“It’s a survival mechanism we developed through evolution. If we smell smoke, we know to be on alert for a fire. If we don’t smell smoke, we know everything is okay. Scent causes countless nerve signals to be set off in our brains.”
“All happening in the blink of an eye,” I added fondly. Dylan never failed to bring out my affectionate side, especially when he went all scientist on me.
“There are just as many molecules in a single breath as there are stars in all the galaxies. The scent from a single spray of perfume is a much grander experience when you think about it that way,” he went on.
He really had a talent for making this shit sound romantic. “Where did you learn all this?” I was so curious, because there was a confidence in his knowledge now that seemed very sophisticated.
“I studied olfactory science in Los Angeles,” he said. “I learned a lot of the theory behind the things I already had a talent for.”
So that was it. When we learn from someone talking passionately, rather than from words on a page, it creates knowledge that feels more alive.
“Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York, you’ve really gotten around,” I replied, impressed.
“It cost an arm and a leg to study there, but I managed to get a loan. A bit of a dodgy one, but still a loan. Thankfully, I was able to pay it back once the company took off. Conor had his MA in business by then, so he came over to help me with that side of things. And now, well, here we are.”
“Your determination to succeed paid off,” I said as I lifted a bunch of marigolds from the display and handed the girl some money. Dylan appeared pleased.
I shot him a side-eye. “Don’t read anything into it. It’s just my amygdala making me sentimental.”
“I’m going to get you gardening again,” he replied. “Just watch.”
“It’ll be a wasted effort,” I told him, but the fact that he cared so much made my heart skip a beat. Dylan selected a bag of tomatoes, an onion, and some garlic. After he paid for them, he carried the plastic bag with one hand and offered the other one to me. I stared at it for a second.
“I don’t have warts, Ev.”
“I know that, it’s just, there’s no need—”
“I want to make you lunch at my house.”
“Why your house?” I asked, suspicious. “I saw a deli down the street.”
“My place is way better than a deli. Besides, I want to catch up some more,” he said, all innocence. I still couldn’t be sure if I believed him. Was the purpose of this outing to reminisce about the old days, or was he looking for more than that? And if so, why?
Emotionally speaking, I wasn’t ready for more. And certainly not with him. Yes, my last boyfriend, Rick, had been over a year ago, but the break-up had been messy, the relationship toxic from the start. Gran’s health had started to deteriorate. I was lonely and depressed and picked the worst possible man to make me feel better.
“Okay,” I finally allowed. “But I don’t need to hold your hand.”
He dropped his outstretched palm, his smile slipping a little. “All right, no hand-holding. Come on; let’s try to find a taxi. I make the best bruschetta in all of New York.”
“Bruschetta, huh? Somebody’s moved up in the world.” He even pronounced it correctly. “I remember the days when we used to eat frozen pizza and think it was fancy.”
“Well, I’ve matured in many ways,” he said, flirtatiously. I shot him a wry look as I threw my hand out for an oncoming taxi.
Dylan was renting an old townhouse in the East Village, which wasn’t what I expected at all. With his designer suits and perfume franchise, I thought he’d be somewhere on the Upper East Side with a view of the park and lots of floor-to-ceiling windows. Instead he lived in a three-storey period house that somehow managed to feel cosy. The building was old, obviously, with vines crawling up the aged brickwork. On the inside, the original features were well preserved. It had been a while since I’d been anywhere that still had a fireplace.
“Well, what do you think?” Dylan asked as he dropped his keys in a bowl on the mantelpiece.
“I like it, feels homey,” I said and followed him into the kitchen.
“The woman who owns the building, Marguerite, furnished the place,” he said as I slid onto a stool by the counter and nodded.
“Definitely has that feminine touch.”
“I think that’s what I like about it.” Dylan started to unpack the food. “Women have this way of turning houses into homes.” He paused, looking thoughtful, then added, “It’s all in the small details.”
I murmured my agreement and watched while he prepared our lunch. He rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands, then washed and chopped the tomatoes. He tossed them in a bowl with some garlic and basil. The way he moved was effortless, like he’d practiced the recipe so many times he didn’t have to think about it anymore. Next, he sliced a lemon and squeezed one half over the bowl.
“I use lemon instead of vinegar,” he said, and I smiled.
“An artistic flourish?”
“Something like that.” He grinned and mixed everything with his hands. He leaned down and inhaled. “One day I’ll make a perfume inspired by this recipe. Here, smell,” he said and held his hands out to me.
I stared at them for a second, hesitating, then leaned down to inhale. “Um, it’s nice and all, but I’m not sure there’s a market for bruschetta perfume, especially with all that garlic.”
Dylan chuckled, a rich, hearty sound. I rolled my eyes, because what I said wasn’t that funny. I also needed to distract myself from how his laughter created a yearning ache inside me. There was something about the masculine shape of his hands and the way his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows that I found overwhelmingly attractive.
I felt a sudden, bizarre urge to lick the tomato juice from his fingers. I saw myself do it in my head, all sultry, like in the movies, where the character blinks in relief to know it was just their imagination.
“I said a perfume inspired by the recipe. The final product would be something entirely different,” Dylan explained. “It’s the sharp, tangy kick of tomato and lemon, the hint of peppery basil. I need to find a way to capture that in a wearable scent.”
“Hmm,” I said, not convinced. “I’ll believe it when I smell it.”
Dylan laughed again, eyes sparkling with merriment as he stared at me for a long moment. So long I became self-conscious.
“What?” I asked, tucking some hair behind my ear.
He shrugged. “It just feels surreal to have you here.”
I pursed my lips. “Surreal good or surreal bad?”
He was quick to answer. “Good. Definitely good.”
Over an hour later, I sat on Dylan’s couch, belly full of bruschetta and ready for a nap. What was it about overeating that made me so sleepy?
Dylan sat on the other side of the couch, a good, safe distance between us. He rested one arm over the back of it, studying me with quiet speculation.
“Tell me about your last relationship,” he said.
I scoffed. “You sound like a bad psychotherapist.”
He shifted his body closer. “I can’t help it. I want to know who you’ve been with since me.”
I arched a brow. “Why?”
“Because I’ve got a masochistic side, so indulge it.”
I blew out a breath. Over the course of the last few years, I’d made one or two unwise romantic decisions. My heart yearned to find its match, but no one ever seemed to live up to the man currently sitting across from me. Now I wondered if maybe it wasn’t yearning for its match, but rather yearning for the one it lost. Dylan had been a hard act to follow, that was for sure.
“Well, my first boyfriend after you was Jonathan Miller,” I said, deciding to start with the good and work my way up to the bad.
Dylan blinked. “With the braces?”
“He had them out by the time we got together,” I defended. “And he was really nice, actually. Probably the n
icest person I’ve ever been with.” A lot nicer than the ones that came after him, anyway.
“I wasn’t nice?” he feigned offence.
“No, nice isn’t how I’d describe you. Idiosyncratic is a better word.”
“Peculiar then.”
“You were when compared with ninety-nine per cent of the other boys at the Villas.”
“Maybe,” he allowed. “So, what was it like with old Johnny Miller?”
I reached over to the coffee table to pick up my glass of wine. Before we ate, Dylan broke out an expensive bottle of white, and yes, I might’ve had a shift in several hours, but I couldn’t say no to a glass. In the back of my mind, I wondered if he was trying to get me tipsy so I’d loosen up. Then again, he’d never needed alcohol for that. One look and he’d owned me.
I took a sip and placed it on the table. “It was . . . pleasant. He bought me gifts every month on payday. The problem was, I was always so busy with Gran, and he resented the fact that he came second. He was the one to break it off.”
“Dumped by Johnny “braceface” Miller,” Dylan teased. I swiped him on the arm.
“Shut up. I was heartbroken. I thought we were going to buy a bungalow together and have babies, one boy and one girl. Instead, he ended up marrying Sheena Davies.”
“He went from you to Sheena?” Dylan asked, clearly perplexed.
“I guess she gave him more attention than I did, but she’s so bossy. I sometimes saw them doing groceries together and she had him completely under her thumb. I actually felt a little sorry for him.”
“Well, he made his choice. Any man who dumps you is an idiot in my opinion,” Dylan said sincerely.
I lifted my glass, smiling as I joked, “My sentiments exactly.”
“And after Jonathan?” he went on with interest.
I grimaced. Now for the bad. “After Jonathan, I was single for a couple of years until I met Rick.” I paused, not exactly excited to get into the topic of my most recent ex. And yes, I’d had a few short flings here and there, all of them ending in heartbreak, but it wasn’t necessary to tell Dylan about those.
“Do I know him?”
I shook my head. “He was from the south side, really posh, but also kind of a dick.”
“Rick the dick.” Dylan nodded. “Got it.”
I chuckled. “That about sums him up. I was in a bad place. Gran was getting sicker and sicker, and I just needed someone to comfort me.”
Dylan frowned, his brows furrowing, like he didn’t enjoy the idea of me being lonely. “What happened?” he asked gently.
I exhaled. “I didn’t know it at the time, but I was basically his secret bit on the side. The working-class girl he’d never dream of bringing home to his parents. I was with him for almost a year when I found out he was engaged to some girl from his hometown. His family and hers were close, so they approved of the marriage. He said he got with me because he felt trapped, but I saw him for what he was: a dirty cheat who wanted the best of both worlds.”
“And you broke up with him then?” Dylan asked, jaw firm. He looked angry.
I nodded. “Yes, but . . .”
“But what?”
“He wasn’t too keen on letting me go. He kept showing up at the flat, and I was too weak to tell him no, so . . . I let him stay the night. That happened a few times. He kept telling me he was going to break off the engagement, but I soon figured out he never would. That’s when I finally pulled together the strength to end it for good.”
“Ev.” Dylan frowned, reaching out to clasp my shoulder. “I hate that you went through that.”
I shrugged, trying to keep a straight face and not get all mushy and emotional. “You live, you learn.”
His hand moved from my shoulder to tuck a fallen strand of hair behind my ear. I sucked in a quick breath at his touch.
“I should’ve come back for you,” he murmured.
“You did.”
“I should’ve tried harder to convince you to come with me.”
“I only would’ve told you the same thing I told you the first time. I would’ve told you to go fulfil your dreams.”
“I think your exact words were, if you ever come back here I’ll never talk to you again,” he said, the edges of his lips curving.
“Oh, the irony,” I said with a quiet laugh.
He was fiddling with my hair now, his gaze transfixed by what his fingers were doing. “Teenagers, so melodramatic,” he went on, voice soft. His hand moved down along my neck and goosebumps rose where he touched me. He made a low hum in the back of his throat, like touching me relaxed him, and I closed my eyes for a second.
“You’ve always been so incredibly beautiful, Ev,” he whispered.
I opened my eyes and got lost in his. The deep, dark blue of his irises was a seductive prison I could happily reside in. His hand gripped my shoulder, and I snapped to my senses. I pushed off the couch and went to grab my coat and handbag while checking my phone.
“Is that the time? I have to get going.”
“Ev, wait a second.”
I turned back to him, but closed my eyes for willpower. If I looked at him, I might do something incredibly silly, like jump onto his lap and kiss him. I was twenty-nine years old. I couldn’t be kissing Dylan O’Dea.
Because when I did, I was his. Completely, utterly his.
“What?” I whispered.
“I’m sorry if I was too forward. I shouldn’t have touched you like that.”
I shook my head. “You don’t need to apologise.” Because he might’ve been the one to touch me, but I knew my eyes encouraged him.
“Still, I hope I didn’t offend you.”
“You didn’t, I promise. I’ll see you around, Dylan.”
With that I turned and walked out into the hallway and to the door. It opened just as I reached it and in walked Conor. I paused mid-stride, surprised. Not because this was the first time I’d seen him in years, but because he’d undergone quite the transformation. Gone were the glasses and scruffy Afro. They’d been replaced with a tightly shaved haircut, a suit and, I imagined, some serious laser eye surgery.
Conor had shed his awkward eighteen-year-old skin to become one seriously hot piece of arse. If I wasn’t still reeling from Dylan’s re-entry into my life—had I not known Dylan was here in New York—I might have actually asked Conor out on a date.
“Conor, wow,” I breathed.
“Evelyn, my God.” He looked frazzled, like he’d had a busy day and seeing me threw him for a loop. Wait, had Dylan not told him about running into Yvonne?
“Hey, it’s great to see you.”
“Yes, you, too. Man, it’s been a long time.”
“The years have been good to you. Really good,” I said, and he smiled at the compliment. The old Conor might’ve gone shy and flushed, but not this Conor. This Conor took it with all the suave sophistication of a successful COO.
“I could say the same for you. You look gorgeous.”
Dylan came to stand next to me, emitting a barely perceptible grunt of irritation. Conor ran a hand over his head. He had a really nicely shaped skull, now I could actually see it. His gaze flickered back and forth between Dylan and me, trying to read the room.
“So, uh, how did you end up in New York?” he asked, focusing back on me.
“I’ve only been here a short while. I moved over to join Yvonne. She’s been here a couple of years, actually—”
“Yvonne?” Conor’s eyes lit up like it was Christmas.
I chuckled. “Yes, Yvonne.” I’d almost forgotten about his old crush.
“She’s in town?”
“Yep. She manages the bar I work at. It’s called FEST.”
He blew out a breath. “I’ve literally walked by that place a hundred times.”
“Well, it’s a small world, you know. Yvonne walked into Dylan last week, and that’s how we reconnected,” I said, gesturing between Dylan and me. “So, you two are living together?”
Conor nodded,
smiling. “We didn’t think there was much point renting two separate places, so we’re roommates. Hey, do you know what? We should all go out for dinner sometime. Have a catch up. You, me, Yvonne and Dylan.”
I just about caught Dylan’s smirk. “Still jonesing for the aunt, huh?”
Conor cast him a look. “It’s been a long time. It’d be nice to get together.”
“Yeah, it would. Um, let me ask Yvonne and get back to you. Right now, I’ve got to get going though, but we’ll talk soon.”
“Yeah, talk soon,” Conor agreed, and I slipped out the door. I didn’t look at Dylan. I needed to leave. I needed some time to clear my head.
I needed to absorb the fact that I still wanted him. After all these years . . . it made me feel like a teenager all over again. But more than that, it made me feel excited, because when I’d been Dylan’s, he’d made me his world.
And like all humans, I craved being everything to someone.
Chapter 5
When I arrived home, I took a long, cold shower.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t that cold, but it was definitely long. I needed time under the water to clear my head. Dylan’s touch popped and fizzled in my brain, causing all sorts of girlish, fluttery reactions.
I stepped out of the bathroom with one towel around my body and another wrapped around my hair. Yvonne stood in her bedroom doorway, having just finished a phone call.
“Well, don’t you look spic and span,” she commented, our previous spat all but forgotten. That was the way of things with us. Last night’s argument was yesterday’s news. We’d moved on.
“I’ve got work in an hour,” I replied. “Oh, also, guess who I saw today?”
“Was it Chris Kristofferson?”
I frowned. “No.”
She gave a shrug. “I just like saying the same Chris Kristofferson. Rolls off the tongue.”
“Well, it wasn’t him. It was Conor Abrahams. Remember? From the Villas?”
“You mean the kid you used to pal around with who tried to kiss me once?” she asked wryly and followed me into my bedroom.
“Yes, that’s the one,” I replied, choosing to leave out the fact that he wasn’t a kid anymore. I wanted to witness Yvonne’s reaction when she saw him in person. His transformation would stun her. “He actually helps run Dylan’s company now. They invited us out to dinner some night when we’re all free. What do you think?”
How the Light Gets In: The Cracks Duet Book Two Page 4