful, more protective. His eyes follow me with an intensity that should be unsettling, but somehow isn’t. Whatever happened with his friend yesterday has shifted something between us. Or maybe it’s just brought something into focus that was always there.

You will not touch him. You will not go near him.

The words echo in my mind again.

Then the smell of baking macarons fills the kitchen and saves me from my whirling thoughts.

I hover by the oven door, watching through the glass as the little circles transform. They’re rising. Developing feet. The ruffled bases are forming, pushing up from the parchment like tiny skirts.

“Holy Mary,” I breathe. “They’re actually working.”

“They’re working?”

“Look.” I gesture at the oven, probably more excited than is strictly appropriate. “Feet. Actual macaron feet. I’ve never gotten feet before. They always come out flat and sad and footless.”

Dante moves to stand beside me, peering through the oven window. Our shoulders brush. I don’t pull away.

“They look good,” he says.

“They look amazing. They look like real macarons. Like something you’d see in an actual patisserie in Paris. Not that I’ve ever been to Paris. But I’ve seen pictures. And these look like the pictures.”

I’m rambling again. I don’t care. I’m too happy about the feet.

The timer goes off, and I hold my breath as I pull the tray from the oven. Smooth domed tops, perfect little ruffled feet all around. They’re beautiful. They’re actually, genuinely beautiful.

“I did it,” I say, and my voice comes out strange. Thick. “I actually did it.”

Dante makes a soft sound beside me. One that makes me realize I’m crying.

“Dylan.”

“I’m fine.” I swipe at my cheeks with the back of my hand. “I’m fine, it’s stupid, it’s just macarons, it’s not anything to cry about, I don’t know why I’m...”

“It’s not stupid.”

He’s looking at me with that expression again. The soft one. The one that makes me feel seen in a way that’s terrifying and wonderful all at once.

“You worked hard for this,” he says quietly. “You’re allowed to be happy when something works out.”

The simple kindness of the words breaks something open in my chest. I’ve spent my whole life being told not to make a fuss, not to take up space, not to feel too much about things that don’t matter. And here’s this man, this dangerous, broken, complicated man, telling me that my feelings are valid.

I don’t think. I just act.

I reach out and touch his arm. Just briefly. Just a light press of my fingers against his forearm, there and gone before I can second-guess myself.

“Thank you,” I say. “For the ingredients. For the cookbook. For... for everything.”

Dante goes very still. His eyes drop to where my hand just was, then rise to meet mine.

“You’re welcome,” he says, and his voice is rough.

We stand there for a moment, the air between us charged with something I don’t know how to name. The macarons are cooling on their tray. The kitchen smells of almonds and sugar. And I am in so much trouble.

My plan is falling apart. My careful scheme to manipulate and escape is crumbling under the weight of something I didn’t expect and don’t know how to handle.