Chapter 19 #2
Finn watched her dash back into the rain, take the steps up to her apartment, and with a lingering look at him from across
the distance—and a smile—she closed her door.
Having the apartment above the pub made single-dad life workable. Finn usually met Lucy when she got off the bus—unless she
detoured to Daphne’s first, which was happening more often lately. She’d hang out at the pub for an hour until Daphne arrived,
stay with her through the early evening, and then Finn took over again—long enough for stories and silly dances and tucking
her in. Then, with a monitor at his side and regular upstairs checks, he returned to pub life.
It had worked well.
But adding Daphne into the mix?
It worked better. For him and for Lucy.
Maybe especially for him.
He jogged up Daphne’s porch steps two at a time, a container balanced in one hand. It was his turn to share a culinary creation,
and this one might just tempt her out of her comfort zone—and maybe, if he played it right, just a little farther into his
arms.
Lucy had been with Daphne for four hours. One more than planned, thanks to a waiter calling out. But Daphne had texted that
Lucy was no trouble and could stay as long as needed.
He’d believed her. Exhaled. Trusted.
Sheltering under the eaves from yet another downpour, he knocked on the door. The latest bout of rain was, according to pub
gossip, thanks to a tropical storm stirring somewhere south. Apparently western North Carolina had a habit of soaking up extra
weather in advance, but other than finding shelter and watching for flooding basements, no one appeared concerned. Which was
good for Finn to hear, since he was very little accustomed to such weather. And since, as the natives said, the winds would
turn to the west and all should pass before the wedding next week, Finn didn’t give it too much thought.
Except to wear a mackintosh while outside.
No one responded to his first knock, so he repeated the action.
Silence. Well, not complete silence. He could hear muffled music coming from behind the door.
He pushed it open.
Then came the scent.
Baked sugar. Chocolate. Cinnamon.
Daphne’s unofficial love language.
He stepped inside, finding the living room empty. “Daphne?”
A giggle floated down the hall.
He grinned, set the container on the counter, and moved toward the sound. “Daphne?”
“No, no!” came a muffled call from behind a door at the end of the hall. “You have to wait out there. Lucy has a surprise
for you.”
A rush of warmth poured over him. He rolled his eyes at the ceiling but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips. “Girls,”
he muttered with no heat.
Is this what his little girl had been missing all these years? Another woman’s presence like this? And Daphne embraced Lucy
as if she’d always cared about her.
He edged nearer the door, Lucy’s little voice giving some animated directions about a color and maybe—glitter? With a sigh,
he tucked his hands in his pockets and let the moment settle over him until the music from behind the door began to bleed
into recognition.
“Classical again?” he called. “Are you trying to corrupt my daughter?”
“Enhance her life, I believe, is the phrase you’re looking for,” Daphne replied through the door. “Classical music is good for brain development,
remember? I’m actually helping your beautiful daughter.”
Beautiful daughter.
He grinned. And no doubt, Daphne was helping her feel even more beautiful.
“It’s Sleeping Beauty, Daddy,” came Lucy’s voice. “Like de movie.”
Finn stopped and listened with more intention. Tchaikovsky.
He let the music fill the silence and examined the photos on the wall nearby. A little girl, who looked like a younger version
of his favorite tea princess, stood between two women who resembled each other—one much older than the other. Daphne’s grandmother
and mother, perhaps?
She looked to be about seven or eight, maybe. And she’d grown into a woman who wasn’t just charming and pretty. She was something
rare.
Generous. Funny. Effortlessly kind.
And he wasn’t about to be careless with her again.
A soft nudge at his hand pulled his attention down to Winston, the Lab seeking affection.
“You understand, don’t you, mate?”
Winston sat, leaned into Finn’s hand, and exhaled like he agreed.
Daphne was no longer a crush or a rival or a neighbor with wicked scone skills. She was the woman who held his heart. And
he hoped he could prove worthy of hers.
“Are you ready?” Daphne’s singsongy voice pulled him from the room and back into the hallway.
The door creaked opened and Daphne emerged first, face beaming like she’d just personally orchestrated Christmas morning.
And then—Lucy.
His little girl stepped into the light with a grin so wide it nearly swallowed her cheeks. Her hair had been swept back into
a stunning series of braids that twisted elegantly to one side, forming what looked unmistakably like a rose. A shimmering
pink ribbon had been threaded through like a fairy-tale flourish.
Finn dropped to his knees, utterly undone. “You look beautiful, lamb.”
Lucy responded with a triumphant spin, arms flared. “It’s like Rapunzel!”
“Yes, it is.” He chuckled and pulled her into a careful hug, avoiding the braid. “Very much like Rapunzel.”
With another giggle, Lucy danced down the hallway to the music, Winston in joyful pursuit.
He raised his gaze to Daphne, who stood quite proud with her arms crossed. “She likes Tchaikovsky.”
“She likes you.” He cleared his throat and tried for a casual smile as he stood. “And anything you like is basically gospel at this point.”
Daphne shrugged, clearly pleased. “Well, I only like excellent things. So she’s in good hands. Also—her hair is perfect for braids. Thick, coarse, holds like a dream. My fingers were tingling with excitement.”
“She’s certainly going to be spoiled to it now. Your results are much better than my attempt at plaits.”
“Oh well, it’s not so hard.” Daphne reached for her ponytail. “It’s a French braid with a little twist for the rose.” She
tugged her band loose and her hair tumbled down like a thick blanket of gold around her shoulders, framing her face and capturing
his senses with the tantalizing combination of cinnamon and vanilla wafting in his direction.
Finn forgot how to swallow.
Her fingers moved through it casually, like she had no idea what kind of personal crisis she was inciting.
“I’ll show you,” she said. She separated a section and began to braid slowly, narrating like she was on a cooking show. “You
just add a small piece to each section as you go—like this . . .”
Finn stared at her hands. At her hair. At the curve of her smile. At everything.
Her expectant gaze found his as she unthreaded the braid. “Now you try.”
“What?” His voice cracked. He sounded thirteen. Brilliant!
“Since you figured out regular braids, you should be able to learn this one really quickly.” She gave her hair a playful toss,
then waved it at him like a golden challenge. “Go ahead. I can teach you.”
Dream. Come. True.
“Here, let’s go to the couch. It’ll be easier for you to reach.” She caught his hand, and like the complete goner he was,
he followed without hesitation.
She sat down wonderfully close, and he tried not to visibly combust. Lucy sat cross-legged on the floor across the room, putting
ribbons in Winston’s fur, humming to herself like a tiny stylist in training.
“Clearly, it’s a braiding party, Mr. Dashwood.” Daphne smiled over at him. “You’re honor-bound to participate.”
“No argument from me, Miss Austen.” His voice came out lower than he expected. Rougher.
And her gaze caught in his, softening. Heating? Practically begging for a kiss.
Which he would have done if Lucy weren’t directly within his frame of vision.
Because a first kiss—technically second, but first with actual meaning—needed privacy. Reverence. Maybe a moonlit sky and
a decent cologne. But definitely privacy.
Not a backdrop of dog-hair barrettes.
He sank his fingers into her hair. Silky. Soft. He attempted to usher up a teasing comment, but the intimacy of the act closed
off any verbal response. He wasn’t even sure he could remember how his fingers worked.
“Take small pieces,” she murmured, shifting slightly so their shoulders brushed. Her hand found his, guiding. Their eyes locked—again.
And stayed.
She wasn’t just pretty.
She was breathtaking.
“A . . . um . . . French braid means . . . little pieces,” she rasped.
He forced his hands into motion, enfolding one strand with another. Out of his depth? Understatement of the century. This
was the intimacy Olympics, and he had shown up with two left hands and no emotional armor.
Say something clever, mate. Anything.
He managed a few lopsided loops. “I . . . suppose you’ve earned another drive in my car.”
Her lips tipped slightly from her profile, the line from her chin following beautifully to her perfect ears.
Heat shot up his neck. Perfect ears?
“Careful, Dashwood. That’s starting to sound like a reward system.”
He was about to retort when his clumsy fingers tugged too hard. “Ouch.”
“Sorry,” he murmured with a grin.
He finished the lopsided braid with a few extra prompts from Daphne, and when she finally pulled back, his fingers flexed,
still holding the ghost of her softness.
“Thanks again for watching Lucy,” he said, throat scraped raw.
“You know I never mind.” Her gaze slid back to Lucy, who had now adorned Winston’s tail with a scrunchie. “We’ve had very
important conversations. Princess rankings. Proper tea ceremony etiquette. Heroic dogs.”
“Clearly essential topics.” A strand he’d missed slipped down over her cheek. Without thinking, he reached up and tucked it
behind her ear. “And an excuse to see you, you know.”
One of her gold brows curved northward. “So the whole wedding challenge was just an elaborate excuse to spend more time with
me?”
“Go big or go home.”
Her laugh came soft. “Or criticize my tidy kitchen and mock my beverage selection?”