Chapter 21 #2
Not that I’ve ever managed to get the hang of it. But now is my opportunity to practice. Plenty of time. No other distractions, apart from Dante.
If I reframe it, I’m not being held prisoner by a mafia torturer, I’m on a baking retreat.
“It looks like you’re being very careful,” Dante observes, startling me back to reality.
“That’s because I am. This is the make or break moment. Literally. If I over-fold, the macarons will spread and crack. If I under-fold, they’ll be lumpy and won’t develop the signature smooth top.”
I can feel him watching me work. His attention is a physical weight, pressing against my skin, making me hyperaware of every movement I make.
This is what I wanted, isn’t it? His attention. His focus. His growing attachment to me.
But I didn’t expect it to feel like this.
Didn’t expect the strange tension that builds when he’s near, the way my heart rate picks up for reasons I can’t entirely attribute to fear.
Didn’t expect to find myself actually enjoying his company, his quiet presence, the way he asks questions about baking like he genuinely wants to learn.
I didn’t expect to start caring back.
The batter reaches the right consistency, flowing off the spatula in a thick ribbon. I transfer it to a piping bag and begin to pipe small circles onto the parchment-lined baking sheet, trying to keep them uniform in size.
“They need to rest before baking,” I explain. “Anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour, until they develop a skin. You should be able to touch them lightly without any batter sticking to your finger.”
“And then?”
“Then the oven. Which is where everything usually goes wrong for me.” I finish piping and step back to survey my work. The circles are reasonably even, if not perfectly identical. “The temperature has to be exact. Too hot and they crack. Too cool and they don’t develop feet.”
“Feet?”
“The ruffled base. It’s the signature of a proper macaron. Formed by the steam escaping during baking. Very technical. Very finicky. Very French.”
Dante moves closer to examine the tray. He’s near enough now that I can smell his soap, clean and simple, and something underneath that’s just him. Warm and male and disturbingly appealing.
My face is doing that thing again. I can feel the heat creeping up my cheeks.
“They look good,” he says.
“They look like blobs. They won’t look like macarons until they’re baked.” I busy myself with covering the tray loosely with a tea towel. “Assuming they turn out at all. Which they probably won’t. My track record with macarons is abysmal.”
“You’re too hard on yourself.”
The words make me freeze. Too hard on myself. Such a simple observation, but it lands somewhere tender and raw.
“I’m realistic,” I say quietly. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
I look up and find him watching me with that intense, focused expression. Those dark eyes that see too much. That show too much, now I know how to look.
He’s too young to carry such weight in his eyes. Too handsome to be this dangerous. Too gentle, in these quiet moments, to be the same man who runs a torture chamber in his home.
“You never give yourself credit,” Dante continues. “Everything you make is exceptional, but you always find something to criticize. Some way it could have been better.”
“That’s how you improve. By identifying mistakes.”
“There’s a difference between identifying mistakes and refusing to acknowledge success.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Don’t know how to process the fact that my captor is giving me what amounts to a motivational speech about self-worth.
“The macarons might still be terrible,” I manage finally.
“And if they are, we’ll eat them anyway and try again tomorrow.”
We. We’ll eat them. We’ll try again.
Such small words. Such enormous implications.
I turn away before he can see whatever expression is crossing my face. “I should clean up while they rest. A good baker always cleans as they go.”
We fall into the routine that’s becoming familiar. Him at the sink, me drying and putting away. Our elbows bump occasionally in the cramped space. Each accidental touch sends a small jolt through my nervous system.
He’s different today. More watchful, more protective. His eyes follow me with an intensity that should be unsettling, but somehow isn’t. Whatever happened with his friend yesterday has shifted something between us. Or maybe it’s just brought something into focus that was always there.
You will not touch him. You will not go near him.
The words echo in my mind again.
Then the smell of baking macarons fills the kitchen and saves me from my whirling thoughts.
I hover by the oven door, watching through the glass as the little circles transform. They’re rising. Developing feet. The ruffled bases are forming, pushing up from the parchment like tiny skirts.
“Holy Mary,” I breathe. “They’re actually working.”
“They’re working?”
“Look.” I gesture at the oven, probably more excited than is strictly appropriate. “Feet. Actual macaron feet. I’ve never gotten feet before. They always come out flat and sad and footless.”
Dante moves to stand beside me, peering through the oven window. Our shoulders brush. I don’t pull away.
“They look good,” he says.
“They look amazing. They look like real macarons. Like something you’d see in an actual patisserie in Paris. Not that I’ve ever been to Paris. But I’ve seen pictures. And these look like the pictures.”
I’m rambling again. I don’t care. I’m too happy about the feet.
The timer goes off, and I hold my breath as I pull the tray from the oven. Smooth domed tops, perfect little ruffled feet all around. They’re beautiful. They’re actually, genuinely beautiful.
“I did it,” I say, and my voice comes out strange. Thick. “I actually did it.”
Dante makes a soft sound beside me. One that makes me realize I’m crying.
“Dylan.”
“I’m fine.” I swipe at my cheeks with the back of my hand. “I’m fine, it’s stupid, it’s just macarons, it’s not anything to cry about, I don’t know why I’m...”
“It’s not stupid.”
He’s looking at me with that expression again. The soft one. The one that makes me feel seen in a way that’s terrifying and wonderful all at once.
“You worked hard for this,” he says quietly. “You’re allowed to be happy when something works out.”
The simple kindness of the words breaks something open in my chest. I’ve spent my whole life being told not to make a fuss, not to take up space, not to feel too much about things that don’t matter. And here’s this man, this dangerous, broken, complicated man, telling me that my feelings are valid.
I don’t think. I just act.
I reach out and touch his arm. Just briefly. Just a light press of my fingers against his forearm, there and gone before I can second-guess myself.
“Thank you,” I say. “For the ingredients. For the cookbook. For... for everything.”
Dante goes very still. His eyes drop to where my hand just was, then rise to meet mine.
“You’re welcome,” he says, and his voice is rough.
We stand there for a moment, the air between us charged with something I don’t know how to name. The macarons are cooling on their tray. The kitchen smells of almonds and sugar. And I am in so much trouble.
My plan is falling apart. My careful scheme to manipulate and escape is crumbling under the weight of something I didn’t expect and don’t know how to handle.
And I have no idea what happens next.