Chapter 5 #4
two of ya’ll come to blows, but it was a real pleasure to meet you, Finn Dashwood.”
He dipped his head to the woman, her colorful clothing and string of varying length necklaces marking her in his memory. “A
delight, Granny D.”
She reached up and patted his cheek. He nearly flinched at the unexpected . . . affection. His mind wanted to label it as
assault, but he was in the South. Not England.
“I’ll stop by tomorrow with some of my homemade lemonade.”
For some reason, the statement sounded more like a warning than an offering. Daphne’s raised brows may have confirmed the former.
As soon as the woman exited the kitchen, Daphne added, “It’s adult lemonade. Just to prepare you. Homemade.” Her look turned
pointed. “From the mountains.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“No, the mountains are great. I’m just saying that Granny D’s lemonade packs an unexpected punch.” She dipped the fork back
into the pudding and took another bite before jabbing the fork toward him. “And, for your information, I don’t have to experiment
to know when a good thing is good.”
Ah, he’d hit on her pride. Why not poke a little more? “But not great?”
“Do you just like to argue?”
“Not usually.” He lifted the glass again, watching her over the rim. “But you make it so much fun.”
Her lips twitched, and for a moment he thought she might actually laugh. Then, as if remembering herself, she abruptly restacked
a nearby row of napkins.
He had to admit the game was entertaining. He only needed to be careful to keep it light. Simple. Uncomplicated.
“I know we didn’t get off to the best start, but I’m not the villain you think I am, Miss Austen. Most people find me quite
friendly. Honest. Charming, even.”
A spark lit in her eyes, but before he could enjoy it, she pulled back, doubling the distance between them. Pity. He was developing
a fondness for that spark.
“Friendly, huh?” She raised a brow. “Well, then, I think it would be particularly friendly and charming if you’d do me a little
favor.”
He shrugged. “What is that?”
“Turn down that music you have blaring from the other side of the wall.”
He leaned back, feigning offense. “Blaring?” He paused, listening. AC/DC barely hummed through the walls. “You can hardly hear it.”
“You might not be able to hear it.” Her words dropped to a whisper—a harsh whisper. “But I hear it very well. Would you mind
turning it down a little?”
He took another drink of the milkshake. “No, I can’t.” He even softened it with a small bow of his head. “I do apologize.”
“Why not?” Her question curbed into a little squeak. “You can’t expect people to enjoy eating to that”—she gestured to the
brick wall separating their establishments—“that hideousness.”
AC/DC? Hideous? He feigned a look of deep injury. “It keeps me from hearing the classical nonsense you blast in your princess
tearoom.”
Daphne’s mouth dropped open, and Finn immediately regretted his reaction, but she gave him no time for an apology.
“Nonsense? Babies’ brains develop better when they hear classical music.”
Oh well, why let the moment go without a chance to wind her up a bit. “So that’s your excuse for listening to such snobbish
drivel then?” He pushed back from the counter, heat crawling through his middle in a mixture of regret and frustration. What
was it about this petite, pink-clad woman that inspired his . . . engagement?
Her lips parted, but then, like a true warrior, she regrouped. “First of all,” she said, stepping closer, “a man with such
a deliciously rich voice and utterly delightful accent should never waste it defending bad taste in music.” She pinched the
air as if trying to squeeze the words from floating in her memory. “Ever.”
His lips twitched. “And yet, here I am. Wasting away, one power chord at a time.”
His response clearly derailed her attack list of his music choices because her lips tipped the slightest bit. “Tragic, really.”
“Tragic,” he agreed. “But you know what they say—every villain is the hero of his own sound system.”
Her eyes narrowed for the briefest moment before she continued, “Which leads me to my second reason.” She leaned in, just enough for him to catch the faint scent of lavender and sugar.
Her sudden smile, all soft and welcoming, shot through him like a warning light, but he fell for the trap. “Do you really think I’m a princess?”
He grinned. “Most certainly.”
Her own smile was slow. Dangerous. “Then do as I say and turn down your abominable music.”
He chuckled. “This has been fun, but as you said, I must get back to my side of the wall.”
He dipped his chin, keeping the milkshake in hand just to irritate her. To his surprise, she followed him all the way to the
front door.
“The least you can do is try to be neighborly,” she hissed behind him. “Just a little less rock music during afternoon tea?”
Of course he would turn it down. It was a small request, after all.
But why let her know that.
And, neighborly? Oh, he could do even better than neighborly. A deliciously infuriating idea came to mind. Well, infuriating
for her.
“I’ll consider it, of course.” He paused at the threshold. “And I should probably thank you for the sweet message you left
me this morning.”
Daphne’s blush evaporated and her bottom lip dropped. Every head in the room swiveled toward her. Finn nearly lost control
of his laugh. Turnabout and fair play . . . and all that?
He dipped his head, stepping back through the door. “So I returned the favor.” And with one final wink, just to sweeten the
deal, he was gone.
Sweet message?
All the heat drained from Daphne’s face. What was Finn Dashwood talking about?
Every head in the room swiveled toward her.
His wink landed like an exclamation mark on his ridiculous statement. How dare he turn her chalkboard joke into some kind
of romantic gesture? There wasn’t a single ounce of romance in that little prank.
And he knew exactly what sort of rumors his implication would spark.
At teatime.
In front of her entire tearoom.
Daphne blinked as the room narrowed into a tunnel of stunned silence, the door swinging shut behind Finn. Her fingers curled
into fists at her sides. She nearly did something entirely unladylike—like chase after him and pummel him with . . . her shoe!
Instead, she turned back to the room with what she hoped was a composed smile. “Just so we’re all clear, Mr. Dashwood does
not like tea.” She nodded for emphasis. “That should clear up anything he may have implied about me. And him.”
The glimmer in Granny D’s eyes only fueled Daphne’s humiliation . . . and determination. She was not, nor would she ever be
interested in Mr. Finn Dashwood.
With that, she bolted for the door, rounding the front of her shop.
Her carefully curated chalkboard—previously home to an elegant list of tea specials and baked delights—had been defiled. Scrawled
across it in atrocious handwriting (honestly, was he six?) was a new message:
Tried coffee again.
Smelled like determination.
Tasted like success.
Gave me the energy to win an argument I wasn’t even having.
Would recommend to all tea drinkers looking to upgrade their lives.
Final Rating: ★★★★★
Daphne inhaled sharply and snapped a glare to the front door of his pub.
Oh. It. Was. On.