Chapter 14 #2
“Friends?” She narrowed her eyes at him. Could he be a friend? But the last few days made her wonder. Game night. The nerd-out
over ribs. “Don’t those involve long-term plans and . . . hearts?”
He breathed out a long stream of air before looking back at her. “I have every intention of a long-term commitment to Wisteria
and the people who live here.” He shifted a step closer. “As far as hearts are concerned, I hope to treat the ones in my life
with much better clarity than I may have in the past.”
She held his gaze, heat soaring up her neck into her cheeks. Which version of Finn Dashwood could she trust? The one who kissed
and dashed away or the one who gave off these tender vibes and brought dessert? Perhaps friendship was a good place to start . . .
to see if the facade wore off.
She tried to recover with a shrug. “Can you do the whole ‘just friends’ thing without trying to steal kisses or recipes?”
“Depends.” His mouth curved. “Do you plan to keep moaning over my food?”
“I . . .” She faltered, then huffed. “That was one time.”
“A memorable one time.” He moved to lean against the counter across from her, arms crossed, gaze lazy and amused—and far too attentive. “But if you are willing, Daphne Austen, I’d truly like to start with friendship.”
Start? Daphne studied him, the casual posture at odds with the weight behind his words. “Well,” she said slowly, “I don’t have the
best track record with flirts, but . . .” She trailed off and handed him a sprinkle-covered cookie, a peace offering disguised
in sugar. “I’m willing to”—her breath squeezed out the word—“to give friendship a try.” She arched a brow. “If you mean it.”
One of his brows arched into a fallen strand of hair. His gaze dropped briefly to her lips, and her breath stopped for a whole
different reason.
A beat passed.
Then, he straightened, his eyes meeting hers again. “Friends it is, then.” His tone was quieter now.
He looked past the cookie toward the stove, his attention landing on the tray of tartlets. “May I?”
Her stomach still clenched like a constant Pilate’s hold, but she nodded, watching him with way too much interest.
He took a bite, paused, then popped the rest in his mouth, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. “Delicious.”
“But you didn’t moan,” she teased. Oh heavens! Why did she go and say that? Who was the flirt now?
His eyes narrowed for the briefest moment. “You shouldn’t say things like that, Miss Austen, if you’re hoping to keep my mind
in a ‘just friends’ direction.”
Don’t ask. Don’t ask. “Why is that?”
He looked at her again, his gaze tracing the curve of her mouth before he released a long breath and stepped back. “Because
if I’m going to maintain my intention of friendship with you, the memory of you moaning over my ribs might tempt me more than
I can afford.”
The words hit differently than she expected. Less about heat. More about restraint. Heart. Like maybe the man who stole a kiss last week had been the one letting his guard down, not playing a game.
And that knowledge nestled in against her fear. Wedging a space for hope to slip in a little.
He drew his attention back to the tartlet and took another thoughtful bite. “I think these tartlets are only missing one thing.”
His brows did the shimmy. “Cardamom whipped cream.”
Her gaze shot to the half-eaten tartlet in his hand, and without thinking, she took it from his fingers and popped it in her
mouth, envisioning his suggestion. “That . . . that’s a great idea.”
“And,” he said, looking a little too pleased with himself, “you already have the ingredients. Which you could use. Tonight.
If you wanted.”
Her hands went to her hips. “How do you know what I have in my kitchen?”
“I’ve cooked in it before, remember?”
The warm tone, the slight dip in his voice—oh, she remembered. Branded-in-her-brain remembered. And the fact that he wasn’t
even trying to flirt at the moment made it somehow worse.
“Right,” she murmured, suddenly needing to look anywhere but at him, yet he held her attention. Friends? How in the world was that going to work?
His gaze roamed over her face for a moment, and then he took another step back. “I should get Lucy back to her own bed.”
She hated how a sudden tug of disappointment tightened behind her ribs.
“Thanks again for taking such good care of her,” he added, his tone softer.
Daphne followed him to the threshold of the room, drawn in by whatever change made him even more appealing than before. “She’s
easy. Such a sweetheart.”
“Indeed, much better than I deserve.”
Those words hit something in her chest. “You two seem close.”
“We make a good team, don’t you think?” He winked. “Perhaps she softens all of my rough edges.”
Her grin tugged upward. Maybe the flirty side of Finn wasn’t so bad. “She does bring out the sweetness in you.” And then,
on impulse, wanting to prolong the conversation, she asked, “How long has it been just the two of you?”
He hesitated. She braced for a joke, a dodge. But instead—“Lucy’s mother left when Lucy was about eighteen months old.”
Daphne’s bottom lip dropped open and a painful squeak released from the sudden pang in her chest. She looked toward the living
room where Lucy lay asleep. “How . . . how could she possibly leave you?”
Finn stared at her with that puzzling expression again—like he was searching—and then his expression gentled into a tender
smile she felt all the way to her heart.
What would something like that do to a man? How would it change him?
He gestured toward the living room with his chin. “Lucy was born with a bilateral cleft lip and palate,” he said, voice quiet.
“A fairly severe case.”
Bilateral cleft? Her confusion must have shown because his frown softened. “Bilateral means that both sides of her upper lip,
beneath both nostrils”—he pointed to his mouth to give a visual—“were open from the lips back through the bony part of the
roof of her mouth, the hard palate.”
Daphne’s tongue followed the direction he’d described, her imagination trying to make sense of it. “Oh.”
So that was why Lucy had the little scar above her lips. Was that the reason for some of her speech sounds too?
“By the time Lucy was eighteen months old, she’d had several surgeries to help correct it, along with some medical difficulties that come along with a cleft. For example, ear infections, feeding complications, and speech impediments.”
Daphne’s stomach hollowed. “And . . . her mother couldn’t . . . ?”
He studied her again in that strange sort of way and then cleared his throat. “She didn’t want kids. Or marriage. I was young.
I thought love would be enough to change her mind.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Turns out I was more naive than charming. A
little arrogant too.” His smile turned wry. “Imagine that.”
Something cracked open inside Daphne. A tiny fissure where assumptions had lived. She saw him even more differently now—clearer—less
like a flirt, more like a man who’d been burned and learned to armor himself in charisma.
“I think we’ve all been there at some point.” The words emerged softly. “Naive. Hopeful. A little blind trust? It’s what makes
the best heartbreak stories.”
His gaze sharpened on hers. “Sounds like you’ve got a few chapters of your own.”
“Enough to know how the plot goes.” She sighed. “But nothing like yours. I’m so sorry, Finn.” Her words rasped for a totally
different reason, the raw awareness of being left behind by someone who should have loved you more than the circumstances . . .
Yes, she understood that.
Viscerally.
“You’ve done a great job with Lucy. She’s wonderful.”
His lips crooked, a fresh glow lighting his eyes, softening his smile.
And she felt his love for his little girl.
“Despite my best attempts at getting her to listen to rock music and despise all things princess.”
Daphne fought against a renewed rush of warmth in her eyes.
Her past flashed to the surface. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with those fairy tales.
Sometimes children need them in order to believe that all of the hard things won’t last forever.
They’re predictable, and no matter how many times we watch them or read about them, the ending is always good.
The men don’t leave their true loves behind.
The dark stuff goes away.” He blurred in her vision.
“And we’re promised a happily ever after. ”
His gaze searched hers. Held. Studied.
The gravitational pull toward him renewed with a fervor. It would only take one step and she’d be in his arms . . . and what
would that feel like? To have a man who’d wrap her in a hug and help her believe that fairy tales could rise out of their
bindings and into the real world. To have someone stay even when life was hard or dragons reared their ugly heads. To hold
her hand when the world shifted.
Could flirty Finn Dashwood be that sort of man? For her?
Finn stepped closer—close enough she could feel his warmth again.
And for a suspended moment, it felt like a fairy tale. Or the edge of one.
His hand lifted slowly, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. His gaze never left hers. “There’s a quote I read once by”—he
looked toward the ceiling in thought—“Ernest Hemingway, I think.” His attention came back to hers. “‘The world breaks everyone,
and afterward, many are strong at the broken places.’” His fingers hovered on her skin, gaze fastened with hers. “You deserve
a happily ever after, Daphne.”
Could he see her scars? Read the wounds left behind her eyes? The way he looked at—saw—her made her wonder.
Her breaths shallowed, the warmth in his look pulling her a half step closer.
His attention dropped to her lips again, and he drew in a deep breath, stepping back.
“I’d best get back to my place.”
And within a minute, with a sweet bundle in his arms and a final look and “good night,” he left her alone.
Painfully aware of how much she wished for another five minutes with an English flirt.
Text from Travis and Lindsay to Finn and Daphne: