Chapter 1 #2
like Him to create some wonderful compensation of cosmic proportions, right?
The man crossed his arms, muscles flexing under the thin fabric of his navy T-shirt. His amused expression grew downright
wicked as the seconds ticked by. He was fully aware of the effect he was having on her.
Heat blazed a fresh trail into her face.
Well, she could pull herself together like the twenty-five-year-old woman she was. Daphne snapped her lips into a tight smile.
“Um . . . I was only admiring.”
One of his brows slanted upward, along with a corner of his burgeoning grin. “Clearly.”
“The car,” she added, stabbing a finger at the Cabriolet. Although, let’s be honest—he was just as distracting as the car.
And his voice? Pure mocha . . . with a drizzle of something sinful.
He smiled—no, smirked—and the deep dimple in one of his cheeks should have come with a warning label.
Maybe God had sent her more than she could bear, because now her cheeks were dangerously close to sizzling.
“My car,” he corrected.
Her throat released a sound that she really hoped wasn’t a squeak. “Y-your car?” This was officially the most elaborate prank
in small-town history.
And then it hit her—that accent.
English.
“Are you certain that’s the only thing you were admiring?” His eyes glimmered, his accent like velvet, and Daphne’s brain
flatlined.
Clearly, the starstruck look on her face answered his question more than her fumbling tongue ever could.
Oh, whoever set this up was going to pay dearly.
No more free scones for them!
Then again, if this man proposed in the next five minutes and handed her the keys to his car, she’d name her firstborn after
the prankster in thanks.
“I . . . I was admiring your car and your . . .” Her traitorous gaze flicked down his body and back up, getting caught in
those dangerously interesting eyes again. Warmth scorched her cheeks, but she powered through the kettle-steam embarrassment.
“Accent,” she blurted.
His smile deepened. So did the dimple.
Unfair. All of it!
“My accent.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge.
And proved he’d witnessed every inch of her not-so-subtle inspection.
There would come a day when she’d respond like a grown-up around handsome men. This was not that day.
“It’s very English,” she said, her mind offering a slow clap for that brilliant deduction. “Otherwise, I would’ve given you
a proper small-town welcome.”
“Slack-jawed and pawing my car is not the usual greeting here, then?” His lips twitched.
Her eyes watered from the swelter in her face. She smoothed her blazer with her palms and stood straighter, determined to
salvage a shred of dignity. She was Southern and somewhat intelligent. She could handle this. Just don’t stare too deeply
into his eyes. “How are you enjoying your visit?” Good. Progress. Sensical question.
“Visit?” He chuckled softly. Of course his laugh was sexy. “I’m moving here.”
Her heart stopped for the second time in three minutes. “M-moving?”
He gestured toward the vacant building beside hers, the For Sale sign still crooked in the window. “Actually, I’ve purchased the entire building. Plan to open a restaurant.”
The lump in Daphne’s throat lodged a little tighter. Harry Coleman had been in and out of the building for weeks, so she’d
just supposed he’d purchased it as an additional business for the Wisteria Manor.
But this guy was certainly not Harry.
Her gaze shot to the windows of her little apartment above Tea Thyme and her brain flatlined yet again, this time for a full
five seconds. This had to be a prank. “Purchased it?” Or an out-of-body experience. “As in . . . forever?”
For a former English major, she was having surprising difficulty finding coherent words to respond. This magnificent specimen
of English masculinity was going to live and work next door to her?
“Well, I’ll give it a trial run of six months before I answer that question.” His voice dipped lower, almost a purr. “You
know, see how the neighbors turn out.”
Oh for the love of biscuits. Was he flirting? No, surely not. This kind of man didn’t flirt with the likes of her.
Argh. She was a mess. And she tried so hard never to be a mess.
But, in her defense, her recent experience with romance consisted of two-dimensional costume dramas, a romantic movie collection
large enough to start up her own Netflix channel, and a well-worn edition of Jane Austen’s works, which left her poorly equipped
for three-dimensional swooniness with a heart-melting grin to boot. Not to mention whatever leathery citrus scent wafted off
the man.
Her knees gave a little quake in homage.
She desperately needed more practice with real-life attraction, because practicing in her head was nothing like this.
Harry had mentioned in passing someone opening up a new restaurant in town, but he’d left out dazzling details like handsome,
British, Cabriolet owner, next-door neighbor, and—her attention dropped to his left hand—possibly single?
The glint in his golden eyes lit her face with another flicker of responsive fire. He oozed charm from the top of his dark head to the soles of his . . . Well, her somewhat dazed perusal of his glorious person hadn’t made it to his feet yet, but his shoes were probably adorable too.
She forced a steady breath. “What kind of restaurant?”
“English cuisine.” His gaze held hers again and she looked away for sanity’s sake. “Do you fancy fish and chips?”
“Fancy?” Her attention shot back to his face. Did Queen Elizabeth II have excellent posture? “Of course. Is that what you
do? Make fish and chips?”
Ah yes. Eloquence, thy name is Daphne.
“Hopefully more than that.” He chuckled again, the sound sending a residual tingle trembling through her at Richter-scale
proportions.
Seizure by accent . . . or English chuckle. Was that even possible?
“Though I’m not sure how it’ll do next to a princess tea shop.” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder toward Tea Thyme. “Might
be a little too much potpourri in the air for the crowd I’m hoping to draw in.”
Every hyperventilating scene from her romantic future came to a screeching halt in her head. She examined her adorable storefront
with its pink door and picturesque awning, along with a window display featuring her grandmother’s favorite tea set. Her brilliant
daydream turned monochrome and her stomach collapsed as if someone had just questioned the romantic validity of Pride and Prejudice. “Tea Thyme?”
“Clearly there’s a great deal of sentimentality in that one.” He shook his head. “I suppose the gray-haired ladies who come
for tea will be put off by the crowd I draw. Not exactly your mum’s sort of company, if you know what I mean?”
All heat drained from her face and rushed back with enough force to boil water.
“That’s . . . that’s my princess tea shop.
” She jabbed a manicured finger at him. “And I’ll have you know it’s very popular with people of all ages.
Not just gray-haired ladies.” She raised her chin, though the mental tally of customers under sixty wasn’t encouraging.
His eyes widened. “Yours?”
“That’s right. It was my grandmother’s.” Her chin lifted a notch. “She was a wonderful English lady who knew how to offer
class and charm to all her guests—regardless of their sentimentality.”
She focused her attention on his raised brows. Looking him in the eyes wasn’t safe for her brain cell health.
“And perhaps”—she glared with every ounce of defense she could muster, her pink nail a fashionable weapon—“Mister Fish and
Chips, you could do with a bit of class and charm yourself.” She gestured at the car. “Cabriolet notwithstanding.”
Notwithstanding? Good grief! So that’s when the English major decided to show up.
His grin gave way to another breath-altering chuckle—a deep, rolling sound that did very bad things to her pulse.
“Well,” he said, leaning in just a fraction closer, “I guess I’ll have to drop by for a cup of tea sometime and see what all
the fuss is about . . . neighbor.”
Before she could respond—before she could even think—he winked, spun on his heel, and strolled toward the building next door,
leaving her rooted in place.
Her pulse pounded in her ears. Did he just dismiss her?
Dismiss her? After the way he’d acted?
With another glare toward his retreating—and sauntering—form, she marched back toward her precious tea shop, determined to
protect it from the likes of a neighboring Wickham. Clearly, dashing men were not to be trusted.
And she’d better remember that fast.
Finn Dashwood leaned one shoulder against the doorframe of his new building, arms crossed, eyes narrowing on the blonde in the pink suit storming into the tea shop next door. Her slim legs carried her with determined efficiency—right up until she shot him a glare sharp enough to peel paint.
The door slammed behind her.
He winced.
Not the most promising start to his transition from successful English businessman to small-town American restaurant owner.
But little Miss Tea Barbie was much too easy to fluster to let the opportunity pass. A slow chuckle rumbled in his chest at
the memory of catching her pressed up against his car, fumbling over her words and pink-faced.
And those legs.
Her long, blonde hair practically begged for a man’s fingers to tangle in it. A petite frame rounded in all the right places—even
if she hid it beneath clothes that looked like they were stolen from an uptight librarian. A very brightly colored uptight
librarian.
Not to mention that accent.
His chest gave a slight twinge.
If all the women in this town spoke in that easy drawl, he might have to fight a grin on a daily basis.
Attraction always made life interesting—a welcome flirtation—but he had zero plans to act on it. Not with anyone, and certainly not with some pink-clad tea shop owner who used words like “notwithstanding” and probably named all of her
teapots after Disney characters. He considered her for a moment and then shook his head. No, that one likely named hers after