Chapter 9 #2
But this Finn—the one who talked about his gran and used words like settling—had roots.
And those roots were looking . . . good.
Not that many things could look bad on him.
Sigh. She inwardly groaned. Yet, this simple tête-à-tête looked a little less like rivalry and a little more like . . . friendship.
He blinked, as if realizing he’d lingered too long in that space—and boom. The flirty persona zipped right back into place.
“Actually,” he said, stepping closer, “my gran would’ve called tonight’s kindness scandalously generous. She’d insist I repay
you. Possibly with something chocolate or . . .”
Did his attention just drop to her lips? From the sudden explosion in her stomach . . . likely.
She raised a hand to halt his approach, grasping for logic to swoop in and save her from a swoon. “Can you ever have a conversation
without turning it into emotional dodgeball?”
He just smiled, that maddening mix of amusement and . . . hunter.
All her defenses entwined with the scent of vanilla, those caramel eyes, and that utterly unfair accent.
She blamed the accent. Fully.
“It’s what neighbors do, okay? No repayment necessary.”
He paused. Really paused. And something flickered in his eyes again—something not flirty, not snarky. Like he was trying to
figure out what made her tick. With a crease of his brow, he stepped back. “It’s late.” He nodded, as if to himself. “I’d
best get Lucy back to the apartment.”
Her lodged breath shook free as her thoughts grappled to catch up to the shift. “Is . . . is Lucy likely to have another nosebleed
tonight?”
His attention shifted back to her. “Hard to say. I hope not, but with sutures, you never know.”
There it was again. That flicker of concern. The kind that didn’t fake easily. Maybe even some weariness?
Daphne hesitated. Reason screamed, Don’t do it! but her mouth didn’t get the memo. “It’s well past midnight. Seems a shame to move her.”
Finn turned slowly, brow raised, and that unguarded look was back on full display. “Pardon?”
She was beginning to really like that look.
“She’s sleeping so well.” She shrugged as casually as she could manage while her heart climbed up her throat. Don’t offer. Don’t offer. “You . . . you could stay here. In the living room. On . . . on the other couch.” She pointed in the direction for emphasis.
“That way you’d have running water. Towels. Just in case.”
“Stay here?”
“For Lucy.” Daphne reiterated with another nod.
The silence that followed was somehow louder than the invitation itself.
Then, softly, “Thank you, Daphne. Truly.”
And the way he said her name—gentle, reverent, like he meant it—stilled her breath for an entirely different reason.
She nodded, fighting the flush creeping back. “Happy to help.”
And she was. Because this version of Finn—the one who smelled like vanilla, loved his daughter fiercely, talked of his gran,
and lit up at the mention of creative recipes—this was the one who fit right into cozy movie nights, morning cook-offs, and sweet conversations.
And the flirty one?
He was starting to look like a shield.
Sleep came in shallow waves, and each time Finn woke, he found himself on Daphne’s couch, with Lucy sleeping peacefully across from him. He lay awake much too long contemplating the events of the night.
Or rather, Daphne Austen herself.
She was a pink-infused anomaly.
He kept trying to place her among the women he’d dated over the past year—sweet, shallow encounters that started with drinks
and ended with dessert, never veering beyond. Simple. No complications, no messy emotions.
No one who reached into his world and sparked something hidden—or what he’d believed to be dormant—back to life.
But the way Daphne had knelt by his daughter and made her laugh? Draped a quilt over her with a look of such unabashed tenderness?
That wasn’t performance. That was heart.
And Finn didn’t have the emotional real estate for heart.
Or did he? Could he . . . risk more?
More than a single evening of conversation that ended with a good-night kiss and a goodbye.
The past five years had been structured around three priorities: take care of Lucy, run a business, and keep his heart safe.
He’d raised Lucy with some help from his dad and sister, juggled life and work with precision, until it fell apart. And he’d
gone on the occasional date here or there, of course—casual, uncomplicated, disposable.
But Daphne Austen was none of those things.
She was messy. Surprising. Clever.
And kind in a way she didn’t seem to even realize.
Since entering her apartment last night, something unexpected brewed in the air between them, a shift he couldn’t quite place.
Maybe it was his lack of sleep, or maybe it was just her being . . . her.
Whatever it was had wiggled its way between the cracks of his resolve in a way he wanted to ignore.
Needed to ignore.
His and Lucy’s little world worked the way it was.
He didn’t have time or interest in . . . more.
With a growl of frustration, he pushed up from the couch, determined to do anything but think. Winston’s head popped up, the
retriever taking Finn’s wakefulness as an automatic invitation for affection.
“Morning, mate.” Finn gave the dog a scratch, then padded toward the kitchen, needing something—anything—to occupy his thoughts.
It was still dark outside, but faint light pressed against the edges of the windows. Daphne would be up soon, prepping for
whatever cozy chaos she brewed each morning at Tea Thyme. And his movers were due in a few hours.
Hopefully.
His fingers moved without much thought—pulling eggs and bacon from the fridge, setting the kettle on, even locating some coffee
grounds in a hidden spot behind copious amounts of tea bag boxes. He hadn’t even woken Lucy in the process. Daphne stocked
her kitchen intuitively. Exactly as he would have. And he didn’t quite know how to process that either.
They weren’t alike at all. Opposites. Rivals, even. Yet . . .
A soft hush of movement made him glance toward the doorway.
And there she was.
The most maddening concoction of sexy, humorous, and adorable.
Daphne stood in the doorway, a vision of pajama-clad bewilderment. Hair piled haphazardly on her head like a meringue with
ambition. Blue flamingo robe hanging off one shoulder. A pink T-shirt. Flannel pants.
And in her hand?
A curling iron. Held like a weapon.
Something knotted began to uncurl in his chest. He barely bit back a grin.
And surprisingly attractive.
She blinked those large blue eyes at him and examined him from sweatpants to T-shirt before a whimper-like sound bubbled from those pink lips. “You’re . . . making breakfast? In my kitchen?”
He took his time answering, noting the heightened color in her cheeks and the way her free hand fluttered up to cover her
exposed collarbone. She looked much too appealing—especially given the thoughts he’d been trying not to have. It had been
a long time since he’d seen a woman in her pajamas, and never one quite like this.
He turned slowly, deliberately, arms folding across his chest. “Good morning?” And then he rested his hip against the counter
and nodded toward the curling iron. “If that’s meant to tame my morning hair, I won’t object. But I’m fairly certain we’ll
need something more industrial.”
Her gaze flicked to the weapon in her hand, and she let out a strangled half laugh before lowering it, her other hand instinctively
tugging her robe tighter across her body.
Too cute. Way too cute.
His chest squeezed.
And dangerous.
So, so dangerous.
“Why . . .” She waved the curling iron vaguely in his direction. “Why are you making breakfast?”
He lifted a shoulder, casual—at least on the outside. “Seemed like the least I could do for your kindness to me and Lucy.”
He gestured toward a few plates on the small table. “After all, you did risk your pristine reputation. Letting the town’s
new pub owner sleep under your roof?” He gave his brows a shake. “Scandalous.”
Her smile went crooked. One brow arched. That chaotic bun wobbled like a bobblehead. His grin slipped wider before he could
stop it.
“I don’t know how pristine my reputation is.” She slid past him and stretched for a mug, even rocked on pink-nailed tiptoe
to reach it, and his pulse spiked.
This was too domestic.
Too easy.
Too . . . nice.
“After all, I did foam spray some rather unkind things on your restaurant window after you left last night.”
“Did you?” He choked on a laugh, his attention trailing her as she stepped over to the little food-laden table. “Pray tell,
what sort of unkind things?”
Without sitting down, she stabbed a cream cheese and strawberry cinnamon toast bite with her fork, clearly wrestling with
that grin of hers. “Oh, something like . . . Grumpy Restaurant Owner Seeking Triple-S-G.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Triple-S-G?”
She batted those long lashes. “Single. Sweet. Southern. Girl.”
“You didn’t.” He barked out a cough-laugh, half horror, half amusement. “You realize what you’ve done?”
“If you’re going to put salt in my sugar bowls, clearly your subconscious is begging for sweetness.” She bit into her toast,
her smile almost saccharine.
“I’m going to have to move away now. There will be no peace—”
“Oh my goodness,” she interrupted, humming and closing her eyes as she chewed. “This is—” Her eyes flashed wide. “What did
you do to this toast? It’s . . . wow.” She looked down at the rest of the pastry on the table. “You stuffed it with strawberries
and cream cheese? Oh . . .” She let out a soft moan, oblivious to the fact that she was unraveling his self-control one sigh
at a time. Another bite. “The nutmeg? Perfect.” Her moan was practically sinful.
Finn tugged at the collar of his T-shirt, suddenly regretting the extra heat from the stove. “I’m glad you like it,” he said,
the words barely finding their way around the knot in his throat.
“Like feels inadequate,” she said around another bite, smiling like he’d hung the moon.