Chapter 19
Fortunately, the charming chaos in my kitchen had a name . . . and a ridiculously good head of hair. Still not convinced he
should be allowed near a mixer, though. But his car is nice! Makes me think of blueberries. Anyone interested in a lemon-blueberry
tart to help stave off the gloominess of all this rain? #TeamTea #DisasterChef #MoodBaking #RainyDayTreats
Comments:
@TGDPub: You say chaos, I say culinary creativity. And I have a great many ideas of how to stave off gloominess. #JustAsk #TeamPub
#CinnamonSpiceAndSideEye #ChefInTheRain
@GrannyDOfficial: Culinary creativity? What’s really cookin’ in that kitchen? #SugarAndSpice
@WisteriaPublicLibrary: I second the lemon-blueberry tart! And third the flirting. Books go well with tarts and staying in. #ReadAGoodBook #RainyDaysRMade4Reading
@PastorNateNHC: As it is written in Second Barista-lonians: “Let the rain fall and the pastries rise.” #HeBrewsAndBakes #PastryProverbs
@OldManRutherforton: I once proposed over a lemon tart. Still married. Coincidence? I think not. #WhenLifeGivesYouLemons #OldManAdvice
@WisteriaGeneralStore: New umbrella design incoming with the phrase “Let it rain. There’s tart to share.” Or “Wisteria Forecast: 100% chance of
love and baked goods.” #PastriesAndPrecipitation #UmbrellaOfLove #SoggyButSweet
@LindsayMonroeOfficial: Can the tarts get the rain to stop before the weekend? No bride needs poodle hair. #SomeCurlsAreGood #TheseAreNotThose
@WisteriaBookClub: This rain is clearly symbolic. Cleansing. Foreshadowing. Someone better kiss in it.
@TeaThymeNC: @WisteriaBookClub If you’re trying to manifest something, could you also include “clear skies by Saturday”? I know @LindsayMonroeOfficial
would appreciate it.
A knock at the door pulled Finn from the last sips of his coffee before bed. He glanced at the clock. Midnight? On a Sunday
night? Who on earth?
He’d just gotten home from closing the restaurant—another good day, made even better by a surprise visit from Daphne. She’d
walked in wearing a little red dress and her hair down around her shoulders, looking better than anything he’d ever plated.
His fingers had itched to touch those golden strands. Did they smell like cinnamon too? Or distraction, because for the entire
time she remained in the pub, he certainly couldn’t think straight.
When they’d first met, he’d have called her pretty. Smart. Sweet. The kind of woman who made lists and smiled at children and never forgot birthdays.
Not the kind of woman who made a man think about pinning her against a wall.
And yet, the more he’d gotten to know her, the more the wall-pinning sounded like the best idea of his life . . . all while
murmuring his thoughts about her beauty against her neck.
Heat skimmed to his hairline and his pulse took an uptick. He lowered his cup and glanced toward the door, his grin tipping.
But she fit the cuddle-on-the-sofa image too. Bantering in the kitchen. Going for long walks with Lucy betwixt them.
His grin stretched. Or doing just about anything else, as long as she was near.
Daphne fit into their life. Into his life.
She’d snuck past every defense without even trying. Not only her kindness and sass—though, heaven help him, he loved that
sass—but the way she looked at Lucy alone had him falling all the way.
Irretrievably.
They’d spent the weekend either texting or calling each other about food options while they created their own “assigned” items
separately in order to bring them together on Monday afternoon for a taste testing and pairing.
And in between batter discussions and spice pairings, they’d somehow become . . . more.
He missed her. Actually missed her. And how had she worked her way into his expectations so quickly? He couldn’t wait for the next conversation, the next
shared look, the next time he pulled that glowing smile from her.
He was completely barmy—and it was the best he’d felt in years.
Another knock—this one louder—jolted him from his thoughts.
Rain lashed the window in steady waves, increasing with each passing hour since early evening. So whoever was out there at midnight in a thunder-soaked storm either really needed him . . . or had terrible timing.
He moved to the door, peered through the peephole—and blinked.
Plaits? Golden ones?
He unbolted the lock and pulled open the door to find Daphne standing on his porch, hair in two braids, holding a covered
dish and wearing pajamas dotted with . . . Were those Highland cows?
The woman looked decidedly huggable.
Perhaps he was living a fever dream from some soft-focus rom-com—and he didn’t know whether to laugh, kiss her, or drag her
inside. Perhaps all three?
She smiled so brightly, his grin answered on instinct.
“I saw your light through the window and figured you were still up.” She winced. “I mean, I wasn’t watching you through the window like a weirdo. I just . . . noticed.”
His laugh burst free. He almost tugged her into his arms on the spot. She could do with a good kiss. From him. For a very long time.
“I was going to say I hoped you liked what you saw.” He tsked. “But then you went and ruined the moment.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re wasting perfectly good flirtation standing in the rain.” He stepped back and glanced toward the downpour. “Come
in.”
She shook her head, pushing the dish into his hands. “I don’t want to wake Lucy. I’m dry under the porch, and I just finished
making these. I couldn’t wait for you to try one.”
Warmth unfurled through his chest. She’d made something and brought it here—to him. At midnight. In cow pajamas.
The kiss-her-senseless fantasy returned with even more clarity.
After the car ride and the hug, their relationship had shifted into more intimate territory, but this? This was a special
kind of trust. She wanted his opinion. Trusted her idea with his care.
He took the dish and lifted the lid.
Mini cheesecakes.
“If you don’t mind?” She whipped out a fork like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. “I want to get your reaction.”
“No pressure.” He raised a brow. “And these look like finger foods, right?”
She lowered the fork, nodded—eyes still locked on his.
“You’re not going to tell me what’s in them?”
“That would ruin the surprise.” She shrugged innocently, like she wasn’t trying to inadvertently seduce him with dessert at
midnight in the rain wearing hairy-cow pajamas.
Certainly not a combination he’d considered sexy before tonight. But here she was.
He narrowed his eyes, selected a cheesecake, and—never breaking eye contact—raised it to his lips. The scent of pumpkin reached
his nose just before the taste hit his tongue. The velvety blend of pumpkin, cream cheese, sugar, and spices hit with a toasty
crunch of the crust. Was that . . . molasses?
He paused mid-chew. “Is that a gingersnap crust?”
Her teeth skimmed over her bottom lip with her smile in answer.
“It’s excellent, Daphne.” He took another bite, the flavors deepening. “The blend, the texture. Are you thinking for the wedding
day meal?”
“If we go with your beef tenderloin and the herb-crusted chicken, I thought these might be the perfect finish.” Her gaze searched
his. “But I’m not sure. The whipped cream on top feels like it’s missing something.”
That small question—that invitation—meant more than she probably realized.
He polished off the last bite and allowed the flavors another rumination before looking back at her. “Do you trust me?”
Her smile faltered a little. “Yes?”
“That sounded like a question.”
“No.” A breath. Then a firmer nod. “Yes. I trust you.”
Her answer knocked the grin right back into place. “How about a burnt sugar caramel drizzle? Served warm. Just enough bite
to contrast the sweetness.”
She studied him, and he could practically see her analyzing flavor balance in real time.
“Slow-cook the sugar until it flirts with bitterness,” he continued, watching her closely, “so it deepens the whole flavor
profile. Think dark honey, a touch of toffee—cuts through the richness like a well-timed wink.”
He winked to demonstrate.
Her smile bloomed—full, amused, and just this side of playful. She folded her arms. “Are we still talking about the cheesecake,”
she asked, “or . . . something else?”
Oh, she was flirting back. And his wall-pinning thoughts rushed to the front of his mind. He stepped closer. “I was talking about dessert, Miss Austen. What exactly were you talking about?”
Color rose in her cheeks. She gestured vaguely toward the container. “The dessert. Obviously.” Her gaze lingered on his mouth.
“Of course.”
“You know,” he murmured, gaze dropping to her mouth for half a heartbeat, then he gestured inside. Just a few more minutes
with her. Or an hour? Or . . . maybe forever? “It’s raining. You’re here. And you brought cheesecake.”
“Ooh . . .” The word shivered out of her and her attention gave his lips a once-over before she glanced behind her as if someone might be watching. “It’s late. I’d better get back to my apartment.”
“Probably smart.” He nodded, drawing in a calming breath. “Or I’m going to kiss you right here on the porch and scandalize
the neighborhood.”
Her bottom lip dropped and a tiny squeak emerged. He almost carried through on his threat. She took a step back, despite the
way her attention kept shifting to his lips.
The woman was going to drive him mad.
“Are you still fine with watching Lucy tomorrow after school? I know the timing is all wrong, but I need to meet with the
food inspect—”
“You know I never mind spending time with Lucy.” Her grin spread. “She can help me taste test a few items for the bridal breakfast.”
“Thank you.” He shifted a step closer, almost close enough to slip his palm right around the waist of those ridiculous pajama
bottoms.
She half turned, hesitating like part of her didn’t want to go. “Of course.” Her voice went breathless again. “I’d better . . .
you know.” She pointed toward her apartment. “Go.”