He drew in a breath and pushed on his smile. Well, if he’d been hoping for another chance to apologize, he just might get it sooner than he thought.
Daphne clutched the pillow closer, heart pounding as Ethan Hunt sprinted through shadowed streets, desperate to reach his dying friend. Her chamomile tea sat abandoned, rapidly cooling, while Winston gnawed on a bone at her feet.
A loud knock shattered the moment.
Daphne jolted, flinging the pillow aside and fumbling for the remote. In a perfectly ungraceful sequence, she smacked her beloved teacup, caught it midair with a contortionist’s desperation, nearly tripped over her slippers, and managed to set the cup down with only a minor tea casualty—just in time to see Ethan arrive... too late.
She exhaled, tension melting. At least the tea was safe.
Another knock jolted her to her feet. She smacked her knee against the coffee table on the way up. “Ow! Good grief.” Winston gave a half-hearted bark and trotted toward the door while she limped behind, muttering something unholy as she rubbed her leg.
She squinted at the clock.11:05 p.m.
Who on earth—
She cracked the door open just enough to see a pair of very familiar, very infuriating umber-brown eyes staring back from the thin stream of light her door allowed.
Finn Dashwood?
She blinked, hoping he was a figment of too many thoughts on how to beat him at the competition.
Nope. Still there.
He looked decidedly less put together than his usual pub owner persona. Of course, she hadn’t seen him since Sunday lunch with GrannyD, but he now wore a rumpled gray T-shirt stretched across his shoulders, paired with khaki shorts, and his hair bore the distinct look of someone who’d run his hands through it multiple times.
Oh, why did rascally have to look so good?
“The sugar-salt stunt wasn’t enough?” She scowled. “Come to swap out my tea for coffee?”
“Tempting,” he murmured. “But I actually need your help.”
That shut her down for a beat. He looked... serious. Which was unsettling.
“I’m all out of motor oil at the moment.”
One side of his mouth quirked in genuine amusement—none of that practiced charm stuff. “A shame. But I was hoping to borrow a towel.” A pause. “Or maybe your bathroom.”
She crossed her arms. “That’s a new pickup line. ‘Can I borrow your towel?’”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face, but the usual playfulness didn’t fully surface. Instead, he hesitated—just a beat too long.
And then he shifted to the right, stepping fully into the light.
Daphne’s breath caught.
Because in his arms, held against his chest, was his little Lucy. Dark curls, green eyes, and a face smeared in—was that blood?
“Oh my goodness—” Daphne fumbled at the chain lock, wrenching the door open before she could fully process what she was doing. “What happened? Is she okay? How can I help?”
The tenderness in Finn’s expression didn’t match any version of him she’d seen before. It tugged something deep in her chest—something warm and protective and wholly inconvenient.
She ignored the sudden curiosity. Buried it. Flirts had their place.
But not with her.
Finn shifted his hold on the little girl. “Lucy’s had a nosebleed, and we don’t have—”
“Come. Come in.” She waved them forward, her attention focusedon Lucy, though her inner monologue was having a full-blown meltdown. Had she ever had a single man over this late at night? Aside from Jack, of course. Accompanied by Nate, usually.
