Chapter 8 #2
Lucy’s shrill cry shot Finn to his feet. He rushed to the adjoining room to find his daughter sitting up in the sleeping bag.
Twin streams of blood poured from her nose, staining her pillow, her pajamas. Was it even in her hair?
His stomach clenched.
No, no, no—not now.
He snatched her up, scanning the barren room for—anything. No towels. No tissues. Just a useless, blood-stained pillowcase.
He marched to the nearest bathroom, trying to keep his voice calm. “Were you picking at your nose again, lamb?”
Lucy pinched her lips into a tiny pucker as he placed her on the sink counter. “Only a little, Daddy, I promise.”
“You remember what the doctor said.” He kept one end of the pillow cover on her nose while dipping the other end into cold water, alternating it to wipe at some of the bloodstains on her face.
She nodded, lip trembling. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
Her big green eyes, filling with unshed tears, gutted him.
After the last series of nosebleeds, the doctor had cauterized the wound on the inside of her nose, just before they'd left
England. She must have reopened the wound. There was a chance this one might heal on its own, but he couldn’t know at the
moment. He shot a look to his phone. He’d planned to contact their new doctor once they’d gotten settled—thought he’d have
more time before another emergency. He wiped at the twin trail still running at such a rate to hint that this pillowcase would
not be enough. “It’s an easy thing to do, lamb, but hopefully this will help you remember a bit.”
She nodded behind the cloth. He held in his wince at the state of her face and clothes . . . and he had nothing but paper
towels and a soiled pillow cover with which to help her.
He didn’t even have towels for a bath. A washcloth and dishcloth, but no towels. Because everything else was supposed to have
arrived with the moving truck. He groaned. Why didn’t he think of such things mere hours ago when they traipsed around the
hardware store in search of sleeping bags and a lamp?
He pulled the pillowcase away from her nose. Praise be! Already the blood was slowing a bit. Perhaps he’d be mercifully saved
from a trip to the emergency room, but they still needed a place to clean up.
“I’m afraid we must go in search of some help.” From his research, the little town closed by nine. Perhaps the grocery remained
open longer?
He gave his head a shake. No, he remembered it closed at eleven, and he looked down at his phone and saw it was just now eleven.
He squeezed his eyes closed, using that last bit of brain power for another prayer. Wait, hadn’t the Realtor mentioned a neighbor?
Finn turned toward the window. A light glowed in the next apartment over Daphne’s shop.
Someone was awake. And close. Did Daphne live there? For some reason, he thought she lived with her brother in a house on
the outskirts of town, but at least someone would be nearby.
“Looks like we’re testing out that famous Southern hospitality, Lucy.”
He scooped her off the counter, grabbed his keys, and stepped into the warm night air, taking a set of stairs that led down
from his apartment across a small grassy area to another stair leading back up to the next. The evening breeze dampened the
summer heat and carried with it the scent of cinnamon. Cinnamon? At eleven o’clock at night? Finn breathed it in, appreciating
the memories it unearthed of grandparents and lazy afternoons.
The scent of cinnamon grew stronger as he approached the door, teasing him closer. Oh, he felt fairly certain he knew this
neighbor already. There was a real possibility she kept a cinnamon-scented candle burning at all times.
And a little of the tension fell from his shoulders.
She’d help. Maybe not for his sake but for Lucy’s.
No doubt.
Finn rapped the red door, same shape and form as his own, only much more colorful. A large wreath of myriad-colored flowers
took up nearly the entire top half of the door. The sound of some instrumental montage bled through the wall. He’d heard it
before. But where? Intense-sounding. Suspenseful.
He knocked again. This time the music dampened, and a dog barked, followed by a resounding thud. Finn looked down at Lucy,
whose eyes widened from behind the pillow cover.
“They have a dog, Daddy.”
“Coming,” came the singsongy voice of a woman.
A familiar voice.
He drew in a breath and pushed on his smile. Well, if he’d been hoping for another chance to apologize, he just might get it sooner than he thought.
Daphne clutched the pillow closer, heart pounding as Ethan Hunt sprinted through shadowed streets, desperate to reach his
dying friend. Her chamomile tea sat abandoned, rapidly cooling, while Winston gnawed on a bone at her feet.
A loud knock shattered the moment.
Daphne jolted, flinging the pillow aside and fumbling for the remote. In a perfectly ungraceful sequence, she smacked her
beloved teacup, caught it midair with a contortionist’s desperation, nearly tripped over her slippers, and managed to set
the cup down with only a minor tea casualty—just in time to see Ethan arrive . . . too late.
She exhaled, tension melting. At least the tea was safe.
Another knock jolted her to her feet. She smacked her knee against the coffee table on the way up. “Ow! Good grief.” Winston
gave a half-hearted bark and trotted toward the door while she limped behind, muttering something unholy as she rubbed her
leg.
She squinted at the clock. 11:05 p.m.
Who on earth—
She cracked the door open just enough to see a pair of very familiar, very infuriating umber-brown eyes staring back from
the thin stream of light her door allowed.
Finn Dashwood?
She blinked, hoping he was a figment of too many thoughts on how to beat him at the competition.
Nope. Still there.
He looked decidedly less put together than his usual pub owner persona.
Of course, she hadn’t seen him since Sunday lunch with Granny D, but he now wore a rumpled gray T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, paired with khaki shorts, and his hair bore the distinct look of someone who’d run his hands through it multiple times.
Oh, why did rascally have to look so good?
“The sugar-salt stunt wasn’t enough?” She scowled. “Come to swap out my tea for coffee?”
“Tempting,” he murmured. “But I actually need your help.”
That shut her down for a beat. He looked . . . serious. Which was unsettling.
“I’m all out of motor oil at the moment.”
One side of his mouth quirked in genuine amusement—none of that practiced charm stuff. “A shame. But I was hoping to borrow
a towel.” A pause. “Or maybe your bathroom.”
She crossed her arms. “That’s a new pickup line. ‘Can I borrow your towel?’”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face, but the usual playfulness didn’t fully surface. Instead, he hesitated—just a beat
too long.
And then he shifted to the right, stepping fully into the light.
Daphne’s breath caught.
Because in his arms, held against his chest, was his little Lucy. Dark curls, green eyes, and a face smeared in—was that blood?
“Oh my goodness—” Daphne fumbled at the chain lock, wrenching the door open before she could fully process what she was doing.
“What happened? Is she okay? How can I help?”
The tenderness in Finn’s expression didn’t match any version of him she’d seen before. It tugged something deep in her chest—something
warm and protective and wholly inconvenient.
She ignored the sudden curiosity. Buried it. Flirts had their place.
But not with her.
Finn shifted his hold on the little girl. “Lucy’s had a nosebleed, and we don’t have—”
“Come. Come in.” She waved them forward, her attention focused on Lucy, though her inner monologue was having a full-blown meltdown. Had she ever had a single man over this late at night? Aside from Jack, of course. Accompanied by Nate, usually.
She glanced up at Mr. Hotface, her mind muddling through a complete scenario of him killing her, stuffing her in a closet,
and no one finding her for a week . . . and then what would happen to all her grandmother’s teapots?
The logical side of her brain gave the hysterical side a good slap. She knew Finn Dashwood enough to know he wasn’t the sort.
Especially with a daughter as witness.
“I promise to play nice,” Finn whispered as he passed her into the room.
Play nice?
Her cheeks flamed in appreciation and the hysterical side tipped a brow.
Very nice. Daphne pinched her eyes shut and mentally replayed their earlier rivalry. He is a smug, tea-insulting, salt-pouring, arrogant
Brit. Not a knight in a well-worn T-shirt. And she knew his kind. Here one day, gone the next, leaving a broken heart and
the scent of . . . vanilla and cedar behind.
What she needed was boring and faithful.
Because flirty, dangerously handsome, and faithful didn’t seem to exist in her world.
Daphne ignored the intoxicating draw of a baritone voice and the yummy scent of vanilla and bent down to greet Lucy. Her poor
little face had blood smears across her nose and cheeks, but when she pulled the pillowcase away to offer Daphne a smile,
the blood appeared to be only tiny traces of its previous . . . mess.
“Is that your dog?”
“It is.” Daphne waved toward the sweet, old boy. He’d been Granny’s gift to Daphne when Jack moved out six years ago. A guard
dog . . . who never really grew into the “guard” part. “His name is Winston.”
“As in Churchill?” Finn’s brows rose.
“Exactly.” Daphne nodded, offering him a warning look. “A solid name for a protector.”
Winston, of course, proved utterly useless in discernment, giving one sniff before promptly sitting in full welcome.
“Yes, I see. Top-notch security.” Finn’s lips tipped up just a little.
“Well,” Daphne sighed. “At least he’s a good snuggler.”
And then she replayed her words and completely avoided eye contact with the man.
Lucy wiggled out of her dad’s arms, pillowcase still pressed to her face, and placed one arm around Winston as if they’d been
long-lost friends.
At least Lucy didn’t seem to be in pain. That was a good sign.