Page 78 of The Wrong Man

And I have no idea what happens next.

Chapter twenty-two

Dante

The takeaway containers are spread across the coffee table like a small feast. Thai food, because Dylan mentioned he missed it. Green curry and pad thai and spring rolls and sticky rice. Far too much for two people, but I wanted him to have options.

I wanted him to have everything.

We’re sitting on the horrible orange sofa, plates balanced on our knees, and I can’t stop thinking about this afternoon. About the way Dylan moved through my kitchen like he belonged there, hands steady and sure as he measured and mixed and folded. About the furrow of concentration between his brows. About the way his whole face transformed when those macarons came out of the oven with their perfect little feet.

He was beautiful. He’s always beautiful, but there was something different about it today. Something luminous. Watching him work, watching him create, I felt like I was witnessing something sacred.

And then he cried.

Not sad tears. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears, the kind that spill over when something you’ve wanted finally happens. He stood there in my kitchen with a tray of perfect macarons and tears streaming down his face, and I swear my heart started beating for the first time in my life.

I didn’t know it could feel like this. Didn’t know anything could feel like this.

“This is really good,” Dylan says, pulling me back to the present. He’s working his way through the pad thai with enthusiasm, chopsticks moving with surprising dexterity. “I haven’t had Thai food in ages. There’s a place near the bakery that does amazing drunken noodles, but I never seem to have time to go. Always working, you know? Sean says I need to get a life, but the bakery is my life, so I’m not sure what he expects me to do about that.”

He’s rambling. He always rambles when he’s nervous or happy or comfortable. I’ve learned to read the different flavors of his rambling, to distinguish between anxious chatter and genuine enthusiasm.

This is the good kind. The relaxed kind. The kind that means he feels safe enough to let his guard down.

The realization sends warmth spreading through my chest.

“You work too hard,” I say.

Dylan snorts. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean...” He gestures vaguely with his chopsticks. “You’re always doing something. Working or planning, or thinking about work. Even when you’re sitting still, you act all calm, but I can see your brain going a million miles an hour. You never just... stop.”

He’s not wrong. I’ve never been good at stillness. Stillness leaves too much room for thoughts I’d rather not have, feelings I’d rather not feel. Better to stay busy. Better to stay focused.

But sitting here with Dylan, eating Thai food on my horrible sofa, I find I don’t want to be anywhere else. Don’t want to be doing anything else. For once, the present moment is exactly where I want to be.

“I’ve stopped now,” I say quietly.

Dylan looks up from his noodles, those hazel eyes meeting mine. Something passes between us. Something soft and fragile and terrifying.

“Yeah,” he says. “I suppose you have.”

We eat in comfortable silence for a while. The curry is good, rich and creamy with just enough heat. I watch Dylan try a spring roll and make a small sound of approval that does things to my insides.

Everything he does affects me now. Every smile, every laugh, every unconscious gesture. I’m attuned to him in a way I’ve never been attuned to anyone. It should be unsettling. Instead, it just feels right.

“Tell me about the bakery,” I say, because I want to hear him talk. Want to learn everything about the life he had before I tore him away from it.

Dylan’s face lights up. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. How did you start it? What’s your favorite thing to make? What does it smell like first thing in the morning?”

The questions tumble out before I can stop them, revealing more of my hunger than I intended. But Dylan doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t mind.

“I started it with money from my aunt,” he begins, settling back into the sofa cushions. “She gave me my inheritance early, said I should use it for something that made me happy while she was still alive to see it. She pulled strings to get me a unit in Borough Market. Sean thought I was mad. Said the location was wrong, the rent was too high, the neighborhood was too much of a tourist trap. But I had a good feeling about it.”