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

I could hear Beethoven playing in the living room. Yvonne must’ve been home, enjoying her day off. Since she was management, my aunt usually finished work around the same time I started, so we didn’t cross paths too often. It was good in the sense that we both got our alone time in the apartment, because it wasn’t exactly what you’d call spacious.

This also meant I hadn’t seen her for a couple days. We shared the odd text message, or Post-It note stuck to the fridge, but that was it. I could smell her signature roast chicken cooking in the oven, and the scent made my mouth water.

That was the problem with working until three or four in the morning, you always ended up eating lunch for breakfast.

Needing to pee, I pulled on some shorts and wandered down the hallway toward the bathroom, stopping when I heard Yvonne had company. A deep, masculine voice replied to something she said and I frowned. It wasn’t like Yvonne to have men over. In fact, she was one of those rare fish who’d always been quite happy to stay single. Her work was her lover.

She must’ve heard me emerge from my room because she called out, “Evelyn, are you up?”

Usually, I’d just call back that I was and go about my business, but curiosity got the better of me. Running my fingers through my sleep-knotted hair, I wandered into the living room and froze in place when I reached the threshold.

As though consciously punctuating the significance of the moment, Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7 arrived at its pinnacle point. I saw a giant wave crashing into the ocean, a volcano erupting rivulets of molten lava from its lofty peak, the sharp crack of lightning in the sky, as I came face to face with a pair of dark blue eyes I hadn’t seen in almost eight years.

Dylan O’Dea.

As I live and fucking breathe.

Actually, strike that, I wasn’t breathing. The sight of him rendered my lungs incapable of normal function. Then I remembered I was wearing the crumpled T-shirt I’d slept in and a pair of shorts that left little to the imagination. I was also sporting gorgeous bedhead. As a result, self-consciousness kicked in.

Then I remembered this was a man who’d seen me in every possible guise, from the good, to the bad, to the ugly, and I knew any level of vanity was pointless.

“Evelyn,” he said, standing. He sounded so different, so mature and grown-up. The last time I saw him he was twenty-two. He’d returned to Dublin for a fleeting visit. Now he’d be thirty.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed and ran a hand through his hair. I wondered if he felt as off-kilter as I did.

“Oh Ev, we’ve both been so busy with work this last week I didn’t even get to tell you. I bumped into Dylan the other day. What a small world it is,” Yvonne said, while Dylan’s gaze never left me. Those wise, astute eyes took all of me in, from the tips of my toes to the top of my head. Old memories stirred, of a time when he could own me with a look like this one.

“He has his own perfume boutique downtown now. Can you believe it?” Yvonne continued as she looked at Dylan. “You’ve come a long way from St Mary’s Villas, that’s for sure.”

He owned his own perfume franchise, actually, but no way was I admitting I’d followed his career. Don’t get me wrong, I’d never actually smelled any of his products. Half of it was due to fear. I didn’t want to remember him, how close we’d once been, because scent had a way of plunging you into the past.

The other half was the fact that his success made me feel like a failure. I knew it was silly, especially since I was the one who told him to go fulfil his dreams all those years ago, but a part of me felt overwhelmed by all he’d achieved.

Probably because I hadn’t really achieved anything myself.

“We all have,” said Dylan, eyes coming back to me again. “Yvonne invited me over for lunch to catch up. I hope you don’t mind.”

I waved him away. “Not at all. Sorry I’m not dressed. I work nights. It’s good to see you though.” My words came out in a rush, and his features warmed.

“It’s good to see you, too, Evelyn.”

I smiled awkwardly and fiddled with the hem of my T-shirt. Heat claimed my face and chest. His attention dipped to my bare thighs for a second, then he sat back down on the couch and crossed a leg over his knee. “I can’t wait to hear all about what you’ve been up to these days.”

That was funny, because all I could think about was our past. It was a time I’d never truly moved on from. Dylan left because he had to, but also because he thought he was bad luck. He felt to blame for what happened to Sam, and I suspected he’d never gotten over that guilt.

His stare fixed on me and there was a long moment where the two of us just . . . looked at each other.

Here was a man who had once been a boy, who had once stolen my heart, who had once been my whole entire world. Now we were virtual strangers.

Sure, I’d followed his career, but it wasn’t like he gave interviews or maintained a social media presence. Dylan O’Dea was far too mysterious for all that. But I had read articles and stories in the news. They weren’t top stories by any means, which was why Yvonne was vaguely in the dark as to his success, but they were still there.

And like the glutton for punishment that I was, I’d sought them out, eager for any piece of insight. It was a pointless activity, of course. It wasn’t like I ever planned to find him.

“Well, I’ll let you two catch up while I go check on the roast,” said my aunt.