Finn—and Granny D—close behind.
“I had no intention of upsetting your afternoon, Daphne,” Finn said, his gaze roaming over her kitchen, likely finding fault with it as he seemed to do with everything else. “I only wanted to start over. Fresh, as you’d suggested.”
Daphne set the sticky toffee on the counter and turned, milkshake still in hand and growing colder by the second. “It seemed my suggestion didn’t work so well this morning.”
He rubbed his jaw, his lip arching slightly. “I did mention I wasn’t the best morning person.”
She opened her mouth to call out his excuse, but he rushed ahead. “Would it help if I told you I spent a large part of the afternoon making that pudding instead of painting the kitchen? Penance for my poor behavior.” He searched her face, brow creased. Penance should not look so... pleasant. “And... there may have been a small fire involved.”
“A fire?” The women spoke in unison, though their tones varied from alarm to unholy delight.
“Hardly worth mentioning,” he said smoothly. “The point is, I’m trying to make amends. Even if your shop does look like a Victorian valentine exploded in it.”
Daphne narrowed her eyes. “And you were doing so well.”
Granny D leaned around Daphne, plucking a fork from the drawer. “Fire’s a good sign. Shows passion.” She nodded, waving the fork. “My third husband, Walter, set fire to our chicken coop tryin’ to impress me with fireworks. Knew right then he was the one.”
Daphne pressed a palm to her forehead.
Finn, clearly enjoying her discomfort, winked at Granny D. “Baby steps,” he said, all easy confidence. “Now, are you going to try the pudding?” And without waiting for consent—because why start now?—he plucked the milkshake from Daphne’s hand, replacing it with the pudding container in one smooth motion, even producing a fork from his back pocket like a magician.
Presumptuous.
“I’ll taste test this in the meantime.” He raised the milkshake to her as if cheering her health.
Her eyes narrowed even more.
“Oh honey, you know another thing they say about men who can bake,” Granny D stage-whispered to Daphne, peeking around her shoulder to the container.
Daphne really wondered who “they” were and their impeccable, timely advice.
“They’re good with their hands and patient in the kitchen.” She waggled her eyebrows.
Finn didn’t even try to hide his grin.
“Stop encouraging him,” Daphne hissed to them both, her face at four hundred degrees.
“You first.” Finn twirled the straw in the milkshake, grin wicked. “I already know of your excellent baking skills.”
“Fine.” Daphne stabbed her fork into the pudding with a little more force than necessary. “Especially if it will help you return to your side of the wall and stop being such a”—she gestured vaguely at him—“distraction.”
“I don’t think anyone else minds such a distraction, especially midweek,” Granny D offered. “Helps get us through the rest of it, I’d say.”
Daphne tried not to wince at the scene they’d just caused out in the restaurant.
Dinner and a show?
Sigh.
Best to get this over with. She lifted the lid, and the rich aroma of warm toffee and dates enveloped her senses. One bite into the warm sponge cake and decadent toffee sauce, she nearly forgot her predicament—until she glanced up to find Finn watching her.
Closely.
With such an intensity, she nearly forgot how rude he was, but then... the pudding flavors reignited in her mouth.
Delicious. She’d had sticky toffee pudding before, but this? This had layers.
She swallowed the bite, her tastebuds assessing the flavors still playing across her tongue. “Did you add... rum?”
