Chapter 5 #3
“Why don’t we continue this conversation away from the front door?” And out of view of the entire restaurant. She could practically
hear the rumors spinning down Main Street about her imminent nuptials with the British bad boy. Ridiculous.
Without waiting for his response, she sent the room a tight smile, gingerly picked up the container of sticky toffee pudding,
and wove through the tables and patrons until she slipped through the kitchen door.
Finn—and Granny D—close behind.
“I had no intention of upsetting your afternoon, Daphne,” Finn said, his gaze roaming over her kitchen, likely finding fault with it as he seemed to do with everything else. “I only wanted to start over. Fresh, as you’d suggested.”
Daphne set the sticky toffee on the counter and turned, milkshake still in hand and growing colder by the second. “It seemed
my suggestion didn’t work so well this morning.”
He rubbed his jaw, his lip arching slightly. “I did mention I wasn’t the best morning person.”
She opened her mouth to call out his excuse, but he rushed ahead. “Would it help if I told you I spent a large part of the
afternoon making that pudding instead of painting the kitchen? Penance for my poor behavior.” He searched her face, brow creased.
Penance should not look so . . . pleasant. “And . . . there may have been a small fire involved.”
“A fire?” The women spoke in unison, though their tones varied from alarm to unholy delight.
“Hardly worth mentioning,” he said smoothly. “The point is, I’m trying to make amends. Even if your shop does look like a
Victorian valentine exploded in it.”
Daphne narrowed her eyes. “And you were doing so well.”
Granny D leaned around Daphne, plucking a fork from the drawer. “Fire’s a good sign. Shows passion.” She nodded, waving the
fork. “My third husband, Walter, set fire to our chicken coop tryin’ to impress me with fireworks. Knew right then he was
the one.”
Daphne pressed a palm to her forehead.
Finn, clearly enjoying her discomfort, winked at Granny D. “Baby steps,” he said, all easy confidence. “Now, are you going
to try the pudding?” And without waiting for consent—because why start now?—he plucked the milkshake from Daphne’s hand, replacing
it with the pudding container in one smooth motion, even producing a fork from his back pocket like a magician.
Presumptuous.
“I’ll taste test this in the meantime.” He raised the milkshake to her as if cheering her health.
Her eyes narrowed even more.
“Oh honey, you know another thing they say about men who can bake,” Granny D stage-whispered to Daphne, peeking around her
shoulder to the container.
Daphne really wondered who “they” were and their impeccable, timely advice.
“They’re good with their hands and patient in the kitchen.” She waggled her eyebrows.
Finn didn’t even try to hide his grin.
“Stop encouraging him,” Daphne hissed to them both, her face at four hundred degrees.
“You first.” Finn twirled the straw in the milkshake, grin wicked. “I already know of your excellent baking skills.”
“Fine.” Daphne stabbed her fork into the pudding with a little more force than necessary. “Especially if it will help you
return to your side of the wall and stop being such a”—she gestured vaguely at him—“distraction.”
“I don’t think anyone else minds such a distraction, especially midweek,” Granny D offered. “Helps get us through the rest
of it, I’d say.”
Daphne tried not to wince at the scene they’d just caused out in the restaurant.
Dinner and a show?
Sigh.
Best to get this over with. She lifted the lid, and the rich aroma of warm toffee and dates enveloped her senses. One bite
into the warm sponge cake and decadent toffee sauce, she nearly forgot her predicament—until she glanced up to find Finn watching
her.
Closely.
With such an intensity, she nearly forgot how rude he was, but then . . . the pudding flavors reignited in her mouth.
Delicious. She’d had sticky toffee pudding before, but this? This had layers.
She swallowed the bite, her tastebuds assessing the flavors still playing across her tongue. “Did you add . . . rum?”
Something flickered in Finn’s eyes. Different from the usual smug amusement. A hint of surprise? And something . . . else?
“I did.”
“And . . . is that a hint of cinnamon?”
One side of his mouth curved. “Indeed.”
The air thickened, her attention unable to shift from his eyes. “It’s very good.”
Silence hitched the moment between them. Slowing it. Squeezing Daphne’s breath a little tighter. And—for only a second—Daphne
thought she could name his expression.
Admiration?
Respect?
And the very idea threatened to derail the bad-boy images about him from her mind.
“You know what my granny always said?” Granny D piped up, dipping her fork into the pudding. “When a person makes you somethin’
sweet after a quarrel, it means they been thinkin’ about you.”
Daphne stiffened. She cleared her throat and stepped away from the pull in Finn’s eyes. “Probably only thinking of ways to
insult my shop.”
“Only part of the time,” Finn admitted, the dimple making an appearance.
Was he just an entire collection of distracting clichés meant to develop her self-control? She glanced heavenward for clarification.
“And if it tastes this good,” Granny D declared, eyes closing in appreciation as she took a generous bite, “then he’s been
thinkin’ mighty hard.”
Daphne nearly wrestled the fork away from the woman. Clearly, good food only encouraged her to say embarrassing things. “Or, he needed it to be really good to make up for being insufferable.”
Finn lifted the milkshake to his lips with an infuriating lack of concern. Hero-quality lips, Daphne’s treacherous brain noted.
Pity about the words that came out of them.
She shook away the thoughts of English accents and biceps and tea-colored eyes and that dimple. Even if she were the only
person in the entire town, she would not be charmed by Finn Dashwood.
His golden eyes met hers. Heat flared across her face, but she refused to look away.
Daphne needed to make one thing very clear.
Despite the near-hyperventilation his cologne, accent, and presence caused, she was not an idiot.
And she would be certain to reassure him of that fact . . . once he tasted her milkshake.
Daphne Austen’s eyes had taken on the most mesmerizing glow, deepening those azure hues to cobalt. Had he held such an expression
when he watched her taste his pudding? The anticipation? The unmitigated desire to please another food connoisseur?
Finn placed the straw to his lips.
Daphne leaned forward slightly. “The . . . the second sip is when you get the full effect.” Her voice carried a soft, measured
quality that somehow made him nearly forget everything else. Not in a seductive way but in true curiosity, kinship. This shared
bond of creation and cooking like-minded inventors understood . . . with an added something else he couldn’t quite define.
A sweetness? Genuineness?
And, God help him, something inside him wanted to keep that glint alive, stoke the teasing, the fire, the challenge.
And that was not a common occurrence in his world among single women.
He held her gaze. “Like a second chance?”
Her smile faltered, and something in his chest squeezed tight. Too much. He’d gone too far, let something slip he hadn’t meant
to. He drew in another sip of the milkshake. Delicious. Surprising.
Like her?
Clearing his throat, he forced a shrug and raised the glass toward her. “This certainly bests any of your teas, no question.”
Her shoulders slumped, and though he’d meant for the deflection, he hated the disappointment in her eyes. Despite himself,
he offered, “I suppose you could call it something like . . . The Lizzy Bennet.”
Her gaze snapped back to his, blue eyes wide. “Why?”
He shrugged and took another sip, rolling the flavors over his tongue. French vanilla. A great addition to dark chocolate.
“Well, the salty part certainly suits her sharp wit.”
Daphne tilted her head, studying him. He couldn’t resist continuing, removing the disappointment. “And the dark chocolate?
That’s the depth of her character.”
Her lips parted slightly, the pink bottom one looking entirely too soft for his peace of mind.
“But the surprising hint of French vanilla . . . with almonds, is it?” He leaned in just a fraction. “You taste it as an afterthought.
Subtle, unexpected. It makes you take a second sip just to be sure. Much like Elizabeth and Darcy, wouldn’t you say? The first
impression wasn’t as clear as the second.”
A tiny, strangled sound came from her throat before she abruptly looked away.
“Wowee, sounds like I need a sip of this here milkshake, Daphne dear.”
Finn turned just in time to catch Granny D arching a knowing brow at him, humor twinkling in her pale eyes. “She has a tendency to experiment with new drinks when she’s bothered about somethin’.”
Bothered. His gaze flicked back to Daphne, whose cheeks had taken on a shade that would put the raspberries in her scones
to shame. A rather fetching hue on her.
“That’s not true, Granny D.”
“So frustration inspires your creativity, does it?” He took another slow sip of the milkshake, his gaze never leaving her
face. “I’m surprised you haven’t invented at least a dozen new recipes since I moved in.”
“Actually,” she muttered, recovering just enough to give him a defiant tilt of her chin, “I have had more ideas recently.”
“I wonder why.”
She ignored that. “I haven’t modified the food recipes, though. They’re exactly as my grandmother made them.”
“Are they?”
Her spine straightened, that familiar fight stance kicking in. “Some things are already perfect as they are.”
Ah yes, the color-coded kitchen, the meticulously arranged canisters—this woman lived for structure. “I’m certain she wouldn’t
mind. Experimenting is part of the fun of cooking.”
Granny D chuckled and took another bite of the toffee, waving the fork at him. “Now I’m gonna get back to my tea afore the