This was too domestic.
Too easy.
Too... nice.
“After all, I did foam spray some rather unkind things on your restaurant window after you left last night.”
“Did you?” He choked on a laugh, his attention trailing her as she stepped over to the little food-laden table. “Pray tell, what sort of unkind things?”
Without sitting down, she stabbed a cream cheese and strawberry cinnamon toast bite with her fork, clearly wrestling with that grin of hers. “Oh, something like... Grumpy Restaurant Owner Seeking Triple-S-G.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Triple-S-G?”
She batted those long lashes. “Single. Sweet. Southern. Girl.”
“You didn’t.” He barked out a cough-laugh, half horror, half amusement. “You realize what you’ve done?”
“If you’re going to put salt in my sugar bowls, clearly your subconscious is begging for sweetness.” She bit into her toast, her smile almost saccharine.
“I’m going to have to move away now. There will be no peace—”
“Oh my goodness,” she interrupted, humming and closing her eyes as she chewed. “This is—” Her eyes flashed wide. “What did you do to this toast? It’s... wow.” She looked down at the rest of the pastry on the table. “You stuffed it with strawberries and cream cheese? Oh...” She let out a soft moan, oblivious to the fact that she was unraveling his self-control one sigh at a time. Another bite. “The nutmeg? Perfect.” Her moan was practically sinful.
Finn tugged at the collar of his T-shirt, suddenly regretting the extra heat from the stove. “I’m glad you like it,” he said, the words barely finding their way around the knot in his throat.
“Likefeels inadequate,” she said around another bite, smiling like he’d hung the moon.
The compliment and the look pressed in on him. He knew he could cook, but for some reason, her appreciation mattered. With a deep breath, he placed a plate of rashers and eggs in front of her, enjoying the way her smile lit her entire face in appreciation.
“No one’s made me breakfast since...” She trailed off, blinking as if the words had escaped without permission. A small shake of her head. “Well. It’s been a while.”
The flicker of vulnerability—so fast, so unguarded—landed squarely in his chest.
It mattered to her.Thismattered to her.
Which only made it harder to pretend it didn’t matter to him.
The knowledge shot a direct line to his heart, propelling him to lose all sense and ask, “Would you like some... tea?”
She nearly choked down a swallow and turned to take a drink of water before looking back at him, a soft smile playing over her lips. “Do you actually know how to make superior leaf water?”
Her exaggeration pulled another smile from him. Their eyes met. Held.
And stuck.
He cleared his throat, turning back to the stove, grabbing the pot of oatmeal as an excuse to move. What was going on with him?
“Making tea and liking it are two very different things.”
“Actually, if you like it, you make it better.” She pointed her half-eaten toast at him like a culinary wand. “It’s science. Or magic. Or some equally inconvenient truth.”
He placed the oatmeal between their plates on the table and remained standing next to Daphne. “You’re calling me inconvenient?”
“Oh, definitely.” Her grin sharpened, eyes dancing. “And possibly a breakfast saboteur. This is a trap, isn’t it? You’re trying to sabotage my confidence before the wedding showdown. Undermine my competitive spirit with... delicious carbs.”
Good, the banter was back. Preferable. More manageable.
“Guilty.” He gestured toward the table. “Clearly, I’m superior.”
