Arnotts wasn’t a department store I visited often. Yvonne and I sometimes went there when we did our Christmas shopping, but mostly to browse. After casting our covetous gazes on designer handbags, overpriced dresses and winter coats we could never afford, we’d head across the street to buy much more inexpensive versions in Penneys.

When I called on Dylan this morning, his dad told me he was at work, and I remembered his weekend job. Since I needed to go into town to run some errands for Yvonne, I thought I’d drop by and catch him on his break.

I wandered past various counters in search of him and was stopped a number of times by sales people trying to peddle their wares.

When I finally spotted Dylan, I paused and admired him for a second. He wore a crisp black shirt, matching slacks, and a name tag. His sandy hair stood out against the dark colours as he smiled politely at a woman who stood by his counter. She looked to be in her fifties and already carried several shopping bags in hand.

Dylan lifted a bottle of perfume to show her. “This one is quite elegant, I think. It has a powdery, musky scent that makes a statement. But if you want to go lighter,” he said, placing the bottle down and lifting another, “I’d recommend this one. It’s sweeter, mildly floral.”

The way he spoke was different. He still sounded the same, but his accent was subtler. I wondered if he did it on purpose to make shoppers feel more at ease, or if it was like a telephone voice, where you didn’t realise you were doing it.

“I’m quite fond of orange scents. Do have anything citrusy?” the woman asked. This was fascinating, watching Dylan at work. He appeared so relaxed behind that counter, so confident, like he was ready to answer any question, fulfil any request. He reminded me of a sexy concierge in a period drama.

“Hmm, let me see,” he said, perusing the shelf next to him. He plucked a bottle and pulled off the cap. “I think you might like this one. It gives a burst of bergamot and zingy lemon that is quite intoxicating.” He took each perfume and spritzed a single spray of each on a thin strip of card.

“Here, try them all and see which you prefer.”

The woman smiled in the way a mother might smile at her son for doing well on a school test. “You have a way with words, young man,” she said, taking her time to sniff each card. “The girl who works at this counter during the week isn’t half as descriptive as you.”

“I have a very acute sense of smell,” Dylan replied, then gave a self-deprecating smile. “And too big a vocabulary, or so my dad says. Helps me win arguments.”

“I can imagine his annoyance,” said the woman with a laugh. “I’ll take this one.” She handed him the third strip of card, the citrusy one.

“Very good choice,” said Dylan as he went to retrieve the boxed and sealed bottle of perfume. He rang up the purchase and the woman went happily on her way. It was only then that I approached.

“So,” I said, glancing at his name tag like we were strangers. “What else can you do with that acute sense of smell, Mr O’Dea?” My tone was flirtatious, and Dylan smiled fondly. I was so glad he looked pleased to see me.

“Many things. What are you doing here?”

“I called to your flat, but your dad said you were working. I had to come into town anyway, so”—I spread out my arms—“here I am.”

Dylan’s eyes warmed. “Here you are.” He lowered his voice as he cast his gaze around to make sure no one was looking. “C’mere.”

I stepped forward and he briefly caught my jaw in his palm, pulling my mouth in for a quick kiss before he let go. A girl on the counter opposite Dylan’s smirked, then pretended to focus on the small cosmetics boxes she was sorting.

Dylan stepped back and cleared his throat. “Well, now that you’re here, I can finally do something I’ve wanted to for as long as I can remember.”

My brows rose. “Oh?”

“I want to pick you out a perfume.”

A glimmer of excitement ran through me, then disappointment as I replied, “I can’t afford anything.”

“I’m buying,” Dylan assured me. I was about to protest when he lifted a finger to shush me. “I get a staff discount.”

“I bet everything still costs a bomb, even with the discount.”

“You let me worry about that,” he said and took my hand to pull me closer. “I’ve selected perfumes for countless women, and you’re the only one I’ve fantasised doing it for. Let me enjoy this.”

Well, that was . . . well. I felt a little breathless as a swell of anticipation filled me. I watched him pick out a selection of bottles off a glass shelf.

“How do you make your selections?” I asked, intrigued.

Dylan scratched his jaw, glancing at me intently. “Your skin has a scent. Everybody’s does. It’s a bit like how everyone’s house smells a certain way. It’s representative of the life you live. Each person’s skin gives off an odour, and the right fragrance for that person depends on that odour. All of these”—he gestured to the sample bottles—“are perfect for yours.”

He noticed how my skin smells? The idea sent a shiver down my spine, a pleasant one. Although it wasn’t so surprising considering how up close and personal he’d been with it. But then, he said he’d been thinking about this a long time, that meant well before we really knew each other. He definitely couldn’t have known how I smelled back then.

I scanned the brands: Chanel, Gucci, Versace, Chloé, Yves Saint Laurent. The names were synonymous with luxury, silk dresses, designer shoes, and town cars. They weren’t me. Not at all.

“I’m much more of a Body Shop sort of girl.”

“Nothing wrong with the Body Shop,” said Dylan. “What’s your favourite perfume there?”

I shrugged. “Yvonne usually gets me a bottle of White Musk for my birthday. I like it, but I didn’t pick it out myself. I’ve never really given too much thought to perfume.”

Dylan made a humming noise, like he was thinking about something. “I smell that on you sometimes,” he said, not looking at me while he considered the bottles. My stomach did a tiny flip.

“Musk is a good place to start,” he went on, selecting the bottle of Gucci by Gucci. He spritzed it on a strip of paper, just like he’d done for his last customer, then handed it to me.

I sniffed it and wrinkled my nose. “That’s way too strong.”

Dylan’s mouth twitched. “I thought you might say that.”

“It smells like something an eighty-year-old woman would wear, and mostly because her sense of smell is failing her.”

Dylan chuckled and I narrowed my gaze at him. “You knew I wasn’t going to like that one, didn’t you?”

“Just wanted to test a theory.”

“Of?” I probed.

“Whether or not I’ve guessed your preferences accurately based on the things you surround yourself with. You say you’ve never given much thought to perfume, but your life is full of scent, Ev. All the plants you devote your time to, they give off their own little signatures all around you.”

I furrowed my brow. “Really?”

“Try this one,” he said, ignoring my question as he handed me a tester bottle of Versace ‘Bright Crystal’. “It’s flowery and fruity, with a base note of musk.”

I sprayed some on a piece of card and took a whiff. “Hmm, I like it, but I don’t love it.”

Dylan took the bottle from me and replaced it with another. “Next one.”

I read the label aloud. “Chloé. This one looks familiar.” I inhaled. “Smells like roses.”

“That’s one of the middle notes,” said Dylan. “What do you think?”

“It’s . . . nice.”

He narrowed his gaze playfully. “You’re a hard one to please, Miss Flynn.”

“What can I say? I have high standards.”

Dylan gave an indulgent smile. “Okay, try this. It just came out this year. It’s an oriental.”

The bottle read ‘Flowerbomb’ by Viktor Rolf. I shot Dylan a curious look. “What’s an oriental?”

He folded his arms as he explained, “So, there are eight main categories of perfume. You’ve got citrus, floral, fruity, green, oceanic, spicy and oriental. Orientals are musky and sensual. They give an air of mystery.”

I shot him a smirk as I inhaled. “It’s so strange that you know all this.”

He shrugged. “It’s my job.”

“I bet half the people who work fragrance counters in this store don’t know a third of what you do.”

“Well, let’s say I’m strangely obsessed then.”

I grinned and handed him back the bottle. “Let’s. Also, I really like that one. It’s definitely my favourite.”

“Then it’s yours.”

“But it’s so expensive,” I protested, even though I really loved the idea of owning something so special. It smelled like bergamot and green tea, with a hint of jasmine and orchids. There was musk in there, too. I felt like wearing it would make me feel more confident somehow, which was ridiculous because it was only a scent. How could a scent give you confidence? Yet another thing I’d argued with Dylan over, and again, it turned out he was right.

“Good,” he said fondly. “You deserve expensive things.”

I flushed at that and glanced at my hands. Where had this boy come from? He exploded into my life with his kindness and romantic sentiments and unsolicited gifts.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you, it’s Conor’s birthday tomorrow,” Dylan went on as he slotted the box of perfume into a bag. “We’re going out tonight to celebrate. You should come.”

I let out a sigh. “I’d love to, but I’m not eighteen. I won’t get in anywhere.”

He frowned. “I keep forgetting that.”

Disappointment filled me, because I hadn’t spent time with him all this week and a night out would’ve been perfect. As I thought about it, an idea struck.

“Hey, if Conor and Amy are up for it, why don’t you all come to The Morgan? That’s where Yvonne works. I could convince her to let us have the roof bar for an hour or two if I promise not to drink any alcohol.”

Dylan seemed interested. “Well, I know Conor would love it. Do you think she’ll agree?”

I grinned at him. “Who could say no to this face?”

He smiled then his expression heated as he quietly replied, “I know I can’t.”

He silently handed me the bag and I backed away from the counter, mostly because I was in danger of kissing him very impolitely if I didn’t.

“I’ll call later and let you know the verdict.”

“Talk to you then, Evelyn.”