How the Light Gets In Read online

  This place wasn’t for me. Like I told Dylan years ago, I was more of a Body Shop girl. Inside, smartly dressed men and women made the rounds, chatting to customers and making suggestions on different products.

  The street was noisy, a cacophony of traffic and people. I sucked in a deep breath and walked inside. Immediately, a smiling redhead greeted me. Her hair was in a neat chignon, and she wore a smart black pencil dress and pearls. I expected her to look down on me, maybe ask me to leave with that smile still on her face, but she didn’t.

  “Hello, and welcome to Dylan. Is there anything in particular I can help you with today?”

  “Oh, I’m just looking,” I said, hoping she’d leave me alone. I wasn’t quite ready to see Dylan yet, still gathering my nerve. Last night, I’d tossed and turned, replaying the day’s events in my head, trying to pick out what he wanted from me. Friendship? Romance?

  I wished people would be up front with their intentions. Tell you straight what they were after.

  “Of course, please take your time. And if you need my help I’ll be right here,” she said and I stepped by her.

  I paused in front of a collection of perfumes in red-, pink- and purple-tinted bottles. This was Dylan’s new line. I hesitated in front of the display, my throat clogged with indecision. Never before had I opened a bottle of Dylan perfume and taken a sniff. Not even once. Every time I considered it my entire body tensed up with anxiety, my heart thrummed and my brain scrambled.

  I knew that each scent would remind me of him. Dylan was the sort of person who put his entire self into every endeavour. I’d smell the top notes and see his smile, the middle notes and remember his voice. But most of all, hidden like a secret in the bottom notes, I’d feel his touch.

  And afterward, I’d look at my life and know there was something missing. Something vital. Like a heart that didn’t beat, or an instrument that made no sound.

  I’d much rather live in blissful ignorance than sink into that bottomless hole.

  But standing here, with those bottles laid out in front of me, the temptation was hard to resist. Maybe the drug called Memory would be worth the comedown named Emptiness.

  Feeling brave, I picked up a bottle, pulled off the cap and sprayed some on the inside of my wrist. A pair of warm, firm hands came to rest on my shoulders. I closed my eyes for the briefest second, then opened them and turned to face him. Even before I looked, I knew it was him.

  He glanced from me to the bottle I held, his left eyebrow rising the tiniest bit. His voice was low, hushed, when he asked, “Do you like it?”

  My mouth ran dry. “I haven’t had the chance to smell it yet.”

  His lips curved ever so slightly as he gestured with his hand. “Then, by all means, go ahead.”

  Self-consciously, I placed the bottle down and brought my wrist to my nose. The line consisted of three scents; Dylan: Rose, Dylan: Lily, and Dylan: Wildflower.

  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.

  “Smell,” he urged.

  I took a whiff and was surprised by the pleasant aroma. Dylan had mixed sweet with earthy, a combination I wouldn’t normally find appealing, but somehow it worked.

  “That’s actually really good,” I said, inhaling a second time.

  He swept the petals and wood back onto the table and cleaned his hands with a cloth. “It’s a work in progress. It needs something else, but it hasn’t come to me yet.”

  “How about cinnamon?” I teased. “It’d sell well during the holiday season.”

  Dylan smirked. “I know you’re taking the piss, but that’s actually not a bad idea.”

  “In that case, I want ten per cent.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll give you eight.”

  “Five,” I countered, feeling silly. “Hold on. I’m doing it wrong.”

  “You’re a goof,” Dylan said. “Come. I want to show you the rest of the shop.”

  It was impressive, especially considering how competitive the location was. Dylan ended our tour on the top floor, where his products were stored and staff took inventory of stock. I wandered through the aisles, reading all the labels when I came to a small, circular-shaped window that looked onto the busy shopping street. It was old, probably original to the building, and I loved it.

  I was a sucker for unconventionally shaped windows, especially circular ones. There was something mysterious about them. I glanced down towards the street and Dylan came to stand next me. We weren’t touching, but his closeness alone was tactile. He’d always been like that, so much larger than life. His presence left its fingerprints all over your body.

  “So, what do you think?” he asked, and though I wasn’t looking, I could sense him studying my profile.

  “Impressive, but there’s still a few things I’d change.”

  “Oh?” he asked, intrigued.

  I glanced at him. “You seriously care what I think?”

  His expression was fond. “I always have.”

  I blew out a breath and looked around. “Well, for a start I’d ditch the whole ‘meet and greet’ at the door. It feels too much like a hard sell, and personally, I find that intimidating. I want to at least have a look around before there’s a sales clerk in my face. Oh, and also, the uniforms.”

  “The uniforms?”

  “Those plain black pencil dresses are way too stuffy. Your perfume might be elegant, but your brand is young and fresh. The staff should dress smart, but I think you should let them personalise what they do wear. All the guys and girls on your shop floor are like clones.”

  “Go on, Ev. Tell me how you really feel,” Dylan teased, and I flushed a little.

  “You asked.”

  “Yes, I did. And thank you. I’ll take your recommendations under advisement.”

  I nodded at him, pleased, and turned to gaze back out the window.

  He stared at me for a second, like he was thinking of something.

  “What?” I asked, curious.

  “Can I take you somewhere?”

  “Depends on where.”

  “I don’t want to tell you until we get there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I do, you won’t come.”

  My expression turned guarded. “In that case, no, you can’t take me anywhere.”

  “Oh, come on, Ev. Live a little.”

  “I’m living just fine right here.”

  “You’ll love this, I promise. You’ll hate me at first, but then you’ll love it.”

  Hmm, how could I say no to that? It wasn’t like I had anywhere else to be. My shift at FEST didn’t start until eight.

  Dylan held his hand out to me, and deciding to take a chance—much like I did eleven years ago—I placed mine in his.

  Chapter 4

  Dylan took me to a farm.

  We left his shop and hopped in a taxi. He rattled off an address to the driver, but given I wasn’t a New York native, I still had no idea where we were going. Turned out it was a rooftop farm called Eagle Street, and it was the sort of place I would’ve given an arm and a leg to work at when a teenager. My old rooftop allotment had nothing on this place.

  There was a stall selling produce, but Dylan convinced the owner to let us look around out back. There were rows of cabbages, beets, potatoes, onions . . . you name it. It was admittedly a remarkable place, but not really my thing. Even when I had my allotment, I mostly grew flowers and herbs. Stuff that smelled nice and looked pretty. I noticed some wildflowers growing on the edge of the farm, but otherwise it was all vegetables.

  “This is the sort of place I always imagined you ending up,” Dylan said.

  I glanced at him as we walked. “Sometimes life doesn’t turn out how you expect.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” he replied, subdued. “Still, I think you should ask the owner if there are any jobs going. Surely, you’d prefer to work here than at the bar.”

  “I told you, I don’t grow things anymore.”

  He seemed unhappy with this. “Haven’t you considered starting over?”

  I shook my head and swallowed tightly. “No. After Yvonne left, I managed to get a transfer to one of the ground-floor flats. Gran moved in with me, and I took care of her until she passed. It was a full-time job, so I didn’t have time for the allotment. Mrs O’Flaherty took over.”

  “That old shrew is still alive?” Dylan asked, surprised.

  “Yep. She’ll outlive the lot of us. All that gardening keeps her young.”

  Dylan smiled, looking out across the water to the city. You could see half of Manhattan from here. Not exactly what you’d expect from a farm, so it was certainly unique.

  “Did you ever have time for a boyfriend when you were caring for your gran?” he asked. The question took me off guard, especially how he looked like he’d wanted to ask it for a while.

  I swallowed, clasped my hands together, then nodded. “There were one or two.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  I shot him a look. “Let’s not do this, Dylan.”

  “What? I’m curious.”

  “Laura seems nice,” I said, playing him at his own game.

  His lips twitched, and he turned his gaze to the scenery. “Fair enough.”

  “So, how does that work? Do your other employees know, or is it a strictly private arrangement?” She called him hon and texted in the middle of the night as if she knew he’d be available. They must’ve at least been close, even if they weren’t an actual couple.

  “Laura and I shared a few nights together when I first opened the store. Obviously, not an ideal move.”

  “Why? She’s gorgeous.”

  “Just because someone’s gorgeous doesn’t mean they’ll make a good partner,” he said, and I guessed he was right. Dylan had been the most attractive boy I’d ever met, but that still didn’t stop our relationship from falling apart.

  “I agree,” I replied. “Chemistry counts for a lot though, and attraction often creates it.”

  His eyes warmed and I turned away, looking for a distraction. I wanted to enjoy being here. I didn’t want to talk about either of our love lives.

  “Can we go visit the market stall?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he replied and gestured with his hands. “Lead the way.”

  We quietly walked through the rows of produce, thoughts churning up a storm in my head. What strange, otherworldly force caused Yvonne to walk into Dylan’s shop when she did? You could live in this city your entire life if you wanted and still never meet the same person twice. But I was here only two months and someho
w Dylan and I found our way back to one another. It felt serendipitous.

  “So, are you living in New York permanently now, or are you only here until the store gets on its feet?”

  Dylan exhaled a small breath. “Honestly? It’s been hard to settle anywhere. I’ve been moving from place to place setting up stores, but my favourite city has been San Francisco. That’s actually where I opened my first shop.”

  “Do you go back much?”

  “Not as often as I’d like, but I have an excellent manager. He keeps things ticking over.”

  “And what about New York? Do you like it here?”

  Dylan took a moment to consider his answer, his expression soft when he replied, “It’s definitely growing on me.”

  My cheeks heated, and I paused to admire the marigolds for sale next to the vegetable stall. I took a second to inhale, memories flooding me. These flowers had been Gran’s favourite.

  “It’s so odd how the scent of marigolds always takes me back to Gran,” I said, marvelling. Dylan came to stand next to me, and dipped his head to smell them, too.

  “There’s a scientific explanation, if you care to hear it.”

  “You always did have an answer for everything,” I teased and nudged him with my elbow.

  He inhaled again, as though to demonstrate. “When we breathe in, the olfactory nerve in our brain is stimulated, which is located close to the amygdala.” He paused to tap the side of my forehead. “The amygdala is a group of nuclei located in the temporal lobe of your brain, and it has an important role in your emotional reactions. Also located in the temporal lobe is the hippocampus, which helps to consolidate short- and long-term memory. So, when our olfactory nerve is given a scent, our brain is quickly connecting it to the memory it provokes, but also to the emotion associated with that memory.”

  “Wow,” I breathed, unable to hide my fascination. Dylan was still full of interesting and unusual information, just like he’d been when he was younger.

  “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.”