Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
Dylan
My hands are shaking.
It’s ridiculous. I’ve made scones a thousand times. Ten thousand times. I could make scones in my sleep, blindfolded, with one arm tied behind my back. Scones are the first thing Aunt Moira taught me when I moved in with her, the gateway recipe that led to everything else.
But standing here in Dante’s tiny kitchen, surrounded by the beautiful equipment he bought for me, I can’t seem to remember how to hold a measuring cup.
Get a grip, Dylan. It’s just baking. It’s just flour and butter and a bit of buttermilk. Nothing to have a crisis over.
Except it’s not just baking, is it? It’s part of my grand plan. My scheme to manipulate a dangerous man into trusting me so I can escape. A plan that seemed so clever when I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling, and now seems completely mental now that I actually have to execute it.
What if he sees through me? What if I’m being too obvious? What if I’m not being obvious enough? What if I accidentally poison him with bad scones and he thinks I did it on purpose and then he kills me?
Can you even poison someone with scones? Probably not. But my brain isn’t exactly operating at full capacity right now.
I take a deep breath and try to focus on the flour. White. Powdery. Familiar. I scoop it into the bowl and immediately spill half of it on the counter.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Master manipulator Dylan O’Shea, defeated by basic motor skills.
“Are you alright?”
I nearly jump out of my skin. I’d almost forgotten Dante was there, sitting at the tiny kitchen table, watching me with those intense dark eyes. Of course he’s watching me. He’s always watching me. It’s deeply unnerving.
Also slightly flattering, which is even more unnerving.
“Fine!” My voice comes out approximately two octaves higher than normal.
“Grand. Everything’s grand. Just a bit of spillage.
Happens all the time. Well, not all the time.
I’m usually quite coordinated, actually.
Sean says I have excellent spatial awareness.
Not that you’d know it from looking at this mess. Ha.”
I’m rambling. Sweet Jesus, I’m rambling like an absolute fool. This is not how seductive manipulators behave. This is how nervous wrecks behave. Declan would be ashamed of me.
Actually, Declan being ashamed of me is probably a good thing. I don’t want to be anything like Declan.
Dante’s expression hasn’t changed, but there’s something around his eyes that might be amusement. Or concern. Or homicidal irritation. It’s hard to tell with him.
“Can I help?” he asks.
“No! I mean, yes. I mean...” I stop and press my floury hands against my face, which is a mistake because now I have flour all over my cheeks. Wonderful. “Maybe just sit there and don’t look at me? I perform badly under observation.”
The words are out before I can stop them, and immediately my face flames red. Perform badly under observation. What kind of thing is that to say? Now he’s going to think I’m talking about... about performance in other contexts. Bedroom contexts.
Not that I’m thinking about bedroom contexts. I’m absolutely not thinking about bedroom contexts.
Oh God, now I’m thinking about bedroom contexts.
I turn back to the flour and try to will my blush away through sheer force of desperation. It doesn’t work. It never works. I have the complexion of a tomato with a sunburn.
“I’ll look at the wall,” Dante says, and when I risk a glance over my shoulder, he’s actually turned his chair so he’s facing the peeling paint instead of me.
Something warm blooms in my chest. Something that feels dangerously like gratitude.
No. Not gratitude. Strategy. This is all strategy. He’s being considerate because I’m making him be considerate through my clever manipulation. The manipulation that currently consists of spilling flour everywhere and making accidental innuendos.
I’m doomed. I’m absolutely doomed.
But the lack of eyes on my back does help. My hands steady slightly as I measure out the rest of the flour, and this time I manage to get most of it in the bowl. The butter comes next, cold from the fridge, and the familiar action of cutting it into cubes soothes my jangled nerves.
“You need the butter cold,” I say, because apparently I can’t cope with silence either. “That’s the secret. Cold butter, cold hands, minimal handling. Overwork the dough and you’ll end up with hockey pucks.”
“Hockey pucks?” Dante’s voice comes from his position facing the wall. He hasn’t turned around.
“Dense. Hard. Fit only for sporting equipment.” I work the butter into the flour with my fingertips, feeling the texture shift from sandy to coarse crumbs.
“My first batch of scones could have been classified as weapons. Aunt Moira was too kind to say anything, but I saw her trying to dunk one in her tea and it nearly cracked the mug.”
A sound comes from Dante’s direction. It takes me a moment to identify it as a laugh. Short and rusty, like he’s not used to making it, but definitely a laugh.
I made him laugh. With a silly story about bad scones.
Something flutters in my stomach. I ignore it firmly.
“You can turn around now,” I say. “I’ve got past the embarrassing bit.”
He turns, and I catch the tail end of an expression on his face. Something soft. Something almost... fond.
My heart does a strange little skip. I ignore that too.
“My aunt taught me everything,” I continue, adding buttermilk to the flour mixture. “She used to say that baking was like therapy, except you got cake at the end. Though I suppose that’s not technically true for scones. Scones aren’t cake. But you know what I mean.”
I’m rambling again. Why am I always rambling? Normal people can have conversations without turning into verbal waterfalls. Normal people can share anecdotes without providing seventeen unnecessary clarifications.
“She sounds like a wonderful woman,” Dante says.
The genuine interest in his voice catches me off guard. I look up from my mixing to find him watching me. Not with that unnerving intensity from before, but with something quieter. Something that looks almost like curiosity.
“She is,” I say softly. “She’s the only person who ever...” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence. The only person who ever wanted me? The only person who ever made me feel like I wasn’t broken? Both true, both too painful to say out loud.
“The only person who ever made you scones?” Dante offers, and there’s a gentle humor in his voice that I haven’t heard before.
I huff out a surprised laugh. “Something like that.”
The dough has come together now, shaggy and rough. I tip it onto the floured counter and start pressing it with my palms, folding it over itself, being careful not to overwork it. The motions are automatic, ingrained so deeply they’re practically instinct.
“Can I watch?” Dante asks. “Closer, I mean. I’d like to see how it’s done.”
My hands falter for just a second. Him standing close to me. Looking over my shoulder. His body heat warming my back.
This is what I wanted, isn’t it? Physical proximity. Building intimacy. All part of the plan.
So why does my heart feel like it’s trying to escape through my throat?
“Sure,” I manage. “Just don’t breathe on the dough. It doesn’t like that.”
That’s not even a real thing. Dough doesn’t care about breathing. What is wrong with me?
Dante rises from his chair and moves to stand beside me. Not behind me, thank the sweet infant Jesus, but beside me. Close enough that I can smell his soap and something underneath that’s warm and male and distinctly him.
I focus very hard on the scones.
“You fold it like that?” he asks, watching my hands.
“Just a few times. You want to create layers, but not develop the gluten.” I demonstrate, pressing the dough flat and folding it over. “See how it’s starting to smooth out? That’s when you know it’s ready.”
“It looks like you’re making a bed.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“The folding.” He gestures at my hands. “Like tucking in sheets.”
It’s such an unexpectedly domestic observation that I don’t know how to respond. This man who tortures people for a living, comparing my scone-making technique to making a bed.
“I suppose it does,” I say finally. “I never thought of it that way.”
We stand in silence for a moment. Me with my hands covered in dough, him watching with that quiet intensity. The kitchen is so small that I can feel the warmth radiating off his body. If I shifted just slightly to the left, my shoulder would brush his arm.
I don’t shift. Obviously. That would be too much. Too obvious. Even for my fumbling attempts at manipulation.
“I need a cutter,” I say, breaking the silence. “Or a glass. Something round.”
Dante turns and opens a cupboard, producing a drinking glass. Our fingers brush when he hands it to me, and I absolutely do not feel a small jolt of electricity at the contact. That would be absurd. That would be my body betraying my very sensible brain.
“Press straight down,” I instruct, demonstrating. “Don’t twist until you’re all the way through. Twisting seals the edges and stops them from rising properly.”
I cut out one scone, then another. Golden circles of dough, each one hopefully destined to become light and fluffy and delicious.
“Can I try?”
I look up at him. He’s watching the dough with an expression that seems almost nervous. As if he’s worried about getting it wrong. As if my opinion matters to him.
The thought should make me feel triumphant. Instead, it just makes me feel slightly queasy.
“Wash your hands first,” I say, stepping aside to make room.
He moves to the sink and scrubs his hands with intense thoroughness. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, trying not to think about what those hands have done. What they’re capable of. How gentle they were when he washed my hair.
Focus, Dylan. Scones. You’re making scones.