Page 85 of The Wrong Man

Dylan was jealous of Ginni.

I’m standing in the kitchen, supposedly making more coffee, but really just staring at the kettle and replaying that conversation for the hundredth time. The way his face changed when I said Ginni was pretty. The barely concealed relief when I explained about Carlo. The way he shoved toast in his mouth to stop himself from rambling after I confirmed I’m attracted to men.

He was jealous. He was relieved. Which means he cares. Which means...

I don’t let myself finish that thought. It’s too dangerous. Too hopeful. Too likely to shatter me if I’m wrong.

“Do you think the macarons are ready?”

Dylan’s voice startles me out of my spiral. I turn to find him hovering in the kitchen doorway, looking uncertain. He’s still wearing my clothes because I keep forgetting to buy him his own and I disposed of his soaking wet ones because I couldn’t cope with the guilt they invoked.

But the soft blue jumper brings out the color of his eyes and looks far better on him than it ever did on me, so maybe my forgetfulness and cowardice aren’t such bad things.

“They should be,” I manage. “They’ve been setting overnight.” I don’t know why he is asking me, he’s the expert.

“Right. Yes. The flavors need time to meld. That’s what the cookbook said.” He’s fidgeting with the hem of the jumper, not quite looking at me. “Should we... I mean, do you want to try them? Together?”

Together. Such a simple word. Such an enormous offer.

“I’d like that,” I say.

We move around each other in the small kitchen, that familiar dance we’ve developed over the past week. Dylan retrieves the container of macarons from the fridge while I pour coffee into two mismatched mugs. Our elbows brush as we pass. Neither of us pulls away.

The macarons are beautiful. Perfect little circles of pale green, sandwiched together with a delicate filling. They look like something from a Parisian patisserie, professional and precise.

“I can’t believe they actually worked,” Dylan murmurs, staring at them with something like wonder. “I’ve never managed to get them right before. The shells always cracked or went hollow or didn’t develop feet. But these...”

“These are perfect,” I finish for him.

He looks up at me, and there’s something vulnerable in his expression. Something that makes me want to wrap him in my arms and never let go.

“You don’t know that yet. You haven’t tasted them.”

“I know.”

The words come out softer than I intended. More intimate. Dylan’s cheeks flush pink, and he looks away quickly, busying himself with arranging the macarons on a plate.

We take our coffee and the plate to the living room, settling onto the horrible orange sofa. Close, but not touching. The space between us feels charged, electric with possibility.

“You first,” Dylan says, pushing the plate toward me. “I’m too nervous.”

I pick up one of the delicate cookies and examine it. The shell is smooth and unblemished, the color a soft pistachio green. It smells faintly of rosewater and almonds.

Dylan is watching me with an intensity that borders on painful. His hands are clasped tightly in his lap, knuckles white.

I take a bite.

The shell cracks perfectly, giving way to a soft, chewy interior. The flavors bloom across my tongue. Pistachio, sweet and nutty. Rosewater, delicate and floral. A hint of vanilla underneath, tying everything together.

It’s exquisite. The best thing I’ve ever tasted.

“Well?” Dylan’s voice is barely above a whisper.

I look at him. Really look at him. This man who bakes like an artist, who rambles when he’s nervous, who cried over successful macarons and asked if I was attracted to men over breakfast toast.

“Perfect,” I say. “Absolutely perfect.”

The smile that breaks across his face is like the sun coming out. Bright and warm and so genuinely happy that something cracks open in my chest.