How the Light Gets In (Cracks Duet #2)(11)

“Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York, you’ve really gotten around,” I replied, impressed.

“It cost an arm and a leg to study there, but I managed to get a loan. A bit of a dodgy one, but still a loan. Thankfully, I was able to pay it back once the company took off. Conor had his MA in business by then, so he came over to help me with that side of things. And now, well, here we are.”

“Your determination to succeed paid off,” I said as I lifted a bunch of marigolds from the display and handed the girl some money. Dylan appeared pleased.

I shot him a side-eye. “Don’t read anything into it. It’s just my amygdala making me sentimental.”

“I’m going to get you gardening again,” he replied. “Just watch.”

“It’ll be a wasted effort,” I told him, but the fact that he cared so much made my heart skip a beat. Dylan selected a bag of tomatoes, an onion, and some garlic. After he paid for them, he carried the plastic bag with one hand and offered the other one to me. I stared at it for a second.

“I don’t have warts, Ev.”

“I know that, it’s just, there’s no need—”

“I want to make you lunch at my house.”

“Why your house?” I asked, suspicious. “I saw a deli down the street.”

“My place is way better than a deli. Besides, I want to catch up some more,” he said, all innocence. I still couldn’t be sure if I believed him. Was the purpose of this outing to reminisce about the old days, or was he looking for more than that? And if so, why?

Emotionally speaking, I wasn’t ready for more. And certainly not with him. Yes, my last boyfriend, Rick, had been over a year ago, but the break-up had been messy, the relationship toxic from the start. Gran’s health had started to deteriorate. I was lonely and depressed and picked the worst possible man to make me feel better.

“Okay,” I finally allowed. “But I don’t need to hold your hand.”

He dropped his outstretched palm, his smile slipping a little. “All right, no hand-holding. Come on; let’s try to find a taxi. I make the best bruschetta in all of New York.”

“Bruschetta, huh? Somebody’s moved up in the world.” He even pronounced it correctly. “I remember the days when we used to eat frozen pizza and think it was fancy.”

“Well, I’ve matured in many ways,” he said, flirtatiously. I shot him a wry look as I threw my hand out for an oncoming taxi.

Dylan was renting an old townhouse in the East Village, which wasn’t what I expected at all. With his designer suits and perfume franchise, I thought he’d be somewhere on the Upper East Side with a view of the park and lots of floor-to-ceiling windows. Instead he lived in a three-storey period house that somehow managed to feel cosy. The building was old, obviously, with vines crawling up the aged brickwork. On the inside, the original features were well preserved. It had been a while since I’d been anywhere that still had a fireplace.

“Well, what do you think?” Dylan asked as he dropped his keys in a bowl on the mantelpiece.

“I like it, feels homey,” I said and followed him into the kitchen.

“The woman who owns the building, Marguerite, furnished the place,” he said as I slid onto a stool by the counter and nodded.

“Definitely has that feminine touch.”

“I think that’s what I like about it.” Dylan started to unpack the food. “Women have this way of turning houses into homes.” He paused, looking thoughtful, then added, “It’s all in the small details.”

I murmured my agreement and watched while he prepared our lunch. He rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands, then washed and chopped the tomatoes. He tossed them in a bowl with some garlic and basil. The way he moved was effortless, like he’d practiced the recipe so many times he didn’t have to think about it anymore. Next, he sliced a lemon and squeezed one half over the bowl.

“I use lemon instead of vinegar,” he said, and I smiled.

“An artistic flourish?”

“Something like that.” He grinned and mixed everything with his hands. He leaned down and inhaled. “One day I’ll make a perfume inspired by this recipe. Here, smell,” he said and held his hands out to me.

I stared at them for a second, hesitating, then leaned down to inhale. “Um, it’s nice and all, but I’m not sure there’s a market for bruschetta perfume, especially with all that garlic.”

Dylan chuckled, a rich, hearty sound. I rolled my eyes, because what I said wasn’t that funny. I also needed to distract myself from how his laughter created a yearning ache inside me. There was something about the masculine shape of his hands and the way his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows that I found overwhelmingly attractive.

I felt a sudden, bizarre urge to lick the tomato juice from his fingers. I saw myself do it in my head, all sultry, like in the movies, where the character blinks in relief to know it was just their imagination.

“I said a perfume inspired by the recipe. The final product would be something entirely different,” Dylan explained. “It’s the sharp, tangy kick of tomato and lemon, the hint of peppery basil. I need to find a way to capture that in a wearable scent.”

“Hmm,” I said, not convinced. “I’ll believe it when I smell it.”