Her smile stretched so wide it crinkled her eyes. “Let’s try it!”
His head came up. “Now?”
“Yes, if you can. Granny D and Rosemary are covering the shop today.”
He stared at her for a beat too long, his brain short-circuiting somewhere betweennowandalone in her kitchen.
“Let me ring your brother and a few other staff to make sure wehave the pub covered.” His grin tugged at his mouth, completely unstoppable. “Because, for the record, Daphne Austen”—he leaned in just enough for her to catch it, just enough to make her breath hitch—“I’m looking forward to cooking up one unforgettable wedding with you.”
Two hours later—after a quick grocery run and even more teasing—they’d taken their positions. And to the dignified refrains of—God help him—Beethoven, they began their work.
Like her apartment kitchen, Daphne’s setup was intuitive.
Finn somehow knew where to find ingredients, even without looking at her alphabetized labels. They slipped around each other easily, he offering a wink or comment now and then, she rolling her eyes—sometimes laughing—in response.
It was a different kind of rhythm than he was used to. He thrived in the louder chaos of the pub kitchen: clashing pots, shouted orders, the clang of metal and noise. But here, her movements were quieter, more deliberate.
Like a dance.
And he paused to admire it a few times.
All right, maybe more than a few times.
“Do you have coarser salt?” he asked, peering into a dainty porcelain jar on the counter.
“That’s flake sea salt.” She frowned slightly. “It’s the best for finishing.”
“I meant for crusting the pork.” He shook the jar gently. “We’ll need something heavier to stand up to roasting.”
“Oh!” She blinked. “I don’t usually use a ton of salt.”
He tsked, slowly shaking his head at her. “But aren’t you Southern?”
She cast him a mock glare.
“I suppose it’s because you make such sweet things, luv,” he teased. “Salt’s the knight in shining armor of savory cooking. Can’t joust without it.”
“Then sugar must be the princess,” she shot back, skimming by him so closely her cinnamon scent wafted around him. “Which is why I don’t need as much since I’m already so sweet.”
His internal predator gave a low, approving growl of the tilt in those flirty lips of hers. He might have even shifted a little closer just to stay in her orbit. Enough to watch her swallow hard and reach into the nearby cabinet.
She brought out a container of kosher salt to wedge between them.
“Excellent,” he murmured, brushing her fingers on purpose as he took it.
And the look she gave him flickered with enough curiosity to have him humming back to his spot at the counter.
They worked side by side, the chime of a nearby clock ringing out the hour.
The kitchen smelled fantastic—savory, sweet, buttery, spiced—like all the best parts of belonging blended together. As iftheybelonged.
But Daphne’s jokes grew fewer. Her first batch of popovers fell flat, literally, and she’d forgotten the shallots for the risotto. Finn offered a substitution—yellow onions and a kiss of garlic—and she accepted but rolled out her tart dough with unnecessary aggression.
Was she concerned about what he thought of her?
Had he wrecked her kitchen vibe somehow?
Scanning his workspace, he winced. Maybe a little.
