“Seemed only fair. You needed to know how good it would taste with your ribs.”
That glint in her eye pulled him closer, the line between teasing and flirting growing delightfully thin.
He tore off a piece of the bread, never looking away. The crust was golden and crisp, the inside warm and airy, with olive oil and rosemary clinging to his fingers. He took a bite—and blinked.
Rich. Herby. With just the right kick of sea salt and lemon zest. “You’re right,” he said slowly, holding her gaze. “A perfect match.”
The combination fit in ways he hadn’t imagined. His grin almost tipped. And maybe it wasn’t such a stretch to think the two people involved in this little meal creation might combine just as well?
Color rose into her cheeks, a pink that crept so slowly, she likely hoped he wouldn’t notice. But he had. Oh, he had. A lovely rose to match the color of those lips.
“You’re just being nice,” she said, trying to tuck her expression back to neutral, but the light in her eyes defied that forced frown.
He took another bite, savoring it. “No, sincerely. It’s incredible.”
“Careful,” she warned, eyes dancing. “I might start believing you actually like my cooking.”
“I’ve liked it from the start, if you recall.” He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s the tea I took issue with.”
She gave a mock gasp, one hand over her heart. “Blasphemy.”
His chest burst with the desire to cross the counter and seize her lips. “Coffee is still better.”
She promptly ignored that comment. “Well, I’m also experimenting with a new shortbread recipe to tempt you because you said shortbread is bland.”
Her brain worked like his. He could practically see it. Inventorying ingredients, substituting spices, piecing things together in a new way. He leaned in, forearms braced on the counter. “Are you trying to seduce me through baked goods, Miss Austen?”
“What?” Her mouth parted. “No... absolutely not.”
“Because it’s working.”
Daphne blinked rapidly, then turned her attention to the bread like it had suddenly grown much more interesting. “You’re impossible.”
“But charming.”
“Debatable.”
“That wasn’t a no.”
Her lips twitched, her pleasure in the moment almost palpable. He loved her smile... and her fight against it. “You’re very annoying, you know that?”
“I’ve heard rumors,” he murmured, watching with quiet fascination as another blush crept up her neck and into her cheeks. A few golden wisps fell from her ponytail, framing her face—soft, teasing things.
“I just think an Englishman really ought to like shortbread.”
“There you go again with those assumptions.” He studied her. “Besides,I thought you were determined to keep all your recipes as they’ve always been. No changes, no compromises. And now here you are”—he lifted another piece of bread—“wooing me with carbs and rosemary.”
Another startled laugh slipped free from her smile, and she brushed a floury hand over her apron. “Well, maybe I... I needed the challenge more than I realized.” Her gaze came back to his. “A nudge”—she waved toward him—“orshoveoutside of my comfort zone.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” His grin slipped wide. “That focaccia is dangerously good.”
“I didn’t realize how much I wanted to create until it happened,” she said, almost to herself. “And... now I can’t seem to stop.”
The words hit him square in the heart. Straightened his spine. Whether for good or ill, his special brand of nudging had helped stretch her beyond her fear—and that mattered. More than he could say. The idea of being even a small catalyst toward her awareness not only humbled him but deepened whatever connection grew between them. For his part, anyway. “Daphne.” He paused, then pushed the words out. “I want you to get this catering job.”
Her eyes narrowed and head tilted to the side. “So you said...”
“I’m backing out.”
