For some reason, Finn had the strangest notion that this woman knew the answer already. How on earth was Lucy sleeping through all this on her little couch in the back?
“I’m not married.” He squeezed out the confession, preparing himself for the response.
And all three gasped... in delight.
“Well, what a shame for such a nice-lookin’ fella like yourself,” Mrs. Chicken and Dumplings offered, without a trace of sorrow on her face. “But don’t you worry one bit.”
“That’s right,” the gray-haired lady continued. “We’ve got some lovely ladies in town who’d just adore an English gentleman.”
Of this, he had no doubt.
Daphne Austen’s mild revulsion suddenly took on an appeal he hadn’t known he’d wanted.
“That’s... very kind,” he managed, though the words felt strange in his mouth. In London, neighbors barely managed eye contact, let alone this coordinated assault of Southern hospitality. “But I’m notactually looking for—” A small voice piped up from behind the bar in interruption.
“Daddy?”
Lucy.
Ah! Apparently, she wasn’t sleeping through it! His daughter appeared around the corner of the doorway rubbing sleepy eyes and clutching the stuffed dragon she insisted on bringing everywhere. Her dark curls were still mussed from sleep.
Immediately, the three women let out a collective “aww”—their expressions melting into that particular brand of maternal adoration that only a small child and, possibly, cute animal could summon.
Lucy offered the trio of strangers a wide-eyed look before slipping to Finn’s side, fingers clutching the bottom of his shirt, likely feeling the “welcome” with the same potency as he had.
He smoothed a hand over her curls to reassure her.
“Oh my stars! Is this your little girl?” Mrs. Wallace gasped, clutching her ample bosom as if overcome.
“What a precious angel!” the sharp-eyed one declared. “And look at those curls! Just like a little cherub!”
Lucy blinked up at them, her lips pursed as if she wasn’t certain which expression to choose. He knew the feeling, but her reticence was much more forgivable.
Finn sighed. “Lucy, meet our very enthusiastic neighbors. Mrs. Wallace?”
He looked at the woman and she nodded as if electricity had just jolted her neck into motion.
“And...” He tilted his head, studying the biscuit woman. “Mrs. Jenkins, was it?”
The woman gave a firm nod, her smile broad.
And then he looked over at the ring leader. “I don’t recall your name, Mrs....?”
“Ambrosia Clark.” The woman pronounced the name as if every syllable deserved special consideration.
“And how old are you, sweetheart?” Mrs. Wallace cooed.
Lucy looked up at Finn, and after a nod from him, she held up six fingers, which prompted another round of delighted noises from the trio. Then, before Finn could redirect the conversation, the bouffant-haired leader leaned in again.
“You know, my daughter, Emily, is a speech-language pathologist at our local elementary school.” Mrs. Clark blinked a few times with her nod. “Very good with children.”
Finn exhaled sharply through his nose, wondering if there was a polite way to end this conversation without somehow finding himself engaged by the weekend.
“I’m certain it does you credit, Mrs. Clark, to have raised such a lady.”
The woman’s palm fluttered to her chest. “Oh, how very good of you to say... in that particular way.”
“And how’s your precious little girl settling in?” Mrs. Wallace asked, attention still fastened on Lucy. “Six is such a wonderful age. You know, Beverly’s daughter runs the most darling dance studio—”
