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 youmeanit.”
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.”
