Chapter 7
@TeaThymeNC: Some occasions call for a touch of grace and refinement. Others . . . well, let’s just say “hearty” has its place. But which
would you trust for a restful and classically enjoyable event or experience? #TeaOverTaters #SomeOfUsHaveStandards #NoShadeAllStew
Comments:
@JackAustenPhotography: I dunno, Daph . . . I’ve seen you throw hands over the last biscuit. That wasn’t very refined.
@PastorNateNHC: “Man shall not live by bread alone.” But if he must, it should at least come with a side of mashed potatoes. Just saying.
@TGDPub: Ah yes, because nothing says “restful” or “classic” like a sandwich you have to eat with your pinky up.
@TeaThymeNC: @TGDPub It’s called presentation. Some of us believe in making meals memorable.
@TGDPub: @TeaThymeNC Oh, don’t worry, luv. I fully intend to make this very memorable.
@WisteriaWeekly: In other news, Lindsay Monroe and Travis Langston were seen at the inn again, and overheard conversations hint at a catering debacle. Let’s hope love still blooms for Wisteria’s favorite famous daughter and her beau. Drop your thoughts below.
“I’ve heard there’s been quite a stir in town about the new pub owner.”
Daphne glanced over at Pastor Nate as she sat her green bean casserole on the table beside Granny D’s famous corn bread stuffing,
schooling her features to keep any annoyance—or interest—concealed.
Which wasn’t an easy feat with Rosemary staring a hole in Daphne’s profile from the end of the table.
Nate wasn’t just the youngest pastor in New Hope Church’s history—he also had the highly inconvenient gift of being alarmingly
perceptive. Worse still, he’d grown up running wild with her brother, Jack, which meant he had an inside track on all her
weaknesses.
Having Pastor Nate in Granny D’s hundred-year-old farmhouse for Sunday lunch wasn’t a surprise. Granny had given him an open
invitation, like with Jack, Daphne, and Rosemary, and many times strongly encouraged acceptance in her Southern matriarch
sort of way. (Which meant no refusals or something bad might happen, like being forgotten at Christmas or—heaven help them
all—being volunteered to help with the church’s annual live nativity, complete with a real donkey and an itchy burlap robe.)
Rosemary’s family lived in town, so she didn’t come as often. But the trio of Jack, Nate, and Daphne remained fairly consistent
Sunday lunchers.
At the current direction of the conversation, however, Daphne wished she’d made other meal plans for today.
She trained her attention on her task and away from the “annoying brother” vibes she had to endure from the preacher. New folks usually stirred up town gossip, but Nate’s overt implications in her direction made her hackles rise.
She busied herself aligning the casserole dish with mathematical precision. “There usually is with new folks.”
Nate hummed in response, exchanging a look with Jack across the room. A look Daphne hated almost as much as liver pudding.
Jack, the traitor, grinned as he leaned against the counter, arms crossed like he was just settling in for a show. “Yeah,
but this one seems to have caught a certain someone’s attention.”
“You mean Rosemary?” She waved toward the end of the table, but Rosemary only offered a wrinkle-nosed (and fake) grin back
at her.
“Nice try, sunshine!”
Daphne exhaled through her nose. “I hope y’all aren’t referring to me, because the only thing that’s caught my attention lately
is how Granny D almost started a riot at Papa Malone’s Café when they ran out of Duke’s mayo.”
Nate laughed, plucking a green bean straight from her dish like the audacious bean thief he was. “Oh, we heard about that
too. The mayo mutiny made it into this week’s prayer chain.”
“Mama Malone may never recover,” Jack added, completely deadpan.
“But nope,” Nate continued, as if he and Jack shared one brain cell between them. “We’re talking about you. More specifically,
your habit of accidentally running into one Mr. Finn Dashwood.”
“I even heard you were . . . courting.” Jack shrugged, the absolute menace.
Daphne nearly lobbed a biscuit at his head. “Who even uses that word anymore, dork?”
“I do,” Granny D announced, sweeping into the room with a bowl of mashed potatoes like it was her stage entrance. “But they
ain’t courtin’, boys.”
Finally! Sanity.
“They’re just in the early phases of playful bickering.”
Rosemary snorted into her napkin.
Daphne closed her eyes. Surrounded by traitors. All of them.
“I think that’s called ‘banter’ in modern terms, Granny.” Nate raised a brow in Daphne’s direction before sliding down in
the chair. “Isn’t that a sure sign of budding romance, Jack?”
“If you watch those movies Daph made us suffer through growing up—absolutely.” Jack did nothing to hide his amusement as he
joined Nate at the table. “It’s a classic setup.”
“Rom-com gold, I believe, is what Daphne called it,” Rosemary added from the kitchen doorway as she carried a pitcher of tea
to the table, completely unapologetic. “They’re basically Meg Ryan and Hugh Grant but with caffeine and unresolved tension.”
“There is no setup and there is no courting,” Daphne snapped, brandishing a serving spoon like a weapon to point at each of
them, except Granny D. Even in her ire, she wouldn’t go that far. “Right now, I’m just trying to muster up the ability to
tolerate the man.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a—” Nate looked over at Rosemary, brow creased in thought. “What’s it called when stories have
these little—”
“Trope is the word I believe you’re looking for, Pastor,” she finished, a mock serious frown pulling at her lips. “Enemies to lovers?”
Rosemary made a dramatic “check” motion in the air. “Check.”
“Oh, right.” Jack snapped his fingers. “Opposites attract?”
“Definitely fish out of water,” Rosemary added.
“I am surrounded by walking, talking Goodreads tags,” Daphne muttered. “This is not a rom-com. There are no tropes. And for
the record, I am not Meg Ryan.”
“You kind of dress like her in You’ve Got Mail,” Rosemary offered with a saccharine-sweet smile as she raised her tea in cheers.
Daphne stirred the potatoes with added gusto. What was wrong with the way Meg Ryan dressed in that movie? Adorable. Cute.
Effortlessly classy.
“That’s exactly how it was betwixt me and my first husband,” Granny D interjected as she poured tea into Jack’s glass. “First
time I met him, I told him he was about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. Three months later, we were married.”
Daphne breathed out a sigh. Thanks, Granny D.
“Well, that’s convenient.” Jack checked an imaginary watch. “You’ve always wanted a Christmas wedding, Daph.”
She shot him a death glare. “I hope both sides of your pillow are warm tonight.”
Nate’s laugh erupted while Jack clutched his chest in mock offense.
“The church is already decorated for Advent, so you’d save a fortune. Good stewardship, really,” Nate said.
Daphne rolled her eyes so hard she briefly saw next week.
And there was no wedding. Just the continued emotional sabotage of living with these people.
“Finn Dashwood has barely been here a week,” she ground out. “And other than being distressingly popular with the single women
in town”—she jabbed the spoon into the potatoes—“and making sinfully good sticky toffee pudding, he is nearly insufferable.”
“That was what I said about my second husband,” Granny D added, pulling her apron over her head as a sign it was time to eat.
“I did my level best to convince myself he was insufferable. Didn’t do a lick of good because he was also real good at kissing,
so that ruined my plans.”
Daphne choked on her sweet tea. Her entire face caught fire. Kissing Finn Dashwood? With that smug grin! And irritating cologne!
And intoxicating accent!?
No. Absolutely not. Never.
Nate and Jack howled.
“That’s taking the commandment to ‘love thy neighbor’ to a whole new level, Daph.” Nate sent her a wink. “I’m required by
profession to appreciate it.”
She rolled her gaze to the ceiling and hoped her prayers had more power than the preacher’s, especially this preacher. Unlikely,
but one could hope.
She slid into her chair like a sinking ship and scooted a very obvious six inches from her brother. “I have a business to
run. Not time for flirty nonsense from meddling newcomers with questionable playlists.” Her eyes landed on Nate. “And my neighborliness
ends at general greetings and rerouting lost packages.”
Daphne scanned the table to make sure everything had its place. Where was the meat dish? Before she could ask, Granny D took
the short pause in the conversation to have Nate say grace, which consisted of usual thanksgiving and a jab at Daphne’s need
to improve her sense of humor. Ugh.
She only lightly kicked him under the table.
God gave her only one brother for a reason. Why did Nate have to keep taking up Jack’s slack?
“Speaking of businesses,” Jack said once the prayer ended. “I heard some news yesterday that might be of interest to you.”
Daphne looked over at him warily, reaching for the mashed potatoes. “Interesting how?”
“Turns out the Wisteria Inn is in a bit of a bind. You remember how I told you that Travis Langford and Lindsay Monroe were
going to have their big celebrity wedding next month at the inn?”
“Travis Langford?” Nate paused his glass to his lips, brows high. “As in the Travis Langford? Billionaire tech guy?”
Jack nodded. “And Lindsay Monroe, the small-town Wisteria girl turned social media phenom and model.”
“I went on a date with her once in high school,” Nate offered, passing his plate to Daphne for some bean casserole. “She wasn’t a fan of my truck.”
“Is that how you remember it?” Jack barked out a laugh. “As I recall, she wasn’t a fan of your acne.”
“Or the mullet,” Rosemary added with a grimace. “Not a good look for you, Nate.”
Daphne nearly spat out the tea she’d just sipped. She sent Nate a smirk. At least these people of hers spared no one in the
teasing department.