Chapter 18 #2
He leaned closer, pretending to read it, mostly just enjoying being near enough to catch the scent of apples and something
softer, sweeter—her.
“I know you’re excellent at savory dishes and I’ve reviewed your current menu at The Green Dragon, but I think we need at
least one refined dish.” She looked up at him. “And something vegan. For both the rehearsal dinner and the wedding meal.”
“With apples.” He gestured toward the crate.
“Yes.” The way her whole face brightened in response nearly knocked him flat. “With apples.”
He paused, running through the options he’d been tossing around most of the night. “If you want something more . . . refined”—he
tilted his head, catching the way she gave an exaggerated sigh, as if already bracing herself—“I make an excellent apple walnut
stuffed pork loin. It’s seasonal but still elevated enough for a wedding. You could pretty it up however you like.”
She blinked a few times, and then her nod grew more vigorous.
“That’s—” She flipped to a fresh page and scribbled something down.
“That’s a great option.” She paused her scribbles.
“And what about a popover as a side?” she added, twirling the pen between her fingers like a magic wand.
“Maybe a rosemary-parmesan one. The rosemary’s earthy flavor would match the autumn vibe. ”
“And the pastry would soak up the pork juices.” He caught on to her excitement.
“Exactly.” She leaned in, eyes alive with creativity. “And there’s this risotto recipe I’ve been dying to make. Apple Cider
Risotto. Not too apple-y—just the right hint of flavor. It would offer a creamy side option, and the Parmesan would complement
the pork really well.” Her pen did another spin. “Tie it all together.”
Like the knot growing in his chest. He had no idea how he was supposed to concentrate when she looked at him like that, like
they were creating something extraordinary together.
Honestly, if she kept talking in this manner, he was going to end up proposing by lunchtime or, at the very least, kissing
her after every delectable sentence. But then they really wouldn’t get much cooking done. Well, or they’d get the wrong kind
of cooking done, so to speak. But he certainly wouldn’t complain.
“You should definitely make it.” His voice came out lower than intended, rough with the effort of keeping himself in check.
“And for a side vegetable—what about simple sautéed green beans with lemon and almonds?”
Her smile stretched so wide it crinkled her eyes. “Let’s try it!”
His head came up. “Now?”
“Yes, if you can. Granny D and Rosemary are covering the shop today.”
He stared at her for a beat too long, his brain short-circuiting somewhere between now and alone in her kitchen.
“Let me ring your brother and a few other staff to make sure we have the pub covered.” His grin tugged at his mouth, completely unstoppable.
“Because, for the record, Daphne Austen”—he leaned in just enough for her to catch it, just enough to make her breath hitch—“I’m looking forward to cooking up one unforgettable wedding with you. ”
Two hours later—after a quick grocery run and even more teasing—they’d taken their positions. And to the dignified refrains
of—God help him—Beethoven, they began their work.
Like her apartment kitchen, Daphne’s setup was intuitive.
Finn somehow knew where to find ingredients, even without looking at her alphabetized labels. They slipped around each other
easily, he offering a wink or comment now and then, she rolling her eyes—sometimes laughing—in response.
It was a different kind of rhythm than he was used to. He thrived in the louder chaos of the pub kitchen: clashing pots, shouted
orders, the clang of metal and noise. But here, her movements were quieter, more deliberate.
Like a dance.
And he paused to admire it a few times.
All right, maybe more than a few times.
“Do you have coarser salt?” he asked, peering into a dainty porcelain jar on the counter.
“That’s flake sea salt.” She frowned slightly. “It’s the best for finishing.”
“I meant for crusting the pork.” He shook the jar gently. “We’ll need something heavier to stand up to roasting.”
“Oh!” She blinked. “I don’t usually use a ton of salt.”
He tsked, slowly shaking his head at her. “But aren’t you Southern?”
She cast him a mock glare.
“I suppose it’s because you make such sweet things, luv,” he teased. “Salt’s the knight in shining armor of savory cooking. Can’t joust without it.”
“Then sugar must be the princess,” she shot back, skimming by him so closely her cinnamon scent wafted around him. “Which
is why I don’t need as much since I’m already so sweet.”
His internal predator gave a low, approving growl of the tilt in those flirty lips of hers. He might have even shifted a little
closer just to stay in her orbit. Enough to watch her swallow hard and reach into the nearby cabinet.
She brought out a container of kosher salt to wedge between them.
“Excellent,” he murmured, brushing her fingers on purpose as he took it.
And the look she gave him flickered with enough curiosity to have him humming back to his spot at the counter.
They worked side by side, the chime of a nearby clock ringing out the hour.
The kitchen smelled fantastic—savory, sweet, buttery, spiced—like all the best parts of belonging blended together. As if
they belonged.
But Daphne’s jokes grew fewer. Her first batch of popovers fell flat, literally, and she’d forgotten the shallots for the
risotto. Finn offered a substitution—yellow onions and a kiss of garlic—and she accepted but rolled out her tart dough with
unnecessary aggression.
Was she concerned about what he thought of her?
Had he wrecked her kitchen vibe somehow?
Scanning his workspace, he winced. Maybe a little.
But it wasn’t just the mess. She’d gone too quiet, too stiff—nothing like the lively, sharp Daphne from an hour ago.
Her forehead wrinkled, and she kept checking the clock like it was ticking down a bomb.
“As cute as you are when you’re worried,” he said, edging closer, “I’d rather you tell me what’s going on in that pretty head so we can work through it.”
Her gaze snapped to his. “I’m just . . . working. This is a big deal.” She cleared her throat. “And I’m not exactly used to
having . . . you in my kitchen.”
So.
He was the problem.
But from the flush blooming in her cheeks, the problem wasn’t entirely negative.
“I can work up in my apartment if that would help.”
“No!” She said it so fast she startled herself. “It’s not that I don’t want you here. It’s just—” Her shoulders dropped. “There’s
so much to do. And I need this catering job to work. I have to build more business so I can make some desperately needed updates.”
“Then perhaps,” he said carefully, “we need to take a break.”
Her eyes shot wide. “How can you say that? We barely have a week to prepare as it is! We can’t make great food if we don’t
have time to practice what we’re making.”
He stepped closer and wrapped his fingers gently around the rolling pin clenched in her hand. “We also don’t make great food
while clenching the utensils like weapons,” he said, voice low. “Or rolling dough like it insulted Granny D.”
She scowled, pulling her hand free and pointing the rolling pin at his chest. “Some of us don’t operate on island time, Finn.
Some of us respect deadlines.”
“Daphne . . .” he murmured, even softer now. “Put down the rolling pin.”
She hesitated. Frowned deeper.
“We don’t have time for—”
Her words came to a grinding halt as he reached around her and, with one hand, took the rolling pin while the other untied
the apron with a little tug.
The soft slide of the fabric untying seemed to suck the air straight out of the kitchen.
Heaven help him, she was so deliciously close, her breath brushing his jaw.
“We have time.” He stepped back before he forgot every good intention he had.
“I’m not leaving.” But her whispered response held very little conviction.
“You are.” He grinned. “Because you need to. And because”—he leaned closer, lowering his voice—“I’m bribing you.”
She narrowed her eyes, wary. “Bribing me with what?”
“With a drive.” Finn jerked his chin toward the back door. “A much overdue ride in the Cabriolet.”
Her breath actually caught. That lovely mouth dropping open.
“The . . . the Cabriolet?”
“I owe you.”
She swallowed and gave her head a little shake. “That’s totally unfair.”
“Maybe,” he said, chuckling. “But it’s a very good idea for a very good reason.”
She glared at him for a full three seconds.
“Come on, Daphne.” He reached for her hand and gently rubbed her fingers. “Sometimes you have to breathe a little before you
bake a lot.”
Her eyes shuttered and she gave her head a slight shake. But the small tilt of her lips betrayed her. “Did you get that from
a fortune cookie?”
“A Southern cooking magazine.” He winked.
And she—thank heavens—laughed.
“Of course,” she muttered, finally waving toward the door. “Fine. One drive. A short one.”
“Of course,” he echoed, and pulled his keys from his pocket. “But once you start driving Ladybird, you may change your mind.”
She caught sight of the keys and froze. “Wait . . . you named your car Ladybird? Isn’t that like a ladybug in England?”
“And,” he said, handing her the keys, “a term of endearment. Like darling. Or sweetheart.”
“Oh.” Her gaze tangled with his—softer now, sweeter.
He pressed the keys into her palm.
Her fingers curled around his—and didn’t let go.
The kitchen, the food, the clock—they all faded.
It was just him, her, and the simple, stunning truth of her hand in his.
Almost as if she were answering a question he hadn’t even dared to ask yet.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Finn Dashwood cooked like he was auditioning for a Food Network disaster special.
And somehow he still looked infuriatingly good doing it—leaning against her counter with a dusting of flour on his T-shirt,