Margaret sighed. “Sweetheart, flirting’s easy. Light. But he knows you. Makes room for you—in his day, with his ideas, in his conversations. Your thoughts matter to him. Flirting may be the icing, but it’s held up by sturdier stuff beneath.”
Daphne chuckled despite herself. “So, he’s cake?”
Margaret’s smile gentled with her expression. “You’re scared he’ll be like your daddy?”
Daphne flinched and then... the picture began to clear in her mind. No. Finn wasn’t like her dad. If she looked at the evidence, the only comparison was his ready wit. But he’d weathered hard decisions and made the right choices. Offered his little girl a steady, secure love.
Stayed... for Lucy.
“Maybe it’s time to look at him with fresh eyes, Daphne.” Margaret’s answer came softly. “Without fear clouding your vision. He’s not perfect. And he can teeter toward arrogant, but he’s got a track record of caring well. And the way he looks at you?” She leaned in just slightly. “That’s not a look you can fake. Not from the good ones anyway.”
They stood in silence a moment longer, the breeze rustling through the trees, Lucy’s laughter floating on the air.
Margaret straightened and waved her hand back toward the crowd. “Now go show that man how a Wisteria woman handles healthy attention.”
Daphne arched a brow. “With quiet dignity and measured responses?”
Margaret’s grin turned deliciously sly. “I was thinking more along the lines of looking fabulous and making him sweat a little.”
Daphne laughed. Maybe she didn’t know exactly where this was headed. Maybe her heart was still a little afraid. But she wanted to get to the truth. Finn Dashwood might be a flirt.
But he was much more.
And it was time to find out if that “more” included her and her future in the mix.
The stars had only just begun to prick the velvet sky, but the lanterns—dozens of them—already glowed golden around the amphitheater, their light dancing over the lawn like fireflies in formation. The grassy space in front of the stage was already crowded with people swaying and stomping to the jubilant cry of a bluegrass fiddle.
Daphne hovered at the edge of the clearing, cradling a warm mason jar of cinnamon cider like it might deflect incoming emotion. Or at least Finn-shaped confusion.
The scent of woodsmoke curled through the crisp air, mingling with roasted peanuts, caramel apples, and someone’s cologne that was two cloves past subtle. String lights stretched from the gazebo to the oaks like low-hanging constellations.
It was all so perfect.
Like something from a Hallmark movie.
Like... home.
And then she saw him.
Finn.
Still looking unfairly good even after a long workday, then a few hours at the food booths. His dark hair was mussed in that way that made her fingers twitch. And his smile—ugh. That infuriating, crinkly-eyed, lopsided smile.
He was dancing an upbeat song with Rosemary, and it appearedshe was teaching him the steps. His attention fixed on Rosemary’s upturned face, complete with that “no one else in the room” look.
But of course he’d be focused if he was trying to learn a dance.
His laugh burst out as he took a wrong turn.
And that reaction warmed her heart.
Her father—when he’d messed up—had scowled. Blamed someone. So had her ex-boyfriend. But Finn? He laughed at himself. Took it in stride.
So what else had she been misreading?
He kept his distance respectable, his grin at the ready, his expression friendly, but—her hand squeezed the cider jar—it wasn’t the same. Not like he looked at her. Not the splitting of distances she’d noticed between them.
Carrie Long asked him for a dance next. And with an exaggerated bow, he took her hand, his dark hair dipping over his forehead as he attempted to repeat the dance with a new partner. Daphne’s grin itched to react.
