He stepped farther inside and his grin grew. He’d been inside it once before, when offering the sticky toffee pudding, but he’d been more focused on Daphne than her surroundings.
The space fit her perfectly. Light. Airy. Tidy to the point of perfection. White shelves neatly stacked. Canisters symmetrically lined up like little soldiers. Bowls organized in a patchwork of muted tones, theutensils hung near the stove in a fashionable arrangement of smallest to largest. Even the dish towels matched. The entire room looked like something out of a magazine. It was incredibly impressive, a little unnerving, and tempted Finn to go through it and rearrange a few things... just for fun.
He refrained.
Above the oven, a little plaque caught his eye: “When in doubt, say a prayer—and add butter.”
His grin unfurled fully. Butter and prayer—could there be a more fitting motto for Wisteria?
He edged farther inside, sunlight spilling through lace curtains, catching motes of flour dusting the air like fairy magic. His chest tightened unexpectedly.
The night before last Daphne had given him a flicker of hope. That maybe their wildly different personalities could not only amicably coexist but blend like sugar and spice.
Because every additional moment he spent with her only made him want another. He could almost see a life together—a life of life and food and laughter and banter—a life hewantedto build.
And then, like she’d been conjured by his very thoughts, Daphne pushed through the swinging door, arms laden with a crate of apples. Wisps of hair had escaped her ponytail, curling around her flushed cheeks. She wore jeans, a flour-dusted apron, and a soft-blue blouse that matched the sparkle of her eyes. Her apron read: Whisk Me Away.
Finn’s heart responded with,Pick me, in Morse code.
“Is that an invitation?” he asked, pointing at her apron.
“What?” She glanced down and immediately blushed, the color blooming high in her cheeks. Her eyes narrowed even as she brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. “We’re here to work, Mr. Dashwood. Not flirt.”
“You say that like the two are mutually exclusive.” He edged a stepcloser. “I’m rather sure they mix beautifully. I always cook better when I’m inspired.”
Something flickered in her eyes—a battle she was clearly fighting. Her mouth quirked. “Well,” she said, gesturing toward the crate on the island, “I hope apples inspire you. We’ve got plenty. Lindsay specifically requested apple dishes for her autumn wedding.”
“No problem there. I have some great ideas for apple dishes.” His grin sharpened. “Very inspiring ones.”
She shook her head and then nodded toward the island in the center of the room. “I thought we could plan first? Talk about menus?”
A notepad and pens waited neatly. Of course she would have thought of that.
He slid onto a stool, and after a fractional hesitation, she sat beside him, her spine ruler straight.
Their dance at the Harvest Festival hovered between them, and he wasn’t certain how to navigate his steps into more, because in all honesty, he just wanted to slice the tension with a kiss.
Daphne’s gaze flitted to his. She shifted the notebook on the counter and then cleared her throat.
Nervous seemed to be the order of the day.
Well, that wasn’t the best recipe for them, especially if they were to brainstorm a wedding menu or tip this simmering romance into a boil. Oh no.
Time to stir things up.
“Your kitchen is very... tidy.”
Her fidgeting immediately stopped, and she slowly turned her head in his direction. “And that’s bad?”
“Of course not.” He raised a brow. “Merely an observation.”
She turned fully toward him now. He had to press his lips together to keep from laughing.
“I suppose yours isn’t tidy?” she challenged, lifting both brows. “More like a culinary explosion?”
He shrugged. “An explosion—with style.”
Her grin bloomed, and she let out a breath. “Then maybe we should cook here,” she said. “Since I’d like to avoid any... surprises.”
