Chapter 13 #2
Her cheeks heated instantly, so she ducked her gaze to the menu. “I guess, then, I should try some of the food to see for
myself.” She zeroed in on the first meaty item—anything to escape his stare. “The ribs?”
Safe choice. She could hide in a napkin if needed.
“Bold move in such a dress, Miss Austen.” His grin tipped as he skimmed over her with another toe-curling look. “But a smart
one.” He offered a little bow. “Take a seat.” He gave his dark brows a playful wiggle. “I’ll bring you the order personally.”
She gave him a very deliberate eye roll and turned on her heel toward the booth where Lindsay, Travis, Rosemary, and Granny
D sat. Granny was just finishing a story about her great-grandfather Bum Jacobs and a moonshine run gone wrong.
Appalachian names had their own . . . something. She wasn’t sure what. But they had it.
“Oh, Daphne, you’re in for a treat.” Lindsay waved her forward, and Daphne slid in next to Granny D. “Finn has these beer-battered
onion rings that are change-your-life delicious.”
“I think they could be at the wedding,” Travis added, his eyes sparkling with a hidden laugh. “But Lindsay doesn’t agree.”
“We are not having onion rings at our wedding.” Lindsay shook her head. “No matter how good they are.”
“Okay, but what about the smoked Gouda mac?” Travis all but pleaded, waving toward his plate. “I’m serious, Linds. Everyone
in my family and yours would love it. I’d throw elbows for this stuff.”
Despite herself, Daphne laughed. “It’s that good?”
“I imagine he’ll bring some with the ribs.” Lindsay pointed her fork toward Granny D. “It’s what she ordered and”—her smile turned apologetic—“it would be delicious at the rehearsal dinner.”
The words slipped through Daphne like a pin to a balloon. Her smile faltered.
Finn was going to win.
Three weeks in Wisteria and he was already stealing this opportunity with that charming grin and culinary wizardry.
She took a long sip of her tea to keep from pouting. Her gaze drifted back to the bar.
Finn stood behind the bar again, regaling a pair sitting on the stools near him. The way his hands gestured as he talked.
The quick flash of his grin. The attentive way he listened to every customer as if they were the most interesting person he’d
ever met.
After everything she’d lived through—after all the heartbreak and caution she’d built like armor—she should be smart. She
should fit him into a neat category and be done with it.
But Finn Dashwood didn’t fit into boxes.
At least not the ones she expected him to.
“But ribs?” Lindsay sighed. “How do I justify ribs when I’ll be wearing white?” She looked at Daphne. “That’s one reason I
love your options. Neat. Classy. Tasty but . . . delicate.”
“With less need for twenty napkins,” Daphne added, nodding toward Granny D, who’d built a pile of used napkins that rivaled her tea glass in height.
“That just means I’m enjoying myself,” Granny D declared, brandishing another rib. “Gracious sakes, honey, I ain’t never tasted
meat this good in all my days.”
“Is that so?” Daphne chuckled out her question, curbing the tiny twinge of concern. She should be happy for Finn’s successful
opening. Any new restaurant deserved a strong launch. And if he hadn’t been competing with her for a job she really needed,
she’d have been even happier for him.
“I’m tellin’ you true, girl.” Granny D nodded, taking up another rib. “If I were forty years younger, I’d marry the man who
made these.”
“Granny!” Daphne groaned. No ribs were good enough to usher up a proposal.
“I’d be jealous,” Rosemary said slyly, “but I think he’s already found his main dish.”
Daphne shot Rosemary a look.
Cue Finn, arriving like a perfectly timed line in a rom-com, platter in hand, setting down a dish of ribs, mac and Gouda,
and gently steamed veggies in front of Daphne—and offering Granny D a wink. “Guess I owe you a proposal then.”
“Shucks, boy.” Granny D grinned, sending Daphne the world’s least subtle side-eye. “I’ve got excellent taste in men. But you’re
a might bit young for me. I’ll leave you to Daphne.”
A thoroughly unladylike laugh barked from Daphne’s lips. “Oh goodness. I’m way too straitlaced, fancy food, and boring for
the likes of Mr. Dashwood,” she said quickly, trying to steer the conversation far from Finn and Daphne sitting in a tree
k-i-s . . . er . . . Well, they’d already done that part.
No reminders needed.
“Straitlaced is growing on me.” Finn’s eyes locked with hers. “And you’re anything but boring.” His grin deepened. “Not too sure about the food, though.”
“Speaking of food . . .” Daphne looked down at the plate, the smell of those ribs causing her mouth to water in a rabid way.
“Are you going to keep distracting me or let me see if you’ve earned your bragging rights?”
“By all means.” He stepped back, one hand over his heart. “But I warn you: These have been known to inspire spontaneous declarations
of love.”
She shot him a challenging look, nonverbally assuring him she would do no such thing. Granny D may think they’re the first
step to matrimony, but not Daphne.
No way.
Then she picked up a rib—and took one bite.
Her eyes widened.
Heaven. Help. Her.
The sauce was smoky-sweet perfection. The meat practically melted. Her eyes fluttered shut, and a soft, traitorous sound escaped
her lips—a cross between a sigh and a moan. What on earth had he done to this cow?
When she opened her eyes, Finn was staring at her.
Not the casual kind of stare. Not playful or teasing.
No, this one was locked, loaded, and full of heat. Like his thoughts had gone right back to the kiss in her kitchen.
Her breath lodged in her throat.
“Um . . .” She lowered the rib, grasping for dignity. “Nice. It’s . . . nice.”
“Nice?” He tilted his head, studying her with an intensity that made her skin tingle. Then he promptly slid down in the seat
across from her. “Your response would suggest a little better than nice.”
She looked away, only to find all four other people at the table staring at her with varying degrees of amusement. She returned her attention to the half-eaten rib and decided to focus on taking another bite. The flavors exploded again—rich, bold, decadent, teasing every one of her tastebuds.
Something about the flavor sparked a memory . . . or idea . . . or . . . “You know, this would be a perfect pairing for my
rosemary sea salt focaccia.”
When she opened her eyes, Finn had leaned closer. “Say that again?”
“Your short ribs. They need something earthy. That sauce wants to soak into something hearty and crusty. I have a bread that—”
She caught herself and sat back, cheeks flushing. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t stop.” His voice was low. Earnest. Inviting. “Keep going.”
“Law, girl,” Granny D added. “If there’s something that makes these ribs even better, you’d better spill it.”
She hesitated for a beat, searching Finn’s face. But really, if she had the rare opportunity to food nerd with someone who
actually got it, why hold back?
“Okay. So. The sauce is sweet, rich, has depth—molasses?” she guessed, narrowing her eyes at him.
“Brown sugar and sorghum,” he answered, grinning.
“Aha.” She pointed her rib at him. “That’s the bass note. You need something with bite and body to hold that kind of richness.
A thick crumb. Crusty enough to scrape your palate clean between bites but not so dense it kills the balance.”
“And that’s your rosemary focaccia bread?”
The rest of the table faded away. The clatter, the conversations, even the competition—all of it blurred beneath the strange,
electric thread running between them.
Two food nerds. One language.
And for once, it wasn’t about being on the defensive or guarding her heart.
It was just . . . connection.
And she wasn’t sure she’d ever tasted anything quite like it.
“Yes, but with a cracked pepper crust and caramelized onion folded in. The salt brings out the herbs, the onion gives it umami,
and the rosemary plays off the brown sugar and sorghum.” She glanced down at the ribs, then back up at him, heart picking
up speed. “It’d be rude not to let them meet, don’t you think?”
His mouth curved in that slow, appreciative way that made her stomach do backflips.
“I think I’m in love.”
Her whole face froze.
Someone—Lindsay?—snorted.
“Um . . . with the bread or the ribs?” Daphne asked, trying to sound dry and unaffected.
“Obviously the pairing,” he deadpanned. “I’d never want to separate a perfect match.”
She wrestled with her smile, forcing it down but failing completely. She wasn’t a natural flirt. In fact, half the time she
wasn’t even sure if she was flirting. But the way Finn was watching her now—amused, intrigued, maybe even a little captivated—gave
her the kind of boldness she usually lacked.
And he was listening. Not just politely. Fully present. Like she mattered.
That? That was more disarming than any flirty line.
“Well,” she said lightly, tapping her finger against the rim of her plate. “I suppose if you believe in soulmates, it’s only
fair they find each other . . . even if one of them is bread.”
His smile deepened, just a hint of his dimple now, and warmth rose into her face that had nothing to do with the spices on
the meat.
“I do believe in soulmates,” he said, tone low and playful. “Especially when they’re handmade and seasoned just right.”
She rolled her eyes, but it was more to keep herself from grinning like an idiot. “Careful, Dashwood. That sounds suspiciously like a compliment.”
He leaned in, elbows on the table, eyes still locked on hers. “I wouldn’t dare compliment a woman who uses words like ‘umami’
with a straight face.”
Her laugh slipped out—quick, surprised, and far more honest than she meant it to be.
He looked so pleased by the sound that something inside her uncoiled.
She caught Lindsay looking at her with some sort of glint in her eyes, and Daphne quickly looked away.