Chapter 1 #3
Jane Austen characters.
From the decor on the outside of her shop, there was no knowing what sort of floral explosion the inside re-created. He’d never seen so much pink in his life—which was quite the statement, considering his six-year-old daughter refused to leave her room without wearing at least three shades of it.
Besides, he’d known Miss Tea Shop’s type before—romantic, wide-eyed, convinced the universe sent her signs. The kind who’d
hand him a carefully curated playlist of “songs that remind me of us” by date two and expect a proposal by date six. Then,
when life got hard or the knight fell off the horse or something better came along . . . he’d be the one to suffer.
Him and his sweet girl.
However—he stifled a groan—he could at least remain polite.
He sighed, already planning his apology. He’d smooth things over later with an easy smile and a box of chocolates. Maybe flowers.
Unless she was the grudge-holding type.
He frowned. Judging by the door slam, though . . .
Finn shook his head and stepped into the restaurant, surveying his new kingdom. It was still rather empty, except for what
Harry had set up for him over the last few weeks—a few tables and chairs, a kitchen in decent shape, and a wall of dark wood
trim that suited his plans well. The ghastly blue paint and floral wallpaper, however, had to go. This was meant to be a pub,
not a nursery.
At least part of the paper had already been removed, so it was left to Finn to finish before opening in a week. A feat that
never would have happened without some long phone calls and careful intervention by Harry, who could get everything in order
while Finn moved himself and Lucy across the ocean.
For a fresh start.
No more partners with sticky fingers and roving eyes. No more covering other people’s shifts while Lucy went to bed with a
babysitter tucking her in.
“Daddy!”
Lucy’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.
She sat at one of the empty tables with a rainbow of markers spread around her like treasure, her dark braids bouncing as she waved a piece of paper in the air.
He’d left her there, drawing to her heart’s content, when he’d gone out to check the car for their overnight bags.
Which he’d forgotten in his conversation with . . . their neighbor.
“Daddy, I made you a special picture!” She greeted him with that toothless, barely crooked grin on full display.
His heart gave the familiar twist it always did at the sound of her voice. Her s sounds slurred slightly thanks to her repaired cleft lip and palate, but after two years of speech therapy, they’d improved
dramatically, along with several of her other sounds. One more surgery—a quick one this time—would help close the tiny fistula
in the roof of her mouth and improve her clarity even more.
His little warrior.
The slight scars, barely noticeable above her lip and tracing to the bottom of her button nose, made her upper lip a little
crooked—and all the more adorable.
“Daddy!” She held up the paper proudly. “It’s for your new restaurant!”
“Is it?” He swooped her up, settling her on his lap as he examined the colorful artwork. For a six-year-old, it wasn’t bad
at all. He tilted his head. “Is that you?”
The plaits were his only clue. That and the pink dress. She always insisted on pink. Finn inwardly winced at the memory of
Miss Tea Shop.
“Mm-hmm.” She tapped the taller stick figure. “Dat’s you wif your fish slice turning burgers.” Her little finger traced the
drawing until it stopped near the door of a building on the page where a tiny creature—perhaps a dog?—waited. “And right der,
dat’s our puppy!”
His lips twitched, trying not to smile. Clever. Very clever. “I didn’t know we had a puppy.”
Her wide green eyes—a perfect match to her mother’s—sparkled. “Oh, but we will have a puppy, Daddy.”
The way she said “Daddy” always warmed his heart and often got him agreeing to things he shouldn’t. “Will we?”
“You said so! Since I had to leave all my friends.” Her bottom lip quivered, the most dangerous weapon in her six-year-old
arsenal.
Finn exhaled. He’d always liked dogs.
“We’ll see, lamb. Let’s settle into our new apartment first.” He kissed her forehead. “Then we’ll talk about a puppy.”
“Oh yes!” She grabbed his face in her tiny hands and planted a kiss on his nose—her favorite form of affection. “And I will
name her Princess.”
“Her?” He chuckled, setting her back on the floor. “So you think we need another girl around the house?”
“I should like dat very much, Daddy.” Her eyes turned impish—a gleam that should have warned him. “A puppy and a mummy and
a sister.”
All warmth fled him. A mummy? Absolutely not. “Let’s start with the puppy.”
Adding the drama of another woman into his or his daughter’s life? Not on his list.
Especially if all they ended up doing was hurting his little family or leaving them.
Or both.
A blessed knock on the door cut off any further planning, and Finn silently thanked his rescuer. Through the frosted glass
of the front door, he made out an unfamiliar silhouette.
Harry Coleman, long-time friend of Finn’s late father and current owner of the Wisteria Manor, a historical estate-house-turned-event-center,
had warned Finn about the Southern culture when he’d encouraged Finn to start his business in this small North Carolina town.
Unexpected visitors being one.
Busybodies being another.
“Southern towns don’t do privacy. They do pies, unsolicited advice, and neighbors who invite themselves in for tea.”
And yet, Harry had still recommended Wisteria as the best place for this Englishman to start afresh?
Finn drew a breath and pulled open the door. A man, not much younger than himself, stood on the stoop with his hands in his
jeans pockets, a relaxed smile on his face. Blue eyes, wavy hair, and the kind of easy confidence that made Finn instantly
suspicious.
“You Finn Dashwood?” The man’s voice had that Southern lilt—friendly.
“Yes?” Finn narrowed his eyes, waiting for the sales pitch. He half expected the man to whip out a catalog for scented candles
or a timeshare for some coastal paradise.
“Jack Austen.” The man offered his hand. “Harry sent me down from the manor to make sure you hadn’t gotten lost.”
Jack Austen?
Where would Finn have heard that name?
Ah, the photographer?
“A helping hand,” hadn’t Harry said? Finn relaxed.
“Or been kidnapped by the local ladies’ club.”
Finn tensed all over again.
Mr. Austen shot him a grin and tipped his head back toward the way he’d come. “Because once they know you’ve arrived, well,
I can’t vouch for your safety or sanity.”
Finn allowed the good-natured teasing to uncoil the anxiety he’d acquired during the flight and drive to a town he’d only
seen online. He’d put a great deal of faith in Harry Coleman’s words. But how could he turn down the opportunity? Harry had
already gotten the restaurant nearly ready for opening, spread the word, and used his position at the manor to garner local
interest. It was the easiest step into ownership he’d ever had.
And after the disaster of his last business, a welcome redirection.
He’d make do with some local tittle-tattle.
“Sanity’s overrated from what I hear,” Finn shot back, and gestured for Jack to step inside. “Welcome.”
Jack strolled in, giving the space a slow once-over. “I’ve always thought this place deserved a more robust life than it had
as a sandwich shop.”
“One of the most well-stocked sandwich shops I’ve ever seen from the high-quality appliances in the back.” And a primary selling
feature for Finn to save money up front.
“Well, Mr. Morgan—or should I say Mrs. Morgan”—Jack waggled his brows—“had a great deal more interest in what things looked
like, not necessarily whether they were needed or not.”
“The better for me then.” Finn walked deeper into the restaurant, the front windows lined with tables, with booths in the
back and along the parallel wall. Tidy. Perfect for a small, consistent career.
“So does this place look like an English pub?”
Finn shot his gaze back to Jack Austen. Had the man never traveled to England? He shrugged. Finn supposed since the US was
such a massive landmass, natives likely didn’t need to put in the coin to travel across the pond to feel as if they were visiting
new places.
“If I can remove the rest of that bright pink rosebud wallpaper.” He gestured with his head toward the space that would become
the bar, one of the few parts of the shop still needing some renovation.
Jack shrugged a shoulder and sent Finn a knowing look. “Mrs. Morgan.”
Ah. Well, there was no telling what the apartment upstairs would look like then.
Finn studied Mr. Austen again. “I think Harry mentioned that you’re a photographer?”
“I try.” Jack shrugged. “I cover most of the weddings up at the manor but pick up a few other jobs here and there. Having grown up in this town, I’m always running into someone who needs help with something.”
“So you’re a Jack-of-all-trades, then?” Finn arched a brow.
Jack released a heavy sigh.
“Ah,” Finn said, doing nothing to hide his grin. “You’ve heard that one before.”
Jack’s mock glare came in answer. Right. He could get along with this chap.
“Are you looking for something more consistent?” Finn asked, already weighing the idea. If Harry trusted him, that was enough.
And it wouldn’t hurt to have a local on hand while he got his bearings.
Jack tilted his head. “Depends on what you’re offering.”
“Flexible schedule, steady hours, and the occasional interruption from a six-year-old art critic,” Finn said. “Ever worked
in a restaurant?”
“As a jack-of-all-trades”—Jack’s eyes lit—“how can you doubt it? I’ve worked in several restaurants and held a few management
positions.” Jack’s response came with an easy drawl. “But I’d need something with enough flexibility to work with my photography.”
Before Finn could respond, there was a soft shuffle behind him. He turned to find Lucy peeking around the corner, her wide
eyes locked on the stranger. She took a few steps closer, plaits bouncing as she moved to hug Finn’s leg.
“Well, here’s my little artist now.” Finn rested a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “Lucy, this is Mr. Austen.”
“Jack,” the man corrected with a grin, slowly crouching to her level, the movement hitched a little. “Or Mr. Jack, if your
dad insists.”
“Lucy, this is Mr. Jack.” Finn always watched people’s faces when they first met Lucy, wondering if they noticed the small scars or tiny remnants
of her healed surgeries. He supposed he shouldn’t put so much stock in that initial observation, but, as a dad, he felt as
though he knew how to move forward with a person based on their reaction.
Lucy stared at him for a beat before tipping her head to one side and offering her hand. “Hi.”
Jack shook her tiny hand like she was a CEO. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Lucy.”
Lucy giggled. All right, Austen. You’ll do.
“Harry said your movers are arriving Wednesday.” Jack rose back to his height and thumbed over his shoulder toward the door.
“I’ve asked some guys from church if they’d be on call to help, if you need some.”
“Help?” Finn blinked. “You have friends who would help me with my furniture?”
“Sure.” Jack shrugged, giving the room another glance, as if taking inventory of what they’d need to bring inside. “Unless
you’ve got some other folks already lined up.”
Finn gave his head a shake. “But you and, certainly your friends, don’t even know me.”
“You’re in Wisteria now, Dashwood.” Jack’s grin shifted with a teasing twist. “Everybody helps everybody else, whether they
want it or not.” He raised his brows. “In all sorts of small-town, country-folk kinds of ways to be . . . neighborly.”
The sentence held its weight with unvoiced meaning. Good and bad, Finn supposed, as most small towns went. His thoughts strayed
back to his “neighbor,” the tea shop woman. Neighborly didn’t quite fit his initial interaction with her. A twinge pricked
at his conscience again. Yes, he should attempt to make amends.
After all, his plans were long term. No use starting things off with a neighbor on the wrong foot, was there?
“I really don’t know how to respond to such kindness.” Finn glanced about the room to rein in his surprise. “The movers are
paid to move furniture into the apartment next week, but I do have supplies for the restaurant arriving Wednesday morning.”
“You got it.” Jack gave an easy salute and backed toward the door. “Let’s say nine? Unless we hear directly from you.”
“Y-yes.” Finn’s brain continued to digest the information. “Thank you.”
“Wisteria is a good place to call home, Dashwood. You’ll find most of the people friendly and ready to help.” He tipped his
head toward Lucy. “See you Wednesday, Lucy.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Jack.” She tightened her grip on Finn’s leg with one arm but waved with the other. Good progress.
“And, Dashwood”—Jack opened the door, stopping on the breezy threshold—“you know another thing about small towns?”
Finn pulled his mind from the memory of the pink lady. “Lower prices? Easy access?”
“Curiosity.” Jack tipped his chin toward the front window, where two older women were blatantly peering through the glass.
When they realized they’d been caught, they scurried off like guilty schoolgirls.
Finn groaned. “Fantastic.”
“You’re gonna cause quite a stir. New guy in town. British. Dad.” Jack’s grin turned devilish. “And from what Harry says . . .
single?” His blue eyes took on an added gleam. “Just wait till they start planning the welcome committee.”
Jack slid out the door before Finn had time to clarify, but the intention resounded loud and clear. Single man with adorable
daughter? In a small town? He looked over at Lucy, who hummed the Sleeping Beauty song as she happily moved back to her picture where she’d added a “mummy and baby sister.”
Finn groaned. He was in so much trouble.