Page 51 of Four Steps to the Perfect Fake Date

He once again failed to respond, choosing instead to bat her arms away so he could wrap his hands around her ankle. The heat of his skin on hers was a shock. Daphne’s teeth clicked as she clamped her lips shut, the whole of her attention focused on the feel of Flint’s rough, calloused hands gently stroking every inch of her ankle, foot, and calf.

“Is Dorothea okay?” Daphne asked to distract herself from the onslaught, watching the older woman lower herself into an armchair.

Flint glanced over his shoulder, his hands still on Daphne’s skin. “She says she’s fine. I want to get some ice on her jaw. I should’ve been more careful.”

Ceecee slithered under the sideboard and came out holding dust bunny–covered dentures. She glanced at the two of them. “Grandmasaid she’s perfectly fine, but she wants a stiff drink and she’s not doing the stupid dance, and if Mom doesn’t like it, she can stick these dentures where the sun don’t shine.” Ceecee leaned toward them and lowered her voice. “She means her butt.”

“She sounds like a wise woman,” Daphne replied. “I might have to bow out myself.”

Ceecee shot her a grin, then sprinted across the room to present her grandmother with the soiled dentures. Daphne’s attention returned to the sheriff, who seemed wholly consumed with the state of her ankle.

“Can you move your foot?” A strand of hair fell over his forehead as he bent over her limb.

A spark lit between Daphne’s legs as the sheriff’s thumbs stroked down the front of her ankle, his other fingers curving around the arch of her foot. This was too much. Too intimate. Not intimate enough.

Whatever was happening between them was getting out of hand. Daphne needed to get away from him as soon as humanly possible. She tried to move her foot out of his hold and hissed as pain shot up the outside of her ankle. “It’s sore.”

“Let’s get some ice on it,” Flint said. He helped her to her feet, then slung one of Daphne’s arms around his broad shoulders and held her waist like he’d never let go. “Hop if you can. It might hurt to put some weight on it.” He guided her out of the chaotic living room and into the kitchen around the corner.

After sitting down at the built-in banquette seat in the breakfast nook, Daphne watched him open the freezer and hunt through the cupboards and drawers until he found a plastic bag. When he opened the corner cabinet, she spied pots and pans. One of them was the rough black of cast iron.

Her pulse quickened. Was itthepot?

“I’ll run this out to Dorothea and then come back for your ankle,” he said, lifting the bag of ice.

“Sure,” Daphne said, eyes tracking him as he left the room. The kitchen door swung closed behind him, and Daphne was up in a flash.She leaned on the counters and hobbled to the corner cabinet. She wrenched it open and fumbled with her phone. She snapped a couple of pictures, then closed the cabinet and hurried back to her seat just in time for Flint to push the kitchen door open again.

He glanced at where she was sitting as if to make sure she hadn’t moved, then made her a bag of ice.

Daphne glanced at the pictures and grimaced when she noticed the camera had focused on a stainless steel pot in the foreground instead of the black cast-iron Dutch oven in the back. The pot in question was out of focus, the details of its lid blurry. Too late to get another photo, so she sent that one to her grandmother, gaze flicking to Flint’s broad back as she waited for a response. When he turned around, a fresh bag of ice clasped in his upturned hand, Daphne’s phone vibrated.

Could be, but it’s blurry, Grandma Mabel texted. Three dots appeared below her message, and Daphne knew a slew of messages was incoming.

Heart thundering, Daphne flicked her phone to silent and turned it face down on the table. A chair screeched across the floor as Flint dragged it closer. He sat down as he wrapped a dish towel around the bag of ice, then scowled at her ankle for a minute.

It was kind of cute that he cared. Although Daphne wasn’t sure he cared aboutherspecifically. He probably just felt guilty that it was his fault that Dorothea had gotten smacked and, by extension, his fault that Daphne had been hurt. He blamed himself for her getting punched too, which was ridiculous.

She realized with a start that he wasn’t the same person she’d known in high school. The man picking her foot up and gently placing a bag of ice over her injury wasn’t bitter and rebellious. He wasn’t intent on destroying himself and everyone around him. He might actually be a good man. The type of person who cared about other people’s well-being, who cared about doing the right thing.

Why else would he have accepted the job as acting sheriff? From what Daphne had seen, it wasn’t because he loved being back on Fernley.

“Why’d you come back to the island?” she heard herself ask.

The man currently tending to her injuries with surprising gentleness looked up and shrugged. “Wanted to make sure Ceecee wasn’t having the same childhood I had.”

Daphne sat back and let the words sink in.

No, he wasn’t the same boy she’d known nearly twenty years ago. He was much, much better.

Suddenly, guilt churned in the pit of Daphne’s stomach. She’d been lying to him about the reason she’d agreed to be his date. He didn’t deserve that—but what choice did she have? It was either get her grandmother’s pot back, or admit that Pete had been right about her all along. She was a boring, predictable woman who lacked passion and spontaneity. The best thing for her to do was find another steady job and crawl back into the shell that had been her safe haven her whole life.

But the thought of doing that made her want to cry.

“Painful?” Flint asked, gaze flicking between her eyes.

Daphne shook her head. “Just feeling sorry for myself.”

His hand slid over her foot, thumb stroking her arch. “This is my fault,” he said. “We should just forget about this whole thing. I’ll tell my mother you can’t make it to the vow renewal.”

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