Chapter 5 #2
Daphne left the milkshake and picked up a fresh pot of hot water along with a Ceylon and India tea bag, moving to the woman’s table. “Here you go.”
Wrinkles creased the woman’s face, and her pale eyes twinkled. “Thank you.” But as Daphne stepped back, Granny D grabbed her
wrist, the woman’s six beaded bracelets clinking together like tiny wind chimes. “I dreamed about you again last night, sugar.
Three times with the same dream. You know what that means.”
That Granny D was bound and determined to keep Appalachian wives’ tales alive and daunting. “That you love me a whole lot
to be thinking so hard about me?”
Her smile stretched full, crinkling her face all the more. “Now, sweet girl, you know good and well I pray for you every night
afore bed, but this was a surefire promise that love is comin’ your way, Daphne. I’ve dreamed of your wedding day three times in a row.”
She emphasized her final sentence with enough volume to draw a look or two from the neighboring tables. Heat skirted up into
Daphne’s face, so she bent closer to the woman, lowering her voice in a subtle hint. “You keep praying those prayers for me
then, Granny D.”
With a kiss to the woman’s cheek, Daphne checked on a few guests and then returned to the counter to pour the creamy chocolate
mixture into two glasses. Rosemary didn’t deserve one after her teasing.
Daphne sighed.
But she’d give the other milkshake to her anyway.
Because she was friend-since-grade-school and knew-all-Daphne’s-secrets Rosemary. Also, probably deserved a best employee
award just for putting up with Daphne over the past year.
Tossing a straw in each of the glasses, she closed her eyes and sipped up the contents of the nearest one. Flavors and chilly
cream poured over her tongue. Rich chocolate inspired by the sweet hints of French vanilla and edged with salty caramel. Salt.
Sweetness. Rich and dangerously delicious.
Who said she only had to serve tea, right?
For some reason, that had been another crazy rule Daphne had given herself.
She took another taste, and the flavors deepened.
This was definitely a new treat to add to her summer specials list.
“Rosemary.” She rushed from around the counter toward her friend, who stood near the front window, just as the bell over Tea
Thyme’s door chimed to announce a new guest. “You have to try this! It’s going on the menu—”
Someone entered, and the air shifted as if the entire shop had been reset to a different frequency.
Daphne’s feet and expression froze.
Finn Dashwood stood in her doorway, looking both out of place and frustratingly at ease, a small container in his hands. His
presence alone seemed to dwarf the dainty decor, and the contrast of his dark jeans and fitted gray Henley against the pastel
paradise of her tea shop was almost laughable.
He wasn’t a Darcy. Or a Knightley. Or a Brandon.
So he shouldn’t make it work.
And yet . . . he did.
Her gaze drifted to the container he carried, and her heartbeat skittered. Had he actually brought her something?
Could it be that the jerk had a conscience?
“Good afternoon, Miss Austen.”
His voice! That unfair, glorious British accent dipped in baritone.
“Welcome to Tea Thy—” Rosemary’s greeting cut off as her pale green eyes locked onto Finn. “Goodness. Sakes. Alive.”
“Don’t start,” Daphne muttered under her breath, shooting Rosemary a look, but it was no use. The woman stared with sheer
appreciation and absolutely no self-control of her facial muscles. Nothing like reinforcing Finn’s ego with Rosemary’s impression
of a cartoon character who’d just seen a twelve-foot sandwich.
Finn’s grin crooked, clearly missing nothing of the little exchange and Rosemary’s near hyperventilation.
“That new creation looks very suspiciously unlike tea.” He nodded toward the milkshake in her hand.
The residual chill from the ice cream evaporated beneath the sudden flush in her cheeks. “I happen to serve many things in
my shop besides tea, Mr. Dashwood. If you’d taken the time to ask rather than tossing around uninformed critiques, I’d have
been happy to enlighten you.”
Why did he seem to bring out her snarky side? And why did she suddenly want to go bake three batches of dark chocolate croissants?
And why did he have to possess such expressive eyes? Her fingers tightened around the glass in her hands. Tea should only
prove a temptation in liquid form.
Not eye color.
“Now, Daphne honey, that ain’t no way to talk to our new neighbor.”
Granny D had made remarkable speed from her table to the door, clicking her tongue like a chicken on the hunt. “Lord, have
mercy,” she exclaimed, fanning herself dramatically with a weathered hand adorned with tarnished silver rings. “If you’d told
me handsome was comin’ to town, I’d have worn my good teeth.”
Finn turned, brows high, then broke into a slow, amused grin. “Good afternoon, ma’am.” He offered his hand. “Finn Dashwood.”
“You sound as good as you look, don’t ya’?” Granny D hummed her appreciation as she circled him, making no attempt to hide
her appraisal.
She almost whimpered.
There were wonderful things about small Southern towns.
And then there were . . . these moments.
Daphne’s face reached a blistery temperature. If Malcom Dean showed up now with his banjo and his toy poodle wearing a hat,
the humiliation might just be complete.
“I’m Granny D to everyone here in Wisteria.” She placed her hand in his.
“It’s a pleasure, Granny D.” And Finn raised Granny D’s bedazzled hand to his lips and kissed it like the gentleman he was
not!
Daphne scowled. Casanova. Evidently, Finn Dashwood saved his surliness for her alone. How special.
Granny D’s grin stretched to Sunday lunch proportions. Beside her, Rosemary sighed. “So you’re opening a restaurant next door?”
He turned that devastating smile on Rosemary, clearly enjoying all the attention.
In fact, the previously chipper room had grown incredibly quiet.
Just beyond Finn, Mrs. Brubacher, Mrs. Stevens, and Miss Long had stopped their teatime chatter to take in the view. Mrs.
Stevens had even resorted to fanning herself with a tea saucer. Edna Rossi sat frozen with a scone halfway to her lips. This
did not help Daphne’s cause at all. She wanted to scream, “Pretty is as pretty does, so don’t let him fool you.”
“An English pub, actually.”
“Well, that’s fantastic.” Rosemary sighed . . . again. It was a miracle she still had any air in her lungs at all. “I’ve never
been to England, so thanks for bringing a little of it here.”
Her lingering gaze thanked him for more than just the future food. Good grief! Was there anyone in this town capable of maintaining
composure in the presence of a British accent? Coming from her, that was saying something!
“I’m Rosemary.” Did she just bat her eyelashes? “I’ve been friends with Daphne since elementary school, which means I know
all of her secrets.”
Daphne’s bottom lip dropped as she turned to Rosemary. Why on earth did she say that?
“Do you now?” Finn’s eyebrows rose with interest, and Daphne didn’t miss the slightly wicked edge in his smile. It was the look of a man who collected information like valuable currency.
Daphne twitched. “None of which are relevant,” she cut in, shooting Rosemary a lethal look that bounced right off her friend’s
dazed expression. “So? Did you step inside to try a real beverage or merely to charm my patrons?”
His grin deepened. Oh, he liked the challenge.
No matter.
She gave her head a shake. Let him charm the room. Daphne wasn’t interested in . . . her gaze skimmed down him. That.
“You ever notice how the pricklier the berry the sweeter the jam?” Granny D mused to Rosemary, loud enough for everyone to
hear.
Rosemary nodded sagely. “Always.”
Then they had the audacity to turn and look directly, and quite pointedly, at Daphne.
She narrowed her eyes at both of them, but her glare failed to impact the moment.
“I’m standing right here,” Daphne reminded them, and then she waved toward Mr. Demeaning and Dangerous. “Besides, Mr. Dashwood
was very clear that he doesn’t like tea or . . . neighbors, so I’m at a loss as to why he’d step foot into my tea shop at
all.”
“A man who don’t drink tea ain’t died yet from the lack,” Granny D declared. “My daddy never touched nothin’ but moonshine
and creek water. Lived to be ninety-two.” She leaned toward Finn conspiratorially. “Course, he did see the wampus cat three
times, but that might’ve been the moonshine talkin’.”
Finn cast a wide-eyed look at Daphne. “Wampus cat?”
Daphne mouthed, “Don’t ask.”
His gaze held hers, and his slow smile sent her pulse skittering like a runaway rabbit. On steroids. She ignored it . . .
and thought of icebergs.
“I’m actually here to provide a peace offering.” Finn dipped his head and set the container on the empty table nearby, his look searching. Almost . . . penitent? “My gran’s sticky toffee pudding.”
The icebergs in her mind melted. And then the scent hit her. Butter. Vanilla. Caramel. Oh no.
Do not give in to the temptation. Her attention shifted from the pudding to the man.
“You bake?”
“Among other talents.” His gaze locked onto hers. “Stereotypes are tricky things, aren’t they?”
“Lord a’ mercy.” Granny D fanned herself again. “A man with an accent who bakes? That’s like finding a four-leaf clover under
a full moon. Powerful lucky.” She nudged Rosemary. “Ain’t that right?”
“Very lucky,” Rosemary agreed with exaggerated seriousness, the humor in her eyes sending another flush into Daphne’s face.
With friends like these . . .
“Well, I hope I’m lucky enough to make up for my earlier behavior to Miss Austen.” Finn’s confidence never wavered, but was
there a hint of genuineness in his tone. He had brought dessert, and Granny always said that anyone who used their own hands to make a dish should be worth listening to.
Daphne blinked a few times. The stares of the whole room seemed to be on this embarrassing performance. Heaven help her, she
couldn’t seem to sort out what to say.