Daphne’s grin wavered.
Charming could be dangerous.
Her mother had said the same about Daphne’s father. And he’d vanished the moment life turned demanding.
But Finn? Whatever happened with Lucy’s mom meant he’d taken on a responsibility alone. A tough choice, regardless of whatever circumstances surrounded Lucy’s mom. Could someone look like a Frank Churchill and at heart be a George Knightley?
Was that possible?
“Glad you finally decided to show up,” a familiar voice said behind her.
She turned to find Jack, balancing a food tray with the ease of someone who’d spent years in their granny’s kitchen. “Didn’t take you for a coward.”
She offered him a tight smile. “Funny.”
His eyes skimmed her dress, brows lifting. “You do know this is a pub, not The Marches?”
Her smile dipped into a frown at his mention of one of the oldest inns in Wisteria that also had a high-end restaurant attached. “Class doesn’t need a boundary line, Jack.” She tossed out his name like an insult. “Didn’t Granny teach you anything?”
“Oh, I’m so innately classy, all I need is my smile.” He waggled his brows and gestured with his chin toward a booth nearby. “Granny D’s already here, holding court with Travis, Lindsay, and Rosemary.”
She followed his gaze to a back booth.
“If you’re looking for some table company, that would be the place to go.”
“Oh dear,” Daphne murmured.
“Yep.” Jack grinned. “She’s already told them the story of when she and her husband”—he looked skyward—“number two?—saw Bigfoot, so it can only get more entertaining from there.”
A laugh slipped from her lips just as a blur of pink and sequins came flying at her.
“Miss Daphne!”
Lucy hurled herself into Daphne’s legs in a hug, her shirt blinking Princesses Have the Best Smiles in LED confidence.
“Well, hey there, sugarplum.” Daphne bent to return the squeeze—just as Finn rounded the bar, clearly in motion toward them.
Her gaze snagged his over Lucy’s shoulder, and just like that, every coherent thought left the building.
“Miss Daphne.” He dipped his head, and the way his voice swooped to say her name took a little of her breath along with it.
His gaze dropped to her dress—lingered—and suddenly she feltfar too aware of the neckline, the fit, and that flirty little ruffle at the hem.
That smile of his should’ve come with its own LED warning.
Her knees wobbled.
She was officially ridiculous.
But she couldn’t seem to stop the fluttering in her chest. And the worst part?
She wasn’t sure she wanted to.
“Hey,” she managed, instantly annoyed at the way her voice came out breathy. She cleared her throat. “Looks like a solid turnout.”
“It is.” His gaze didn’t leave hers. “Better now that you’re here.”
There it was. The flirt. Exhibit A.
