Daphne opened her mouth. Then closed it. And then, she raised her chin and tightened a smile. “Stereotypes.” She batted her lashes and worked up her best English accent. “Nasty little things, aren’t they?”
Something flashed in his eyes, warming her cheeks. “It does add a whole new layer to your personality, Miss Austen.”
His voice brushed across her skin like velvet. She stepped back automatically, heart thudding far too loud in her ears. Nope. Not going there.
“Come on, Lucy.” She waved toward the hallway, refusing to glance at the man behind her. “I’ll show you the way.”
Finn took Lucy’s small hand in his, and that single gesture was almost her undoing. Gentle. Steady. Sweet in a way that felt... dangerous.
She closed her fingers into fists at her sides.
Ever since Sunday lunch, when he’d shown up with that crooked smile and his adorable daughter—and then had the nerve to become her business rival—she’d been stuck in a full-on tennis match with her own brain. Admire him? Absolutely not. Crush on him?Worse.
And yet, here he was. Being nice. Being grateful. Holding his daughter’s hand and trailing behind her like some sort of walking contradiction with an accent.
She flicked on the bathroom light.
And froze.
Oh no, no, no—
Her pink lace bra—her favorite pink lace bra—was hanging in all its humiliating glory from the shower rod.
She made a strangled noise that may or may not have been humanand launched toward it, yanking it down and shoving it behind her back.
Silence.
Then a cough. A suspiciously choked one.
Decidedly male.
Her face flared to volcanic temperatures.
“Um... towels are in the closet. Shampoo’s on the tub.” She gestured vaguely with heremptyhand. “And you should probably turn on the space heater. This apartment stays cold even in summer. It’s not been updated like yours.”
And hopefully, her heater would last one more winter.
Or two.
Since the plumbing repairs couldn’t wait.
Finn was staring at her. Not smirking, not laughing—just looking. Too much. She pulled at her baggy T-shirt.He’s not a nice person. He’s a jerk who criticized your precious tea shop and poured salt in your sugar bowls. Right. Exactly.
Avoid eye contact.
“Well, I’ll let you two get cleaned up.” Daphne flattened herself against the wall, shimmying past Mr. Hotface with every ounce of dignity she could scrape together.
She was almost clear when—
“Her clothes.”
She paused. Turned. Too close. Way too close.
“I forgot to fetch clean ones when we left.”
She looked over his wrinkled, blood-specked shirt. Then at Lucy’s princess nightgown. And just like that, the tug in her chest resurrected.
“She can stay with me while you run next door.”
