How the Light Gets In (Cracks Duet #2)(8)

Wildflower was the one I chose, and when I inhaled I briefly closed my eyes, because I was swept away to an alpine meadow in France. There was a sharp, clean edge to the flowery scent that made me picture snowy mountains and pale blue skies.

Dylan’s gaze flickered to my wrist, focusing for a second. Then, carefully, he circled it with his fingers and lifted it to his own nose. His eyes held mine as he inhaled deeply, then gently let it drop. “That’s the one I would’ve picked for you, too,” he said, voice soft.

“It’s beautiful,” I replied, unable to withhold the compliment.

“You think so?” he asked, pleased.

“Yes, but I wouldn’t buy it.”

He started to frown. “No?”

I gestured to the price tag. “It costs one hundred dollars, Dylan. I’m pretty sure I could cobble something similar together if I really wanted to, and it’d cost me ten dollars tops.”

I was talking utter crap, of course. I may have been able to make something similar, but it wouldn’t have that special quality only Dylan could create. I didn’t have the talent to find that one ingredient that melded all the others together, elevating them from the ordinary to extraordinary.

As they called it in the biz, Dylan was a nose. And a very fine and skilled nose at that.

His frown turned into a grin. “Yes, well, don’t go telling that to my customers.”

“You really have embraced the ways of capitalism.”

“I told you it was the only way to make money.”

“Yeah,” I replied, remembering. “You did, didn’t you?”

We stayed locked in a moment when a sweet voice interrupted. “Mr O’Dea, there’s a call for you in the office.”

It was the redhead from before, but she wasn’t smiling like she was earlier. Instead her expression was painfully blank.

“Ah, thank you, Laura. I’ll go get it now.”

Laura.

His text from last night. I glanced at her name tag. She was the assistant manager.

Wow, Dylan was shagging his employees.

Though I couldn’t really blame him. Laura had that whole Jessica Chastain thing going on. I wasn’t above admitting that if I was the boss and some Chris Hemsworth lookalike was working for me, I’d be taking advantage of my position of power left, right, and centre.

Or was that above, below, and from behind?

I smirked to myself and Dylan gave me a funny look, raising an eyebrow. “Inside joke,” I told him, and he only raised his brow higher.

Laura cleared her throat and Dylan glanced back at her, distracted. “Is there anything else?”

“No, Mr O’Dea. Nothing else,” she chirped with bite. Her tone said everything her words didn’t. Who’s the blonde?

“Come on, Evelyn. Your tour can start with my office.” He took my hand and led me away from the storefront. Laura’s expression gave the faintest hint of shock, but I couldn’t tell if she recognised my name, or if it was because he was holding my hand.

Troublingly, touching Dylan felt as natural as ever, like there weren’t years of distance between us.

His office was a lot less swanky than I expected. In fact, it was a mess. There were files and papers all over the desk. Haphazard piles of perfume samples lay in one corner, while what looked to be a mini chemistry lab was set up on a table in the other.

I pointed to it. “Does that coincide with health and safety regulations?”

He ran a hand through his hair as he went to pick up the phone. “Maybe.”

“Huh,” I said as I inspected the trappings.

There was some sort of oil in one beaker, and a clear liquid in another. On a chopping board was a bunch of cut-up chocolate cosmos, which was an incredibly rare flower. Eleven years ago, it would’ve galled me to see it like that. I picked up a piece and gave it a quick sniff. Hmm, vanilla. They were notoriously hard to grow, and I’d never tried myself. Dylan was obviously endeavouring to use them in one of his perfumes.

Then there was a glass jar full of wet, crushed wood chippings. I picked it up and gave it a sniff, too. Dylan, who had been quietly talking on the phone in the background, finally hung up. He clasped his hands together as he considered me.

“Smells like a rainy day, right?”

“I thought it was just wet wood, but now that you mention it . . .” I gave the jar another sniff and realised he was right. It smelled like going outside after a heavy shower, when the earth was at its most fragrant.

“Is this your something odd?” I asked and set the jar back down.

He shot me a questioning look.

“You once told me that there’s something odd in every beautiful scent,” I explained, a little shy to reveal my memory of his words so clearly. I looked down, self-conscious. “You combine something pretty with something unpleasant and the result is . . . perfection.”

His eyes shimmered, and for a second I thought he might be the tiniest bit homesick. “I did have some grandiose ideas back then, didn’t I?”

“It was true, though. You might’ve talked a lot, but you talked a lot of sense.”

“You give me too much credit.”

He stood and walked towards me. When he was near, my skin prickled. He reached out and my breath caught. I thought he was going to touch me, but then he picked up one of the flower petals from the chopping board. Next, he plucked some of the crushed wood from the jar and clasped both between his palms. He rubbed them together, then opened his hands and held them out to me.