Chapter 4
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OPENING SOON: The Green Dragon Pub!
Wisteria, you’ve been far too long without a proper English pub, and I’m here to fix that. The Green Dragon opens one week
from today. Classic British comfort food, a stellar pint selection, and just enough charm to make you feel like you’ve stepped
into a cozy pub across the pond.
And because I’m trying to be a good sport about this whole living in the South thing . . . sigh . . . I suppose I’ll be serving
sweet tea. But only because I hear it helps make friends.
So come grab a drink, a bite, or even a ridiculously sugary tea, and let’s make The Green Dragon your new favorite spot. Opening in 1 week! Cheers! #TheGreenDragonWisteria #BritishPubMeetsSouthernCharm #PubGrub
Finn couldn’t shake the gnawing discomfort from his morning meeting with Daphne Austen.
He’d expected some hurdles in getting his restaurant up and running—permits, inspections, the occasional misplaced shipment.
Most things Harry had already put into motion so Finn could open the restaurant with all due speed and lose as little money
as possible.
What Finn hadn’t expected was her.
The woman had shown up at the break of dawn like some kind of benevolent breakfast fairy, all sunshine and scones, wielding
a tray like it was her personal mission to ensure he didn’t starve.
And Finn wasn’t prepared for her charm.
First impressions truly didn’t give a full picture.
Of course the first time he’d seen her, she’d been wearing a bright pink suit with her face pressed against his car window,
which had been more alarming than endearing. This morning she’d swapped that for a crisp white blouse and pale blue slacks
that hugged more than hung. And it turned out that when she wasn’t glaring at him, she was actually quite . . . pretty.
Not the sort of woman who turned every head in the room, but definitely the sort that could hold a man’s attention longer
than was good for him.
But the real problem wasn’t the way she looked.
It was something else—something intangible but potent enough to tighten his chest with a warning.
Dangerous didn’t always come in dark alleys or in the form of scarred villains. Sometimes it came wrapped in warmth and good intentions, in the sort of temptation that could make a man think about things he’d sworn off.
He had a sneaky suspicion that Daphne Austen was the sort to tempt thoughts of “till death do us part.” She had that small-town,
inviting spark about her.
He shook his head. But he knew her type. He scoffed. In fact, he’d married her type. Positive, funny, willing to take on the
adventures life posed for a couple, but when life grew harder than what she signed up for, she’d leave. When hardship forced
a choice between herself and her family, she’d choose herself.
The old ache squeezed to a painful point in his chest, but he shoved away the thought.
It was so much easier to play the short game. Flirt, compliment, go on an occasional date here and there.
But forever?
Finn had already tried that story. And failed.
He wasn’t signing up for a sequel.
He sighed, remembering the disappointment on Daphne’s face at some of his less-than amiable responses. He’d been critical,
dismissive—no doubt the opposite of what a woman like Daphne expected from a neighbor.
In fact, he’d even disappointed himself.
But something about her seemed to inspire his . . . defenses.
He tried to shake off the unexpected feeling.
It wasn’t her fault he hid a gaping wound in his heart and carried a chip on his shoulder. But he’d let her feel the brunt
of both this morning, hadn’t he? Like a real clod.
Maybe he could at least try to be civil. No need to be best friends, but a little good-natured diplomacy between fellow business
owners wouldn’t kill him.
His gaze landed on the single square of floral wallpaper he’d left up behind the bar—one last remnant of the antique shop that had existed before he had come along to gut the place and turn it into The Green Dragon.
He’d framed the piece with wood, telling himself it was a nod to history, but now . . .
He nearly groaned.
It was a good thing Lucy had fallen back asleep in the rear of the shop, because he had the sinking suspicion that if she
had met Daphne Austen, the two of them would have been fast friends.
Which would mean more time spent around Daphne.
Which was not in Finn’s plans.
But he did owe her a legitimate apology. Maybe he’d pop over later. Smooth things over. He could even try out the oven in
the back—make something properly English as a peace offering.
Maybe a treacle tart? She seemed the sort to like something like that.
Before he could dwell on the idea any longer, the bell above the front door jingled with a rather . . . loud entrance.
A trio of older women bustled inside, all wearing expressions that suggested they were here on a mission. And, from the drop
in his stomach, he was the target.
“Mr. Dashwood!” The leader of the pack, a woman with a towering gray bouffant, who somehow stretched his name into seven syllables,
flashed a bright smile framed in dark red lipstick. “We had to come by and welcome you properly!”
This isn’t an attack, he repeated to himself. This is . . . Southern hospitality.
Keep calm, mate.
He pushed up a smile and was opening his mouth to greet them when the second woman, a plump lady in a floral dress, stepped
forward, pressing a very large casserole dish into his arms. “I’m Trudy Wallace. Made you my famous chicken and dumplings.
Thought you might be too busy to cook while you set up your business all by yourself, bless your heart.”
Finn very much did not like being blessed in that tone.
“Mrs. Jenkins.” The third woman, a wiry thing with sharp eyes that seemed to miss nothing but were uncomfortably focused on
his mouth, held up a tin. “Homemade biscuits. None of that store-bought nonsense. If you’re gonna be a real Wisterian, you’ll
have to learn the importance of a proper biscuit.”
Finn wasn’t sure if that was a threat or a friendly warning.
And, he hated to tell her, but those fluffy clouds of flour were not “biscuits.”
“Thank you?” He set the casserole on the bar, wondering how long a Southern welcome usually lasted, because his expiration
date was approaching much more quickly than he had predicted.
The gray-haired woman leaned in, lowering her voice, the glint in her eyes almost terrifying. “Would your wife be somewhere
hereabouts that we could welcome her too?”
For some reason, Finn had the strangest notion that this woman knew the answer already. How on earth was Lucy sleeping through
all this on her little couch in the back?
“I’m not married.” He squeezed out the confession, preparing himself for the response.
And all three gasped . . . in delight.
“Well, what a shame for such a nice-lookin’ fella like yourself,” Mrs. Chicken and Dumplings offered, without a trace of sorrow
on her face. “But don’t you worry one bit.”
“That’s right,” the gray-haired lady continued. “We’ve got some lovely ladies in town who’d just adore an English gentleman.”
Of this, he had no doubt.
Daphne Austen’s mild revulsion suddenly took on an appeal he hadn’t known he’d wanted.
“That’s . . . very kind,” he managed, though the words felt strange in his mouth. In London, neighbors barely managed eye contact, let alone this coordinated assault of Southern hospitality. “But I’m not actually looking for—” A small voice piped up from behind the bar in interruption.
“Daddy?”
Lucy.
Ah! Apparently, she wasn’t sleeping through it! His daughter appeared around the corner of the doorway rubbing sleepy eyes
and clutching the stuffed dragon she insisted on bringing everywhere. Her dark curls were still mussed from sleep.
Immediately, the three women let out a collective “aww”—their expressions melting into that particular brand of maternal adoration
that only a small child and, possibly, cute animal could summon.
Lucy offered the trio of strangers a wide-eyed look before slipping to Finn’s side, fingers clutching the bottom of his shirt,
likely feeling the “welcome” with the same potency as he had.
He smoothed a hand over her curls to reassure her.
“Oh my stars! Is this your little girl?” Mrs. Wallace gasped, clutching her ample bosom as if overcome.
“What a precious angel!” the sharp-eyed one declared. “And look at those curls! Just like a little cherub!”
Lucy blinked up at them, her lips pursed as if she wasn’t certain which expression to choose. He knew the feeling, but her
reticence was much more forgivable.
Finn sighed. “Lucy, meet our very enthusiastic neighbors. Mrs. Wallace?”
He looked at the woman and she nodded as if electricity had just jolted her neck into motion.
“And . . .” He tilted his head, studying the biscuit woman. “Mrs. Jenkins, was it?”
The woman gave a firm nod, her smile broad.
And then he looked over at the ring leader. “I don’t recall your name, Mrs. . . . ?”
“Ambrosia Clark.” The woman pronounced the name as if every syllable deserved special consideration.
“And how old are you, sweetheart?” Mrs. Wallace cooed.
Lucy looked up at Finn, and after a nod from him, she held up six fingers, which prompted another round of delighted noises
from the trio. Then, before Finn could redirect the conversation, the bouffant-haired leader leaned in again.
“You know, my daughter, Emily, is a speech-language pathologist at our local elementary school.” Mrs. Clark blinked a few
times with her nod. “Very good with children.”