Chapter 3 #2
devastating sight and placed a palm to her chest.
“Astute observation.” Finn glanced over his shoulder as he cleared a space on a makeshift worktable. “The pink roses don’t quite fit the English pub aesthetic I’m going for.”
“Some people appreciate tradition and history,” Daphne said pointedly, stepping closer to the scarred wall.
“Some people appreciate not having their restaurant look like it was decorated by a twelve-year-old girl’s diary,” Finn countered,
his smile slightly softening the barb. “Though I suspect you were that twelve-year-old girl, which explains the attachment.”
Daphne bristled. “That wallpaper survived three businesses, two renovations, and one particularly enthusiastic church youth
group’s attempt at painting murals. It’s practically a Wisteria landmark.” Daphne reached out to touch one of the intact roses.
“Mrs. Duncan chose it because the very first business in this building in the early 1900s was a florist shop. The roses were
a tribute.”
Finn studied her for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes. “And that matters to you? The history of it? It’s just
worn, peeling wallpaper.”
“To you, maybe.” Daphne turned to face him. “But to some, it’s . . . continuity. Something to hold on to when everything else
changes.”
A shadow crossed Finn’s face, so brief she almost missed it. “Not everything that changes is bad, you know. Sometimes the
past needs to stay in the past.”
There was something in his tone—a weight to his words that seemed to carry meaning beyond wallpaper. But before Daphne could
puzzle it out, he waved toward the room, smile returning to his lips but not his eyes. “After all, I’m hoping this change
for me will be a good one.”
She studied him for a breath longer. Had something happened to send him running from England to small-town North Carolina?
A scandal? A heartbreak?
Perhaps Jack was right all the more. Just like so many others who’d moved to their town from various places around the country, or world, Finn . . . What’s-His-Name needed Wisteria.
Her ire bent a little beneath this revelation. “Well, you’ve picked a wonderful place for a change.”
He shrugged. “That’s what Harry says.”
“And Harry’s right.” Daphne pulled her gaze from his and stepped to the tray, quickly removing the items and laying out a
cloth napkin, the scones, and the thermos of tea.
She sighed and raised the thermos like a peace offering. “I brought some of my own special tea blend called Midnight Muse,
if you’d like to try some.”
Finn glanced at the thermos with a look that could only be described as mild suspicion. “You’re own blend, is it?” His expression
soured slightly. “I appreciate the gesture, but I’m afraid I don’t drink tea.”
Daphne froze, the teacup poised midair on its way to the thermos. Did she hear him correctly? No, of course not. Next he’d
tell her he enjoyed small talk and had never used the word cheeky in his life.
“You own an English pub, but you don’t drink tea.” She didn’t phrase it as a question, because clearly, she had misheard.
“I own a pub that serves beer, ale, fizzy drinks, and hearty food. Tea doesn’t factor into the equation.” He had the audacity
to look amused at her shock, as though he hadn’t just committed the equivalent of cultural treason.
She reeled. This was like finding out a chocolatier was allergic to cocoa. Or that a Frenchman refused to eat bread. Or—a
shiver of horror—that a Southerner preferred unsweet tea.
And the fact that she’d packed her best china teacups now seemed ridiculously optimistic . . . and absurd. What sort of tragic,
tea-related accident had turned a Brit against his own national beverage?
“Isn’t that like running a pizzeria and hating cheese?” She clutched the teacup a little tighter, protecting it from such
heresy.
“I’d argue tea is optional.” Finn’s brow quirked. “Cheese is fundamental.”
“But . . . you’re English,” Daphne said, trying to make sense of this rudimentary contradiction.
“Ah, there it is. The assumption that all Brits survive on tea and crumpets.”
“Well, yes! And rain, and sarcasm, and queuing.”
Something almost fascinating lit his eyes, and Daphne might have appreciated it more if she hadn’t been so—what would Granny
have said?—flummoxed?
“I prefer coffee.” His grin broadened for a moment, the dangerous dimple giving a flicker. “Black, bitter, and strong enough
to stand a spoon in.”
A possible description of his personality, maybe?
His eyes met hers with unexpected intensity that made her stomach do a little flip. “Not everything about me fits your stereotype,
Miss Austen. I assure you.”
Something about his tone suggested they weren’t just talking about beverages anymore.
“But—”
“Look, princess—”
“Daphne.”
“Fine, Daphne.” He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, and she absolutely did not notice how it made him look even more unfairly
attractive. “I know you mean well, but bringing tea to convert the wayward Englishman feels a bit . . . presumptuous, doesn’t
it? Like me bringing you a jar of concentrated yeast extract and expecting you to worship it because it’s ‘authentically British.’”
She actually liked the stuff! Not that she’d tell him now.
Heat crept up her neck, and she was certain she was turning the same shade of pink as the half-demolished roses on the wall.
“That’s not—I wasn’t trying to convert you.
I was being neighborly.” She began gathering up her cups and napkins, the heat that had been in her cheeks now cascading through her entire body like a flash fire.
What an idiot! That’s what she got for taking a risk, wasn’t it?
Kindness? Unappreciated.
Authenticity? Treated with sarcasm.
Dignity? Bleeding out on the metaphorical battlefield.
Why did her life always involve some sort of Wickham?
Between her own father, an ex-boyfriend (of two years), and her high school best friend, she’d borne the brunt of one-sided
relationships and faulty expectations.
Jack was wrong. Some people didn’t appreciate kindness.
She stuffed the rosette cloth napkins back into her basket with more force than necessary.
“Wait, Daphne.” Finn reached out to stop her frantic packing. He said her name with such gentle . . . Englishness, her feet
froze in their retreat.
His hand brushed hers, and she tried to ignore the little spark that jumped between them. Probably just static electricity
from all that synthetic wallpaper, or maybe it was her humiliation at the fact that taking such a chance just made her look
like an idiot. “I was being a git. Again.” He released a sigh and caught her gaze. “It was incredibly kind of you to bring
breakfast. I’m just . . . not much of a morning person.”
“Or a tea person,” Daphne muttered.
“Or a tea person,” he agreed with a hint of that smile. “But I am a scone person. And these”—he picked up a half of one, examining it with genuine interest, his fingers tracing
the golden-brown crust with something approaching reverence—“look amazing.”
Why did he have to go and compliment her baking when she had such excellent momentum to dislike him? Unfair!
She attempted a glare, but between the compliment and her desire to see him appreciate something she’d made, she offered, “They’re cranberry-orange. With a hint of cardamom.”
She was such a weakling.
“Adventurous. I like that.” His eyes caught hers, and for a moment, the distance between British pub owner and American tea
shop proprietor didn’t seem so vast. Or disastrous.
That little annoying flutter she didn’t want to feel came alive in her chest again.
Bad. Awful. Nope! She needed space from him ASAP.
Just as soon as he tried her scone.
The crook of his smile deepened—that smirk she was half convinced he practiced in the mirror—as he took a generous bite. His
eyes closed, a low sound of appreciation humming in his throat. And just like that, Daphne found herself staring, with truly
mortifying focus, at his lips.
The same lips that had, not too long ago, insulted her beloved tea shop with devastating precision. Those very same lips were
now wrapped around her scone, experiencing, what appeared to be, unmitigated joy.
Her pulse ratcheted right up into a fevered pitch.
A true battle between liking him and loathing him took up residence in her chest. Which proved even more that she needed to
keep her distance.
“These are actually fantastic,” he admitted, something warm flickering in his eyes. “You’re wasted on tea, Austen. You should
open a bakery instead.”
She shook her head from the allure of his appreciation and continued packing up her things. “If you took five minutes to actually
learn about my ‘princess tea shop,’ you’d realize I bake and serve tea. They go together.”
With a tug, she picked up her tray and took a few steps toward the door. Even if he liked her scones, she needed to steer clear of his smoldering glances and mesmerizing accent that made even insults sound like poetry.
He wasn’t nice.
And he wasn’t safe.
At all.
The flirt vibes practically screamed warning.
And his attitude practically promised heartache.
“So you claim.” He picked up the other half of the scone, then hesitated, a sudden vulnerability replacing his ridiculous
swagger. He gestured back toward the kitchen. “I could make coffee. As a counteroffering. You bring tea, I subject you to
proper coffee?” The invitation hung in the air between them.
“Subject me?”
“Proper coffee is an acquired taste, princess,” he said, the nickname softened by the smile playing at the corners of his
mouth. “Especially for someone who probably drinks . . .” He peered at her thermos suspiciously, like it might contain some
mystical potion. “What did you call it? Midnight Moose?”
“Muse,” she corrected and took another step back toward the door.
Something in her heart hurt. A disappointment, maybe? That she’d hoped for something better and had been sadly wrong. That