How the Light Gets In (Cracks Duet #2)(5)

“We just opened our new store in New York and things are going well. Yvonne told you that’s where she found me, right? She stumbled into the shop last week.”

“Yeah, she said.”

“You should come by tomorrow if you’re free. I’d love to show you around.”

“Perfume’s not really my thing.”

Dylan raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “You mean to tell me you’re not gardening up a storm on some rooftop here in New York?”

I frowned, the weight of the world sinking a hole in my gut. “I don’t do that anymore,” I said, subdued.

Now his brows drew together in perplexity. “You don’t garden?”

I huffed a breath. “What’s the point? Everything you grow just ends up dying.”

With that I walked to the other end of the bar and tended to some customers. Dylan remained seated, sipping on his lager while he watched me work. I found it disconcerting, especially how he brought up the whole gardening thing. You could say I was the one who first introduced Dylan to flowers, and the ways you could combine them to create pretty scents.

His signature and most popular perfume was called E.V. Sometimes I’d catch sight of it in a shop window and wonder if he’d named it after me, since everybody called me Ev. Then I’d think better of the foolish notion and continue on my way.

Besides, it probably stood for something pretentious and nonsensical, like Evocative Vision or Eclipse Voyeur. His other scents had names like Synaesthesia and Limerence, so it wasn’t a huge stretch.

When there was a lull in customers, I pulled myself together and returned to Dylan. His glass was almost empty.

“Want another?”

“Sure.”

I quietly took his old glass and replaced it with a new one. “Let’s just . . . not talk about gardening. It’s sort of a sore subject for me.”

“No, I understand,” Dylan replied. He’d obviously done some thinking over the last half hour and come to the realisation of why I no longer grew things.

I didn’t know what to say, so I busied myself wiping clean the bar top.

“I used to be the pessimistic one,” he said. “Feels like we switched roles.”

“You’ve left your fatalistic ways behind?” I asked, curious.

“Guess I’ve realised life’s not so bad.”

I shot him a smirk. “Few bob in your pocket will do that.”

He gave a self-deprecating smile. “Maybe.”

“And what do you do nowadays in your spare time? I mean, if ranting about the injustice of the world no longer does it for you, you must have a good sixteen hours spare in the day for other stuff.”

Dylan laughed, the sound like water to the desert of my heart. “Mostly, I work. I try to develop new perfumes, figure out ways to make people want to buy them. Doesn’t leave a lot of room for much else.”

“So,” I hedged, glancing briefly at his bare ring finger. “No wife?”

He gave a faint smile, eyes wandering in the direction mine had gone. “Why, you interested?”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, yeah. Sign me up.”

“The job’s yours. When can you start?”

I pursed my lips and tried not to smile, but I couldn’t help it. Dylan had always been a sly flirt. You thought you were having a regular conversation and then bam, you were in the middle of a full-on seduction fest.

“Who’s to say I don’t have a husband?”

His grin was knowing. “Yvonne said you’re single.”

Damn my aunt and her big mouth. I narrowed my gaze at him playfully. “I have to get back to work now.”

“Go ahead. I’ll just sit here and enjoy myself.”

“You do that.”

Two hours later, Dylan was still at the bar. He alternated between watching me work and replying to texts on his phone. I wondered if it was business or personal. Probably business, since he mentioned that’s all he had time for these days. And there was no wife in the picture. I couldn’t help being pleased by that fact.

Although, that didn’t mean there wasn’t a girlfriend.

When my shift ended, I took my time balancing my till and cleaning up the bar, thinking Dylan would get bored and leave, but he didn’t.

“Don’t you have a bed to get to?” I asked as I buttoned up my coat.

Dylan followed me out and opened the door for me, all chivalrous. I suspected he might be after an old-time’s-sake shag, but then he said, “Let me buy you breakfast.”

“It’s three a.m.”

“And we’re in New York. You can get breakfast here any time you want.”

“The land of miracles,” I deadpanned, but I was charmed. Very charmed. And too easily.

“Come on,” he said and offered his arm. “I’m in the mood for blueberry pancakes.”

I gave a sigh and linked my arm through his. “Fine, but you’re buying.”

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t?”

“I don’t know why people think being a gentleman is a good thing. When I think of the word all I see is some snobbish eighteenth-century fop in a Jane Austen novel.”

“You’re right. I’m more of a working-class hero.”