Whatever it was had wiggled its way between the cracks of his resolve in a way he wanted to ignore.
Neededto ignore.
His and Lucy’s little world worked the way it was.
He didn’t have time or interest in... more.
With a growl of frustration, he pushed up from the couch, determined to do anything but think. Winston’s head popped up, the retriever taking Finn’s wakefulness as an automatic invitation for affection.
“Morning, mate.” Finn gave the dog a scratch, then padded toward the kitchen, needing something—anything—to occupy his thoughts.
It was still dark outside, but faint light pressed against the edges of the windows. Daphne would be up soon, prepping for whatever cozy chaos she brewed each morning at Tea Thyme. And his movers were due in a few hours.
Hopefully.
His fingers moved without much thought—pulling eggs and bacon from the fridge, setting the kettle on, even locating some coffee grounds in a hidden spot behind copious amounts of tea bag boxes. He hadn’t even woken Lucy in the process. Daphne stocked her kitchen intuitively. Exactly as he would have. And he didn’t quite know how to process that either.
They weren’t alike at all. Opposites. Rivals, even. Yet...
A soft hush of movement made him glance toward the doorway.
And there she was.
The most maddening concoction of sexy, humorous, and adorable.
Daphne stood in the doorway, a vision of pajama-clad bewilderment. Hair piled haphazardly on her head like a meringue with ambition. Blue flamingo robe hanging off one shoulder. A pink T-shirt. Flannel pants.
And in her hand?
A curling iron. Held like a weapon.
Something knotted began to uncurl in his chest. He barely bit back a grin.
And surprisingly attractive.
She blinked those large blue eyes at him and examined him fromsweatpants to T-shirt before a whimper-like sound bubbled from those pink lips. “You’re... making breakfast? Inmykitchen?”
He took his time answering, noting the heightened color in her cheeks and the way her free hand fluttered up to cover her exposed collarbone. She looked much too appealing—especially given the thoughts he’d been trying not to have. It had been a long time since he’d seen a woman in her pajamas, and never one quite like this.
He turned slowly, deliberately, arms folding across his chest. “Good morning?” And then he rested his hip against the counter and nodded toward the curling iron. “If that’s meant to tame my morning hair, I won’t object. But I’m fairly certain we’ll need something more industrial.”
Her gaze flicked to the weapon in her hand, and she let out a strangled half laugh before lowering it, her other hand instinctively tugging her robe tighter across her body.
Too cute. Way too cute.
His chest squeezed.
And dangerous.
So, so dangerous.
“Why...” She waved the curling iron vaguely in his direction. “Why are you making breakfast?”
He lifted a shoulder, casual—at least on the outside. “Seemed like the least I could do for your kindness to me and Lucy.” He gestured toward a few plates on the small table. “After all, you did risk your pristine reputation. Letting the town’s new pub owner sleep under your roof?” He gave his brows a shake. “Scandalous.”
Her smile went crooked. One brow arched. That chaotic bun wobbled like a bobblehead. His grin slipped wider before he could stop it.
“I don’t know how pristine my reputation is.” She slid past him and stretched for a mug, even rocked on pink-nailed tiptoe to reach it, and his pulse spiked.
