Something happened in her cabin. One minute we were arguing about the location of my orchard and the next, I was kissing her like a desperate man, starved for human contact. In some ways, I guess that’s the case but I never pined for a woman’s touch. Now I can’t stop thinking about kissing Daphne. The drive back here was one long torturous exercise in keeping my hands to myself and my eyes on the road.
She’s standing near the porch railing, giving me a funny look, and I realize I haven’t said anything in the last minute or so. Could have been longer.
“You okay?” Her teeth worry her bottom lip. “If you’ve changed your mind …”
I rest my hand on the back of my neck and give her a slow, shy smile. “I’m out of practice. I should invite you inside and offer you something to drink.”
“I’d like that.” Crossing the short distance between us, she rises on her toes and tentatively touches her lips to mine. It’s a balm to my nerves and an invitation.
Kissing her is easy, effortless. If I quiet my brain and let my body’s instincts take over, I’m fine. She twines her arms around my shoulders, and I rest my hands at the dip of her lower back. We have a few moments of awkwardness. Our teeth bump and we’re not quite sure where our noses should go, but we laugh our way through until the clumsiness passes.
Once again breathless, we break apart, our chests heaving, and my heartbeat throbbing.
“Right. Okay. Dinner.” With my thumb, I trace the rosy swell of her bottom lip.
I wasn’t thinking when I asked her to come here for dinner. If I had been, I probably would’ve considered taking her out. It never occurred to me to go somewhere else. Where would I have taken her, anyway? Genie’s for fried chicken? I don’t go to any of the other restaurants in the area, mostly because I’m a better chef than all of those hacks. Now, if we were going for pie, Daisy’s Nut House has me beat. Pastry is not my strength.
I leave Daphne to hang out with Roman in the living area while I figure out what the hell I’m going to make us for dinner. Pulling open the fridge door, I inventory the contents and come up with a plan. Nothing fancy but it will be good. Better than boxed soup or a frozen meal.
Daphne sits on the floor and lets Roman crawl on her. Patsy’s outside enjoying the mud in her pen; she’ll need a bath before she’s allowed back in the house.
I get lost in the prep and production of cooking, occasionally glancing over at the beautiful woman across the room. It’s strange but not unwelcome to have her in my house. Other than family, she’s my first visitor in a long time. Memories of her mouth and her body pressed against mine flash through my mind in a welcome highlight reel.
“What’s for dinner?” Not tall enough to look over my shoulder, Daphne peers around my upper arm, inhaling deeply. “Smells delicious.”
Fresh, not floral or cloying, the scent of her shampoo—or maybe her perfume—teases my nose.
Shifting to the left, I block her view into the pot I’m stirring. “I’m not telling until we sit down.”
“What if I have a deadly food allergy?” Undeterred, she stands on her toes, her hand pressing against my shoulder blade. She’s close enough for me to feel the warmth of her body close to mine.
“I imagine you would’ve told me when I asked if you had any food sensitivities on the drive over here. If my memory is correct, you said as long as snails, squid and sea urchin weren’t on the menu, you’d probably be fine.”
“You’ve only listed a few of the S foods. I have more.”
“Yes, I know—turnips remind you of feet.” I bump her out of my way with my hip.
“You remember me saying that?” Her eyes widen with surprise. “That was over a month ago.”
“You made an impression.” I steal a kiss. “How could I forget your love of iceberg and the Bible quote?”
“I like what I like.”
“Why doesn’t it surprise me that you’re a picky eater ?” I reply dryly. “I have a feeling you like what you know.”
“Also true.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“You might like a lot more things if you’re open to trying them.”
Her nose wrinkles as she scrunches up her face in disgust. “If you’re making sea urchin and snails, I can tell you right now, I’m only going to eat bread.”
To placate her, I lift the lid from the cast iron Dutch oven. “Give it a sniff.”
She leans closer and inhales deeply. “Smells like chicken soup.”
I don’t miss the slight flatness in her voice. “Chicken and dumplins to be accurate. Disappointed?”
Stepping to my left, she leans a hip against the counter next to the cook top. “A little.”
“What if I told you it was squirrel?” I bite the inside of my cheek and focus on stirring the stew.
“It isn’t!” She jumps away. “You wouldn’t!”
“Your face.” The laugh I’ve been suppressing breaks free. “Calm down. It’s chicken.”
“Promise?” Genuine worry creases her forehead.
“I’ll swear on something, if you’d like. My life? If I had a Bible, we could use it.”
“No, no. No need for anything so drastic.” She holds up her hands.
“You should try squirrel sometime, though. It’s especially delicious in Brunswick stew.”
She fake-gags. “I’ll pass.”
“You might like it. Tony Beard was a fan.”
“Then Tony and his beard can have my share.”
“Do you know who he was?”
“A fan of eating rodents?”
“And snails. Beyond those two dishes, he was one of the greatest chefs in the world.”
She observes me as if seeing something new.
“What?” The familiar heat of discomfort crawls up my neck.
With a shake of her head, she dismisses my question. “Nothing. I’ve never heard of him.”
“Tony was one of the chefs I admired most when I was working my way up in restaurant kitchens.”
“You haven’t always been a farmer?”
“No. This is fairly new.” I remove the quick dough from the fridge where it’s been resting. “Want to help make the dumplins?”
“Say it again.”
Confused, I repeat the question. “Want to help make the dumplins?”
“I love your accent.” She sighs, her eyes all dreamy like I’m her favorite boy band member.
“Okay.” I never know what to say when someone tells me that. Half the time it’s a backhanded compliment, but coming from Daphne, I think it’s genuine.
I set the bowl on the counter and peel away the flour sack towel I covered it with. “Have you ever made dumplins, darlin?”
“Now you’re using your voice as a weapon. Completely unfair.”
I laugh at her pouting. “I thought you loved it.”
“I do, but it distracts me. If you want me to help, you need to cool it with the drawls.” Her exaggerated glare only makes me laugh harder.
“Okay. Here’s what you need to do.” I hand her a spoon. “Scoop some up and drop it in the pot. Think you can manage that?”