Chapter 3 #3
the scenario in her head about offering a welcome had ended in her feeling off-balance and maybe a little ridiculous. Why
did chivalry have to be dead? Or relegated to fiction? “It’s a specialty blend with notes of bergamot, vanilla, and star anise.”
Finn grimaced. “You’ve just listed three flavors that have no business being in a beverage. Next you’ll tell me you put pumpkin
spice in your porridge.”
Did he have to criticize everything? All right, no more Miss Nice Southern Girl. “Says the man who drinks coffee that could
likely double as motor oil,” Daphne retorted, a scathing warmth creeping into her voice despite her best efforts.
“Touché.” Finn leaned against the worktable, and the motion caused his T-shirt to ride up slightly, revealing a glimpse of toned abdomen that Daphne absolutely did not notice. Not at all.
“Well,” she announced, wrenching her focus to the door. “I have a tea shop to run. One that caters to more than just ‘gray-haired
ladies and smells of potpourri,’ despite what some people might think.”
Finn winced, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “About that . . . I may have been a bit harsh during our
first meeting.” The admission seemed to cost him something.
“May have been?” Daphne arched an eyebrow as a very unhumorous burst of air emerged. It wasn’t quite a laugh—more the sound
of disbelief crystallized into sound.
“Was. Definitely was.” He had the grace to look sheepish, his eyes meeting hers with unexpected sincerity. Those warm milky-brown
depths a treacherous pairing with a coffee snob.
“You’re not really improving upon a second one,” she said, smile tight.
“Look, I’ve been under a lot of pressure with this move, and—”
“And taking it out on me and my tea shop seemed like the logical response? Mature even?” She took a few more steps back toward
the door. “What next? Kicking puppies because your contractor is late?”
“I draw the line at puppies.” His lips quirked. “Contractors, on the other hand . . .”
“I’m sure they’re thrilled to work with you.”
“I’m trying to apologize here.” The English lilt of frustration in his voice made everything worse. Because why did the English
have to sound so good even when they were being difficult? Even when they played villains!
“Are you? Because it sounds more like you’re making excuses. Besides, I’ve imposed enough on your wallpaper demolition.” Daphne made it to the door, but it was closed, and her arms were too full to make a quick escape. She fumbled with the knob, dignity crumbling by the second.
“Allow me.” Finn reached past her, his arm brushing against her shoulder as he moved to open the door, enveloping her in a
scent that was part smoked vanilla, part . . . cedar? But all uniquely him.
She held her breath.
She was never listening to Jack again.
“I can manage,” she insisted, stepping back and nearly colliding with his chest. They performed an awkward dance of almost-contact,
like magnets simultaneously attracting and repelling.
“Now you’re just being dramatic.” Finn sighed, reaching for her arm as she turned to leave. His fingers were warm against
her skin, sending an unwelcome jolt through her body. Did he feel it too? That current that seemed to jump between them at
the slightest touch.
Ridiculous, Daphne. Another utterly ridiculous thought to add to the growing mental quagmire.
“Surprisingly, I’m sure, not everything about me fits your stereotype, Mr. . . .”
“Dashwood.” His gaze searched hers, his hand on the doorknob, arm blocking her escape. “Finn Dashwood.”
Gee whiz, did he have to have an Austen character-esque last name too? The universe was clearly having a good laugh at her
expense. Next thing she knew, he’d mention having a sister named Marianne.
His entire expression softened and he released a deep breath, gesturing toward the bar. “Stay, have coffee. I promise not
to insult your tea shop again . . . for at least fifteen minutes.” He gestured back toward the shop with his chin. “I’ll even
time myself.”
Daphne pulled away, hating the lingering warmth where his hand had been. “Tempting, but I’ll pass.”
“Even if I sweeten the deal with tales of the haunted pub I ran in Yorkshire?” His eyes danced with mischief. “Complete with
mysterious footsteps, moving objects, and one very disgruntled Victorian barmaid?”
Her lips twitched just a little. “Ghost stories over morning coffee? How charmingly macabre.”
She nearly blinked at her own comeback. Clever. Sarcastic. She usually saved such little treasures for her brother or Pastor
Nate. Sometimes Rosemary.
One of his dark brows jutted northward, matching the corner of his mouth. “I find it pairs well with scones.” He leaned against
the doorframe, all casual grace and surprising vulnerability. “Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot—”
“Both feet, really,” Daphne interjected. “Yours.”
The other corner of his mouth peaked a little, his gaze holding hers. “Fair enough. All appendages. But I’d like to . . .
not be enemies.” He ran his hand through his hair again, a gesture she was beginning to recognize as a nervous habit. “Neighboring
businesses and all that.”
Ah, right. Not nice to be nice. Just nice to make his life easier.
Yeah, she got it.
She stepped over the threshold of the door but paused to turn back for one final look. Finn was watching her with an expression
she couldn’t quite decipher. All the compassion she didn’t want to feel started wrestling with her ire, but she gave it a
hefty shove.
“A bit of advice, Mr. Dashwood—most people around here want to see you succeed. They’re usually nice, maybe too nice, but
you’d find a lot more friends and future patrons if you showed a little . . . welcome too.” She glanced at the half-demolished
wallpaper, pink roses fading into oblivion. “And maybe consider that sometimes a little pink isn’t the worst thing in the
world.”
“Is that an invitation to visit your princess tea shop, Austen?” The corner of his mouth lifted in that infuriatingly attractive
half smile, the one that suggested he knew exactly how it affected women. Including, irritatingly, her.
But at the moment, her disappointment dimmed the attraction.
“It’s a suggestion to be less of a judgmental jerk,” she shot back, but there was less heat in her words than she’d intended. Like a cup of tea left too long, her anger had cooled, leaving something more complex behind.
“Noted.” He raised the half-eaten scone in a mock toast. “And for what it’s worth, these really are exceptional. You’ve set
a high bar for my counteroffering.”
“Your counteroffering?”
“Mm-hmm. For every specialty tea blend you subject me to, I’ll introduce you to a proper coffee.” His eyes held a challenge.
“Cultural exchange. Very diplomatic.”
Daphne found herself almost smiling despite everything. “I look forward to being thoroughly disappointed by your motor oil.”
“Challenge accepted.” His eyes lit with something dangerous—something that felt like the beginning of a game she hadn’t agreed
to or had any interest in playing. Yet something in her rose to meet that challenge.
Daphne closed the door behind her and slipped into Tea Thyme, its familiar facade extra comforting. Inside, she set the tray
on the counter and drew in a deep breath as she dropped to the stool. The shop was still empty, not yet open for the day’s
customers, and the silence broken only by the gentle tick of the antique clock Granny had insisted created “proper tea ambience.”
“Well, Granny,” she said to the empty room. “I tried being neighborly.”
But some people weren’t the sort to win over.
Selfish, shallow, and probably unreliable.
Just like her dad.
And as much as she loved history, she had no intention of repeating that pattern.