Heat vaulted up Daphne’s neck into her face, and her eyes went wide at the sound of the deep, masculine voice, right before... She pulled her cheek from the car’s beautiful window.
She stifled a whimper, drew in a deep breath, and turned right into the stare of... another daydream.
Holy moly!
His thick dark hair stood in fashionable disarray, one rogue strand falling across his Romanesque brow. His jawline looked sharp enough to cut glass beneath the dark hue of a five o’clock shadow. But it was his eyes that caught her attention—an alarming shade of gold. No, caramel.
Her breath caught. Or maybe the perfect color of tea with just a splash of milk.
Lord, have mercy!She blinked.
But, why not? If God hand-delivered a Cabriolet out of nowhere, why not a perfectly delicious-looking stranger too?
She inwardly grimaced. Okay, God probably didn’t refer to men asdelicious, but surely He understood the sentiment of this very single, unabashed romantic.
Besides, He of all people knew her unsavory history with a dastardly dad and a Wickham-like best friend. So it would be just like Him to create some wonderful compensation of cosmic proportions, right?
The man crossed his arms, muscles flexing under the thin fabric of his navy T-shirt. His amused expression grew downright wicked as the seconds ticked by. He was fully aware of the effect he was having on her.
Heat blazed a fresh trail into her face.
Well, she could pull herself together like the twenty-five-year-old woman she was. Daphne snapped her lips into a tight smile. “Um... I was only admiring.”
One of his brows slanted upward, along with a corner of his burgeoning grin. “Clearly.”
“The car,” she added, stabbing a finger at the Cabriolet. Although, let’s be honest—he was just as distracting as the car. And his voice? Pure mocha... with a drizzle of something sinful.
He smiled—no, smirked—and the deep dimple in one of his cheeks should have come with a warning label.
Maybe God had sent her more than she could bear, because now her cheeks were dangerously close to sizzling.
“Mycar,” he corrected.
Her throat released a sound that she really hoped wasn’t a squeak. “Y-your car?” This was officially the most elaborate prank in small-town history.
And then it hit her—that accent.
English.
“Are you certain that’s the only thing you were admiring?” His eyes glimmered, his accent like velvet, and Daphne’s brain flatlined.
Clearly, the starstruck look on her face answered his question more than her fumbling tongue ever could.
Oh, whoever set this up was going to pay dearly.
No more free scones for them!
Then again, if this man proposed in the next five minutes and handed her the keys to his car, she’d name her firstborn after the prankster in thanks.
“I... I was admiring your car and your...” Her traitorous gaze flicked down his body and back up, getting caught in those dangerously interesting eyes again. Warmth scorched her cheeks, but she powered through the kettle-steam embarrassment. “Accent,” she blurted.
His smile deepened. So did the dimple.
Unfair. All of it!
“My accent.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge.
