She blinked back.
Excellent pairingindeed.
“Hi,” he said, as if she hadn’t just crash-landed into his personal space.
“I was pushed,” Daphne said flatly.
The soft strains of the fiddle swelled into a waltz, almost like a melodic nudge to draw closer to Finn.
“Well, then,” he said, voice warm as cider as he stretched his hand out toward her. “I’d be a fool not to take advantage of someone’s excellent timing.”
Daphne stared at his hand, her words failing to emerge at first.
“Now, Daphne. I know you can dance. I’ve seen it on display with my daughter.” His grin hitched up—thatgrin—and her pulse promptly tripped over itself. His gaze dipped, just briefly, then bounced back up to meet hers. “And I couldn’t help but notice—your very nice legs seemed to be working quite well all day.”
Both her brows rose.
And suddenly, a vulnerability stole into his expression. He searchedher face before he stepped closer, hand still outstretched. “Dance with me?”
The question came out quiet. No smugness. No games. Just him. Waiting. Earnest.
The entreaty in his voice pulled her forward. She slid her hand into his, and his warm palm smoothed around her waist to settle at her back, tugging her close, anchoring her near him. Her breathing remained stalled for a few more seconds, attempting to adjust to his touch.
Um... so... this was certainly not how he’d danced with Rosemary.
A few beats of silence passed, the world narrowing to the feel of his arms around her. His scent—something warm and clean and faintly spicy—enveloped her. He smelled as good as he looked, which was saying something.
He brought her closer, their bodies brushing, their feet moving in an unhurried sway while the music melted into the background. With another little tug, he lowered his head, cheek pressing lightly against her temple. “You smell like cinnamon and sugar,” he murmured near her ear.
The words sank straight into her skin, sending a delicious ripple down her neck.
She tilted her head up, their faces close. “Not salty enough for you?”
His smile curved—slow, tender, achingly sweet—and it took everything in her not to miss a step. “Perfect, actually.” He leaned in, breath feathering over her temple. “Daphne Austen: sugar and spice and everything nice.”
She absolutely, positively refused to allow him to see her entire body swoon... or her entire nervous system short-circuit.
“Lathering on the charm a little thick, aren’t we?” she teased, trying—futilely—to inject some playful distance.
“Just telling the truth.” His voice stayed low. “You are—and have been—lovely.”
Her throat tightened, her heart vaulting like it was just waiting to jump directly into whatever those eyes offered.
His sincerity hit too... much. It was too poignant. Too real. “Another sweet comment?” she managed, narrowing her eyes. “You must be pretty confident you’re going to win this competition.”
He chuckled, the sound a rumble that she felt in her chest.
“Actually...” He dipped his head slightly, hand on her back, not rushing, not pulling—just holding her there like he had all the time in the world. Or... like he knewsheneeded the time? “The prize I’m after has changed. Significantly.”
“Is that so?”
“Mm-hmm,” he hummed. His hand pressed more firmly against her spine as if to punctuate his admittance, the heat of his touch chasing straight through her. In truth, it was a little knee-weakening.
Her gaze dropped to his lips.
Okay,alotknee-weakening.
“But,” he added, eyes locked on hers. “I’m afraid I might need to work a bit harder to convince her I’m serious.” His expression turned sheepish. “And I must admit to hoping for more than friendship.” He swallowed hard, jaw tightening. “But if friendship is all she can offer, I’ll take it.”
