Chapter 2 #2
He’d made statements like that before. Tried to bait her to ask for his suggestions or pick up where she’d left off when Granny
died. But putting herself out there had been too hard, too raw. Faking happy when her heart thrummed an aching rhythm didn’t
fit her.
Some days she’d even had a hard time posting an inspirational quote on her restaurant’s chalkboard, or turning the shop sign
to “Open.”
Granny’s absence had come out of nowhere.
Gutted Daphne. Left her unanchored. And it had taken almost a year to start finding her feet again.
She channeled some of her courage from her earlier mental coaching, took another swallow of tea, and slid around the counter
to sit next to him. His familiar scent of bergamot and citrus settled over her—he’d started stealing her Earl Grey soap last
Christmas and never stopped. She’d pretended to be annoyed, but secretly it comforted her, this small thing they shared.
And it smelled good on him. A definite perk for his romantic future, if he ever actually decided to ask someone out.
Of course she could also use the bit of knowledge as blackmail. Just imagine what the guys on his basketball team would think
of their favorite guard using tea soap!
“Start out easy on me.” She turned to face him. “How about just two ideas first? Baby steps before marathon running and all
that.”
Jack’s brows rose, and he stared at her for a minute, as if measuring her sincerity. No wonder. She’d pushed away his ideas
before. Wasn’t ready. Needed more time.
Wanted everything to remain just as Granny had left it.
Heaven knew she and Jack had experienced enough change in their lives.
He leaned back on the stool and stretched out his legs like he was settling in for a show.
His grin grew slow and victorious—the exact look he’d worn when he convinced her to bake a cake from instinct instead of blind obedience to the recipe.
It had been her first attempt at baking recklessly. She’d nearly broken out in hives.
Jack always seemed to know what she needed to do before she did.
Kind of like Granny.
“Well, first things first—you need to get on social media again.” He waved a hand toward the shop. “Let folks who are driving
through western North Carolina know there’s this charming, little, history-steeped tearoom just waiting to give them a sugar
coma doused in Englishness.”
Daphne snorted. “Very funny and . . . eloquent.” She lobbed a dishcloth at him, but he caught it one-handed and twirled it
like some kind of victorious battle flag.
“I’m serious. You used to have an excellent online presence and a faithful following.”
“Did I?” But even as she asked, she remembered the fun culinary conversations and beautiful aesthetics. The cooking recs and
ambience creators.
The community.
“Of course you did.” He waved a hand toward her. “English lovers, tea drinkers, history buffs, classy vacationers looking
for a slice of Austen in the Blue Ridge.” His gaze flicked back to her, warming. “And you need to show off that humor of yours
instead of keeping it locked away like a family secret recipe.”
“I do not!”
“You do!” He chuckled, but then his expression softened. “Or, at least, you have been for a while.”
Her stomach clenched. She focused on adding sugar and milk to her cup . . . and clearly avoiding her brother’s knowing look.
“Daph, you can be really funny when you’re not worrying about everything.”
“What do you mean ‘when I’m not worrying about everything’? I have a lot to worry about.” Like paying the bills, keeping up with repairs, holding on to memories so they don’t disappear—the usual.
“Exactly my point.” Jack shrugged, all nonchalance and infuriating wisdom. “You overthink too much. People love personality,
and yours is golden when you let it shine instead of hiding it under a mountain of unnecessary anxiety.” He tapped a finger
against the counter. “Remember when you narrated that entire tea party in the voice of David Attenborough, and Mrs. Belton
laughed so hard she snorted Earl Grey out her nose?”
Daphne’s cheeks heated. “That was a onetime performance.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” Jack grinned. “Think about it: ‘Tea shop owner provides wildlife commentary on customers in their
natural habitat.’” He gestured expansively, as if he could already see the headline. “You could go viral. Old-fashioned has
its place, but changing a few things isn’t bad either.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, stirring her tea with perhaps more force than necessary. “I prefer the term classic.”
“Right.” His tone was far too agreeable. “Classic, like the Pony Express. But even they had to modernize.”
She bit into a gingersnap and chewed with renewed vigor, begrudgingly acknowledging his annoying rightness. In all her research,
this theme kept resounding in the “grow your business” category. Social media. Visibility.
Sure. She was an old soul. Loved vintage and timeless. But maybe she’d dug her heels a little too deeply into her grief, and
those habits kept her afraid.
“And what about the weeklong social media conversation you had with a group of Austen lovers who, by the end of the nauseatingly
flowery commenting section, basically invited you to come spend the summer with them in their cottage by the sea?”
“They were just being nice.” But, oh, what a lovely exchange it had been about scones, Mr. Knightley, and words that should be restored to the English language.
“Maybe, but you were also being charming.” Jack shrugged. “You had a way of making people want to engage with you. It’s a
gift.” His smile softened. “I just end up being awkward.”
She snorted and then leaned back on the stool, drawing in a breath before returning her gaze to him. “And the second idea?”
She raised a finger in warning. “And it’d better not involve me dancing.”
“Well, this one will probably help with the whole humor thing too.” His expression gentled. “Start dreaming again.”
She stiffened.
“You’ve been so stuck on keeping things the same for Granny because it was her shop, but you’re not growing it. And all those
drink and food ideas you’ve been ‘waiting’ to try? I think you should give them a go.”
Daphne’s stomach twisted. It was like he’d peeked into her brain ten minutes ago and decided to narrate the contents out loud.
“But Granny’s menu has been the same since—”
“It’s not Granny’s tea shop anymore, Daph,” Jack said, cutting her off gently and reaching for her fidgeting hand. His fingers
curled around hers. “It’s yours.”
Him saying it out loud stole her breath.
“And she’d love for you to make it yours. You can keep what you love best about her in it—because she’ll always be part of it—but you’ll love this place more
if you bring it to life with your special brand of . . . you.”
Daphne swallowed hard, unable to break his gaze. She opened her mouth to argue—to ask what exactly made her her—when his attention suddenly shifted. His eyes narrowed, landing on something on the counter.
“What’s that?”
Her pulse skittered.
He was pointing at the unlabeled tin she’d absently set down while making his Irish Breakfast.
Every tin in the shop was labeled. Except that one. And it was new. Last night kind of new.
She scrambled for a distraction.
Jack leaned in, eyeing her with a slow, knowing smirk. “Don’t tell me Daphne Austen is breaking tradition and trying something
new again in this shop!”
Heat rushed to Daphne’s cheeks as she rounded the counter and casually slid the tin out of sight. “Just . . . just experimenting.”
“Experimenting?” Jack’s eyebrows shot up with exaggerated surprise. “The same person who refused to change the Christmas decorations
last year because ‘Granny always put the garland exactly three inches from the ceiling’?”
“Very funny.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s just a tea blend. Something I’ve been . . . working on. At night. When I can’t sleep.”
When the shop was quiet and memories of Granny hit particularly hard.
“Like some of those recipes you concocted in the wee hours after Granny died?”
The tenderness in his teasing, the way he understood those moments—and had, in fact, joined her in a few—stung her eyes a
little. “Yeah, kind of. I mean . . .” She shrugged, even as her throat tightened around the words. “Like you said . . . Don’t
you think it’s about time?”
Jack shifted closer, resting his elbows on the counter. “Can I try it?”
It was one thing to allow a few of the regulars a taste. Most of them were the sweetest ladies on the planet and never found
fault with Daphne (or Granny) in any way. But Jack? Jack knew her better than anyone.
And he’d speak the truth.
She hesitated, her fingers curling around the tin protectively. Maybe she’d lost her creative touch after so long. “I’m not sure I’m ready for you to try it. I mean . . . I think it needs . . . something.” Like courage.
“Let me be the judge of that.” His gentle urging nudged her bravery up a few notches.
And she wanted the truth.
Wanted to be brave.
The old Daphne was practically wrestling to get out.
She loosened her grip on the tin.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Jack waggled his brows. “I hate it, and you never make me tea again? Actually, that
might save me from your experimental phase where you nearly poisoned me with that seaweed concoction.”
“That was matcha, and it’s very healthy,” she shot back, laughing. The tension in her chest eased just a fraction. Giving
herself permission to . . . dream, like Jack said? Maybe that wasn’t so scary.
“Okay, but don’t just gulp it down. Actually taste it.”
She prepared the tea with careful precision, measuring the loose leaves, monitoring the water temperature, and timing the
steep with the ancient kitchen timer Granny had used for decades. The familiar ritual calmed her nerves as Jack watched—and
pilfered two more gingersnaps from the jar.
“What do you call it?” he asked as she poured the amber liquid into his cup. The aroma bloomed in the space between them—bergamot