Finn grinned without missing a beat. “Just channeling a little British pride. You know, in case my actual food overshadows your delicate nibbles.”
A few dramatic gasps and chuckles floated from the nearby crowd.
“Delicate nibbles?” Daphne’s voice rose a full octave, her hand finding her hip. “That’s rich coming from a man who considers smoked paprika and bravado their own food groups.”
A nearby customer snorted into her lavender lemonade.
Finn lifted his hands in mock innocence. “Bravado pairs beautifully with a hint of Southern cinnamon class, don’t you think?”
His gaze trailed down her, leaving a wave of heat in its wake that had nothing to do with the temperature in the air. In fact, heat rose into her face so fast it could have steeped tea.
It wasn’t fair that his smolder held such power. It really wasn’t.
Well, she wasn’t about to let “Flynn” Dashwood know it mattered to her in the least.
“That smolder might melt your sliders, but I prefer a more authentic and classic approach.” She waved toward her display, causing a few more chuckles in the crowd. “Refined flavors and excellent presentation create the best combination for a couple’sweddingday.” She gestured toward his booth. “Now, if we’re trying to have a barbecue...” She let the comment linger.
“You sound as though you’re trying to convinceme.” Those caramel-colored eyes of his lit, and he edged nearer.
“Oh, I am determined to woo you to the light, Mr. Dashwood.”
She should have chosen different wording, because the way Finn’s gaze darkened nearly sent her pulse boiling over.
“Team Tea for the win,” someone called from the crowd, egging Daphne on.
“Which is why”—Daphne turned back to her table with flair and retrieved a small, heart-shaped plate—“I made this.”
She placed the plate dead center on Finn’s booth table, right in front of his amused face.
He eyed the trio of perfectly browned shortbread rounds, each topped with a delicate lemon glaze.
“Shortbread?” His brows lifted in mock horror. “You wish to woo me with shortbread?”
The crowd exploded with encouragement, so she played along, although the heat in her face intensified. “Whatever it takes.”
“Daphne?” He stepped closer, voice low enough that the crowd probably missed it. “You don’t have to stoop to manipulating flour and sugar to woo me.”
“Marry him now!” came a call from the watchers—the voice sounding mysteriously like Rosemary’s—clearly proving his voice wasn’t quite low enough.
Finn didn’t look away from her. “Just say the word,” he whispered with a wink.
She cleared her throat and shoved the plate closer anyway, hanging on to her composure by a thread. “This is not just any shortbread,” she said with a tilt of her chin, ignoring his comment and the flames of volcanic proportion likely emanating from her face. “Spiced brown butter lemon shortbread. Made specifically with doubters in mind.”
He picked up one of the shortbread rounds and held it like it was sacred, giving it a theatrical once-over. “You know how to flatter a man.”
“I know how to surprise one,” she said, and crossed her arms again. “Or are you too chicken to taste something that isn’t slathered in aioli?”
Finn chuckled—low, warm, devastating—and took a bite.
Then froze.
Daphne leaned in, waiting.
He chewed again.
Swallowed.
And then let out a low, defeated sigh. “I hate how good this is.”
