Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Fifteens,” Maisie repeated, staring at the food Finn held out for her on parchment paper.
At a half-an-inch thick, the two cookie-sized desserts resembled the rocky road refrigerator bakes her mom always made Maisie when she was young, though these had less chocolate and were coated with coconut and speckled with white, red, and pink spots.
“They’re not the prettiest things to look at,” Finn said, “but you’re not in Norn Iron ’til you’ve tried Fifteens.”
Maisie had seen them in the bakery the morning before but had admittedly judged them by their appearance. But now, how could she say no to Finn—or Finn’s mom?
She accepted the one closest to her, the texture soft as she brought it to her nose. Overall, the scent was warm and inviting, slightly similar to Graham crackers but with less honey.
She whipped out her notebook, grateful for the lack of rain in that moment so she could jot down her thoughts. She took another whiff of the dessert, then nibbled a small bite of the food, closing her eyes and allowing the taste to infuse her tongue.
These weren’t half-bad, really. Perhaps made better by childhood nostalgia like cotton candy or caramel popcorn. But she could certainly see the appeal.
Taking a final bite with a satisfied nod, she scribbled down a few notes, then closed her notebook. As she tucked the book away, she felt Finn’s eyes on her.
“What?” she asked, licking a bit of the crumbs left on her fingertips.
He shook his head, taking a bite of his own Fifteen and chewing with an amused grin, his jaw working with every move of his mouth.
Maisie usually wanted to encourage people to chew slower, to allow themselves to taste the food before they swallowed. But Finn? She might tell him to chew that way all day long, just so she could stare at those muscles shifting over and over again.
As his eyes remained on hers, however, she was once again distracted by the humor in them.
“What?” she asked again.
“Nothin’,” he said between chews. “I just didn’t know you took notes on things other than soup and bread. Unless you’re researchin’ desserts for your menu, too?”
A sinking sensation pulled her stomach down. She’d given herself away. “No, I, uh…I put all sorts of food in the book.”
He looked at her with piqued interest. “Do you?”
She nodded, feeling utterly sheepish. “It’s weird, I know. But I keep a log of all the new foods I eat.”
Amusement danced in his eyes. That was fine. She’d take amusement over ridicule. “How long have you been doin’ it? Just for this trip?”
Ugh, if only. “No, since college. Almost a decade now.”
“Wow.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“That is strange.”
She scoffed, though she knew he was in jest. “Says the guy who thinks his fish are his children.”
He raised a scolding finger. “Hey, them fish are me wee ones. They’re just as bleedin’ hard to rear, I’ll have you know.”
They shared a smile before he continued. “Aye, to be honest, keepin’ a book ’bout food isn’t all that strange. It makes sense, writin’ down somethin’ you love. And if it makes you happy, why not?”
That was exactly her way of thinking. She?—
“So when will you be lettin’ me have a gander at your book, then?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts.
Instinctively, her hand pressed against the book in her pocket. “Yeah, um, never.”
“Ach, why not? It can’t be as personal as a real journal. Unless…” He leaned in closer. “Unless there’s somethin’ about me in there.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “I hate to break it to you, but I only have entries of food.”
He straightened with a shrug. “I’ve been known to be called a tasty morsel before.”
Daphne had called him “tasty” only yesterday, hadn’t she? Maisie couldn’t help but laugh at the irony.
“Sorry,” she said. “If I haven’t tasted it, it doesn’t go in the book.”
“Aye, if that’s the only qualifier, I reckon we can sort that out between the two of us,” he said.
His words settled on Maisie, and her cheeks felt like two hot flapjacks pressed against her skin.
She watched him pop the last of his Fifteen in his mouth, chewing through another grin.
He was too attractive for his own good, and boy, did he know it.
“So what’s in these Fifteens, then?” she asked, needing to distract herself from his jawline before it sent her into cardiac arrest. She was seriously going crazy watching him, losing all sense of time and logic .
“Anythin’ you fancy, really,” he responded, “so long as there are fifteen of each thing. Hence the name. Ma puts in more or less of each ingredient. Digestive biscuits, mallows, cherries, coconut. That sort of thing.”
Maisie tried to log the information away.
“You want to write it down now, don’t you?”
Blast his astuteness. “Yes.”
“Go on, then,” he said with a sigh, facing the sea. “I promise I won’t look at your precious journal.”
She hesitated a minute, then opened the book, filling in the rest of the entry before closing it once again. “There. Finished.”
“If I can’t see the entry, can you at least tell me how you liked ’em? Three, four stars?”
She barked out a short laugh. “There is no way I’m going to tell you the star-rating I’ve given your mother’s food.”
He chuckled. “A wise woman. Because I had every intention of tellin’ her.”
“I know,” she said with a condemning look, to which he responded with another laugh. “Anyway, star-ratings are subjective. More than anything, I’m rating my own response to the food, so I keep them to myself.”
“Makes sense.” He paused. “But I can guarantee that me ma’s stew would earn five stars from you.”
Maisie forgot all about ratings and stars at the mention of the stew. “Your mom cooks?”
“Ach, aye, she cooks. Better than Mrs. Doherty, though you didn’t hear that from me.”
“Is the stew with lamb or beef?” she asked next, slipping her book back into her coat pocket.
“Lamb, ’course. She wouldn’t be caught dead with a cow in her stew.”
Maisie grinned. She’d heard tell of Northern Irish Stew—that they swore by lamb instead of beef. Good to hear that stereotype rang true .
“It sounds amazing,” she said. “I’m convinced we need a Northern Irish stew on the menu, but I haven’t found anywhere that offers one for me to try yet.”
“Well, if you’re ever near Whitehead, I’m sure Ma’d love to have you.”
Maisie nodded her gratitude, though she knew it was more of a polite offer than an actual invitation. She wasn’t sure about going on bike rides, but going to the tour guide’s family house had to be breaking some rule.
And yet, the thought of eating Finn’s Ma’s soup continued to infiltrate her mind as the two of them headed back to the harbor, returning their bikes to Eamon and moving toward the ferry.
“Me rearend’ll never be the same,” Finn grumbled, rubbing at his backside. “Or me legs for that matter. I don’t think I’ll be able to drive this evenin’.”
“Could you drive before? I mean, you ran over a curb within the first few seconds of our trip.”
He turned to face her with a slow blink, and Maisie could only laugh as she unfurled her skirt and allowed it to once more cover her joggers.
“Well,” he said, “thank you for invitin’ me to join you on such a lovely ride, Maisie.”
“You invited yourself, didn’t you?”
“That is beside the point,” he said.
Their smiles mixed for a moment, their stares lingering before Maisie cleared her throat and drew a step away. “Well, I guess I better go use the bathroom before the ferry takes off. I’ll see you around?”
He gave a single nod, tipping his flat cap to her again. “I was serious, by the way.”
She paused. “About what?”
“About you tastin’ me ma’s stew. I’ll find a way to make it happen ’fore you leave back home.”
Maisie nodded, though she didn’t really believe him. “I’ll hold you to it,” she said half-heartedly, but she walked away, knowing very well such a promise couldn’t be kept without breaking a plethora of rules.
Then again, Finn didn’t seem too keen on following any rules, did he?