Chapter 6 #3
Daphne followed, refusing to dampen the mood with the obvious. Granny had been in a hospital bed, fading away after her heart
attack. “I didn’t have my Pinterest problem a year ago. Pinterest changes you.”
The morning crowd trickled in, offering a welcome distraction. Regulars like Mrs. Hayes and her usual party, Mr. Lux and his
wife of sixty years, and Mr. Harmon, her grandfather’s old friend. A couple of out-of-towners admired her teapot collection
and stayed long enough to order breakfast.
Two college girls on their way to the community college ducked in for their usual London Fog lattes and cranberry-orange muffins,
waving on their way out with sleepy smiles and lavender-sugar smudges on their sleeves.
A good morning, all things considered.
And not one sound from her next-door neighbor.
Then the door jingled again.
Rosemary sucked in a breath so sharp Daphne thought she might have to perform the Heimlich maneuver. “Heaven have mercy,”
she whispered in a reverent hush.
Daphne turned from the cash register just in time to nearly drop a roll of quarters.
Finn Dashwood strolled in like the cover model for some magazine called Effortless British Charm—pale blue button-down (the top buttons daringly undone), dark jeans that frankly ought to require a warning label, and sunglasses
that probably had their own agent.
Thankfully, those sunglasses kept his infamously infuriating eyes under wraps.
Unfortunately, nothing could shield her from his voice.
“Ladies.”
Just one word. Rich. Smooth. Laced with so much teasing it should’ve come with a side of whipped cream.
The sound sent an unwelcome tingle from her eardrums straight down to her collarbone.
Granny had never prepared her for weaponry of this variety .
. . or potency. She had to summon every BBC adaptation of Wickham and Mr. Churchill just to stay upright.
Definitely an unfair advantage to her English-loving heart.
“Mr. Dashwood.”
“I came to thank you for my special delivery of . . .” He set a mug on the counter with theatrical disgust, lifting one brow
over the rim of his glasses.
Daphne bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning. She’d heard his door unlock half an hour ago and seized the opportunity
to sneak next door and leave a steaming cup of her special blend on the pub’s counter.
He gestured to the mug with an exaggerated shudder. “This abomination.”
“Abomination?” She feigned offense. “That, I’ll have you know, is Earl Grey with oat milk and just a hint of lavender. Specially
brewed for those who want to upgrade their lives.” She even quoted his own chalkboard slogan while she was at it.
Finn leveled her with a flat stare. “I took one sip and immediately questioned every decision that led me to this moment.”
“I hope music choices were involved in those questions.” She smiled sweetly, and it was probably a little too satisfying to
watch him grimace. “You’re welcome.”
“How did you even get in?” He leaned closer, lowering his shades. Unfortunately, it was at the exact moment his warm, ridiculously
appealing scent hit her like a sneak attack.
She did not sway. (Barely.)
“Do you have a secret passage or something?” His eyes narrowed. “You’d be the sort.”
Daphne pushed back from the counter, doing her best to clear the mental fog of Eau de Dashwood. “Like I’d tell you.” She slid a raspberry muffin toward him. “Muffin?”
“Hmm . . .” He accepted it, keeping his gaze on her like she was the puzzle he hadn’t quite solved. Then he sighed and pushed
back from the counter. “I just wanted to be neighborly and let you know a few workmen will be here within the hour to replace
some floorboards behind the bar. It might get noisy.”
Daphne angled her body slightly, trying to maintain her composure. “Thank you for the warning this time.”
“When do you hope to open up the pub?” This from Rosemary, who’d rounded the counter to sit right beside Finn, plopping her
chin on her hand and staring up at him in rapt wonder.
“The end of next week.”
Wow, that was fast.
Finn glanced back at Daphne. “But I assume my competition isn’t worried?”
A very unladylike snort emerged from Daphne’s nose as she folded her arms. “Not in the slightest.”
“Good.” His grin widened. “I’d hate to think I was intimidating.”
She arched a brow. “If that’s your goal, you might want to reconsider leading with oat milk slander and boy band playlists.”
Finn leaned his elbow on the counter, gaze flicking lazily over her like he had all the time in the world. “You say that like
you didn’t grow up imagining a duet with Mr. Darcy, or are you more of a Rochester fellow? He broods enough for a classical
composer.”
Daphne’s mouth opened. Closed. “I’ll have you know, I was partial to Captain Wentworth.”
“Ah.” He nodded solemnly. “The emotionally repressed sailor. Should’ve guessed.”
Rosemary barked out an unhelpful laugh and immediately tried to disguise it as a cough.
Daphne narrowed her eyes. “You’re deflecting.”
He leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice. “Am I?”
Too close. Too casual. Too charming.
“Yes.” She jabbed a finger toward him. “Because deep down, you’re worried your gastropub can’t out-charm a proper tearoom.”
Finn’s grin was maddening. “Tell you what, Miss Austen—I’ll save you a front row seat at the opening. That way, when I win,
you can say you witnessed history.”
“Oh, I’ll be there.” Her smile turned as sweet as lemon curd over arsenic. “I like comedy.”
“And I like confidence,” he murmured, eyes dancing. “Even when it’s misplaced. But because I’m such a nice chap, I’d be happy
to show you some expert baking skills if you want to get inventive with your little . . . pastries.” He waved toward her kitchen
as if his magnanimous gesture would change her world. “Spice up the place a bit, luv?”
The way he said “luv”—low, warm, like a secret just for her—sent tingles up her arms to land on the back of her neck. Not
to mention the nuanced mention of spice, but from the look in his eyes, he had it clearly defined.
She stiffened against the renewed heat shimmying all the way up her body. He was attempting to weaken her defenses. But she
refused to break eye contact. “I’m too cautious to misplace confidence, Dashwood.” Good, using his last name felt less . . .
personal. “And the last thing I need in my kitchen is your coffee and Led Zeppelin.”
His expression twisted in mock sadness. “Tragic, really.” Repeating her from earlier.
“I’ll take baking tips,” Rosemary offered, her dazed expression very un-Rosemary-like.
What sort of spell did this guy cast on people?
Finn kept his attention on Daphne for a beat longer, brow raised, before he made a deliberate turn in Rosemary’s direction.
“It would be a shame if I stole Daphne’s favorite employee to work for the dark side.”
Dark side was accurate. Daphne rolled her eyes so hard she strained a muscle. Then she leaned in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Trust me, Dashwood. The only thing you’re stealing is my patience.”
“Ah,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Patience is overrated.”
“Not in a shared-wall situation, and certainly not where your music is concerned,” she shot back, quickly biting into her
muffin to suppress her laughter. Why, oh why, did he draw out the desire to fight! It was like she couldn’t help herself.
“Last night, I even dreamed about you at a Queen concert listening to ‘Under Pressure.’” She grimaced for effect. “I think
the song choice was no accident in my psyche.”
“I’m flattered.” His palm covered his heart. “Usually it takes a few dates to get inside a woman’s dreams.”
Ugh. Seriously? His tea-colored eyes lost their appeal. Mostly. “Did I say ‘dreams’? I meant nightmares of you and your music
ruining the peace and quiet of my kitchen.”
“Well, with that sweet thought in mind . . .” Finn pushed his sunglasses back into place. “I should get back to the pub. My
contractors will be here soon.”
“If you need a taste tester, let me know,” Rosemary offered, sounding much too energetic. What was she doing? It was almost
like . . . Daphne’s attention zipped back to Rosemary. Was Rosemary attempting to bait her? No.
But her friend continued without a look in Daphne’s direction. “After working here the past few years, I’ve developed excellent
taste discernment.”
Daphne blinked a few times. “Taste discernment?”
Rosemary shrugged, a look of faux innocence on her face. She was deliberately lengthening this conversation.
“What would you call it?”
Finn smirked. “A refined palate?”
Daphne stared hard at her friend, who blatantly avoided eye contact. Coward!
Well, Daphne would nip Rosemary’s misconception in the bud. Daphne did not have any interest in Finn . . . apart from his sticky toffee pudding recipe.
“Despite her love of coffee, Rosemary is really good with dessert testing.” Daphne sent Rosemary a grin. “She’s my first taste
tester apart from Jack, so I think she would give you some great advice.” Daphne waved between the two of them. “Maybe the
two of you should make a . . . date of it? Besides, her musical tastes are suspect too.”
“Hey.” Rosemary frowned, but the glint in her eyes proved she caught on to Daphne’s subterfuge.
But Finn’s reaction was more interesting. Mr. Flirt’s expression lost all humor for a split second, attention darting from
Rosemary back to Daphne before morphing into nonchalance. What was that about? A chink in the philanderer’s armor? Hmm . . .
She ignored the curiosity.
A little.
“Now, let’s not berate rhythmic diversity, Miss Austen.” He tsked. “Someone would think you’re a music snob.”
Daphne’s smile dissolved into a glare, but before she could rally, Finn continued, “And, I’ve met Jack. Fine fellow. Not a
whit of snobbery. In fact, I hired him.”
“Hired him?” Daphne’s body stilled. Not to mention the fact he’d implied she was a snob . . . twice. “My brother is working
for you?”
“Will be.” Finn’s grin crooked a little higher as he backed toward the door. “But since you’re not afraid of healthy competition,
it shouldn’t be a problem, right?”
“Of course not.” Daphne straightened. “In fact, Jack could very well be my spy.”
With another chuckle, Finn doffed an imaginary hat and, thankfully, sheathed those eyes of his with his sunglasses once again,
before backing toward the door. “In that case, I’ll be sure to feed him plenty of abominable tea.”
The door closed behind him, and Rosemary turned on Daphne. “You like him.”
Daphne propped both fists on her hips in full nonverbal declaration against such an idea. “The only things I like about him
are his hair and his baking. And especially the way he exits a room.”
“Mm-hmm.” Rosemary picked up a pot of hot water and stepped back toward the far table of guests enjoying morning tea. “You
keep telling yourself that.”
“What do you mean?”
Rosemary shook her head, her smile almost conciliatory. “Henry Tilney is your favorite Austen hero.” Her brows rose. “If I
remember correctly, it’s because of his . . . charm.”
“No. It’s because of his good heart and sense of humor,” she called after Rosemary, and then dropped down on the stool. “Not
charm,” she repeated, more to herself, but Mrs. Dawson glanced up from her blueberry banana muffin and nodded.
“A good heart and sense of humor are very charming.” She raised a brown brow, which stood in stark contrast to her very fake
blonde hair. “An accent helps.”
Daphne released a long sigh and then . . . crammed a handful of chocolate chips in her mouth. She did not like Finn Dashwood.
And she certainly didn’t have time to think about whether he had a good heart or not. She had a tea shop to save.
As if in response to her thoughts, the piping from the back made a little creaking noise.
And time was running out.