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…Or was that Sophocles? Lyly? Aristotle?

Ach. He’d never been much of a scholar.

“So,” he began again, “the next question that begs bein’ answered is this: what exactly do you write in your notebook?”

She looked away, still blushing. “Oh, just notes and stuff. Sketches. Ingredients. Anything that helps me to remember what food I really liked and what meals should be on the menu.”

“So it’ll be a Northern Irish restaurant, then?”

“Partly. It’s more of an international soup and bread restaurant, so we’ve been on an extended tour around Europe tasting the best we could find.”

“The vegetable soup suggestion was dead on, then.”

“Oh, more than you know,” she returned. “That one is absolutely going on the menu. We’re hoping to include some of the chef’s trade secrets so we can have the faces behind the meals we choose. The owner of Doherty’s seemed kinda interested, so here’s hoping.” She raised crossed fingers.

“Oh, aye?” he asked. “Well, Mrs. Doherty’s an old friend of me ma’s. I could have a chat with her if there’s any concerns on her part workin’ with you. Let her know you aren’t completely mad.”

She straightened on the bridge. “Would you? That would be amazing!”

“No bother at all.”

Her grin continued, their eyes meeting again, and he wondered if he should just stop faffing around and join her on the bridge.

But then, her aunt…

His eyes trailed toward the woman, expecting to see her still wandering around with her hand in the air as she spoke on the phone. Instead, her eyes were fixed securely on Finn, like a cat to an intrusive vole digging tunnels through a garden.

He knew nothing about this Daphne Parker, but he did know a thing or two about protective guardians, and this woman had that responsibility written all over her no-nonsense expression.

As such, he planted his feet more firmly in the sand. No need to aggravate the woman by drawing closer to her niece. But he would be sticking around to settle Daphne’s clear apprehension of him. After all, he could charm the socks off anyone. Even that sour Mrs. Waterstone would be on his side—and Trifle’s—by the end of their trip.

“What parts of Europe have you seen, then?” he asked Maisie next.

She counted on her long fingers as she rattled off the countries. “Let’s see. There’s been Spain, Italy, France, Germany, Austria, Sweden, Switzerland, Poland, and now, Northern Ireland. Our last stop.”

Finn’s brows raised. “That’s quite the trek.”

“Yeah, it’s been pretty crazy.”

“Grand to see you’ve saved the best for last, though,” he said.

“Oh, I did that on purpose. I have some great, great, great grandparents who emigrated from here, so I’ve always wanted to visit. I’ve been looking forward to coming here all summer.”

Was she just saying that to butter him up? It was certainly working.

“And you’ve taken notes on the food you’ve had in every single country?”

“Yeah. I almost filled the whole thing.”

She patted a hand against the side of her coat. Was that where she stashed the notebook? Did she always have it with her?

A gust of wind blew past her, pulling a strand of hair into her mouth, and he watched in amusement as she fished it out with her forefinger and thumb.

“Do you ever show those notes to anyone?” he asked. “Entertainin’ tour guides, per’aps?”

He watched the tip of her tongue run along her bottom lip before disappearing inside her mouth. She wasn’t trying to be alluring, but he was grateful for the cool wind right now to settle the warmth rising in his chest.

Maisie shook her head, finally beating her battle with the hair. “Ah, I dunno. I usually don’t show it to anyone. I don’t want people to think I’m weird or anything.”