How the Light Gets In (Cracks Duet #2)(7)

He quickly pressed a button and the screen went blank. He wasn’t fast enough though, and he knew it.

“That was just—”

“A lady?”

His mouth twitched. “Yeah, a lady.”

I gestured to his phone. “Well? Aren’t you going to reply? She wants to know if you’re up and you are, so . . .”

“True, but I’m busy having breakfast with an old friend.”

“And we’re just about finished, so go on, knock yourself out. Text her back.”

“Ev.”

“What?”

He was about to say something when he shook his head and seemed to think better of it. He slipped his phone in his pocket and stood from the table, coming around to help me out of my seat. I went to put my coat on, but he got there first. I sucked in a breath when he draped it over my shoulders and buttoned it up as I slid my arms in.

“There,” he said, voice soft.

“I think I’ll get a taxi home. I’m too tired for the subway.”

“Come on. I’ll help you hail one.”

A few minutes later, I was in the back of a yellow taxi. Dylan handed the driver a few bills to pay for the journey, which I thought was kind of him. He leaned down to the window to talk to me before the driver pulled away.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow at twelve, yeah?”

I furrowed my brow. “What’s tomorrow?”

“You’re coming to see my shop,” he said and then he was too far away for me to respond. The taxi joined traffic, and I flopped back into the seat, emitting a long breath.

A couple of days ago I would’ve sworn we’d never cross paths again, but I’d just had breakfast at three in the morning with Dylan O’Dea and tomorrow he wanted me to visit his perfume shop.

The most surprising thing though? I actually wanted to go. After so many years following his career from afar, I wanted to see what his life was like up close. So yeah, even though I knew it was probably a terrible idea, I was going to take Dylan up on his invite.

I was going to see what all the fuss was about.





Chapter 3





Dylan was on Sixth Avenue.

The shopfront consisted of a large, floor-to-ceiling window, framed by what appeared to be black marble. It gave a sleek and expensive impression, just like the perfumes contained within. I stood outside in my five-year-old jeans, navy parka, and scuffed Doc Martens, wondering what on earth I was doing there.

This place wasn’t for me. Like I told Dylan years ago, I was more of a Body Shop girl. Inside, smartly dressed men and women made the rounds, chatting to customers and making suggestions on different products.

The street was noisy, a cacophony of traffic and people. I sucked in a deep breath and walked inside. Immediately, a smiling redhead greeted me. Her hair was in a neat chignon, and she wore a smart black pencil dress and pearls. I expected her to look down on me, maybe ask me to leave with that smile still on her face, but she didn’t.

“Hello, and welcome to Dylan. Is there anything in particular I can help you with today?”

“Oh, I’m just looking,” I said, hoping she’d leave me alone. I wasn’t quite ready to see Dylan yet, still gathering my nerve. Last night, I’d tossed and turned, replaying the day’s events in my head, trying to pick out what he wanted from me. Friendship? Romance?

I wished people would be up front with their intentions. Tell you straight what they were after.

“Of course, please take your time. And if you need my help I’ll be right here,” she said and I stepped by her.

I paused in front of a collection of perfumes in red-, pink-and purple-tinted bottles. This was Dylan’s new line. I hesitated in front of the display, my throat clogged with indecision. Never before had I opened a bottle of Dylan perfume and taken a sniff. Not even once. Every time I considered it my entire body tensed up with anxiety, my heart thrummed and my brain scrambled.

I knew that each scent would remind me of him. Dylan was the sort of person who put his entire self into every endeavour. I’d smell the top notes and see his smile, the middle notes and remember his voice. But most of all, hidden like a secret in the bottom notes, I’d feel his touch.

And afterward, I’d look at my life and know there was something missing. Something vital. Like a heart that didn’t beat, or an instrument that made no sound.

I’d much rather live in blissful ignorance than sink into that bottomless hole.

But standing here, with those bottles laid out in front of me, the temptation was hard to resist. Maybe the drug called Memory would be worth the comedown named Emptiness.

Feeling brave, I picked up a bottle, pulled off the cap and sprayed some on the inside of my wrist. A pair of warm, firm hands came to rest on my shoulders. I closed my eyes for the briefest second, then opened them and turned to face him. Even before I looked, I knew it was him.

He glanced from me to the bottle I held, his left eyebrow rising the tiniest bit. His voice was low, hushed, when he asked, “Do you like it?”

My mouth ran dry. “I haven’t had the chance to smell it yet.”

His lips curved ever so slightly as he gestured with his hand. “Then, by all means, go ahead.”

Self-consciously, I placed the bottle down and brought my wrist to my nose. The line consisted of three scents; Dylan: Rose, Dylan: Lily, and Dylan: Wildflower.