Chapter 7 #3
Her attention snapped to Finn, only to find one raised brow and that disastrous grin.
Daphne attempted to salvage some of her bottomed-out pride. “It’s very good, Finn.”
“Thank you,” he replied, eyes steady on hers. “I hope to add it to the final menu.”
“Definitely keep it,” Nate chimed in. “It’s mountain food. Meat, potatoes, messy . . . the holy trinity of comfort.”
“With that response, it’s a must, isn’t it?” Finn chuckled. “I’m hoping to gain traction quickly, financially speaking. The
pub’s a big investment. That’s why I was grateful for Harry’s suggestion—about possibly catering that high-profile wedding
next month.”
All the heat drained from Daphne’s face. Her attention shot to Jack. How did Finn know about the catering opportunity?
Jack caught her look. “Harry and I thought it would be good to give the couple some options.”
“You’re considering the job?” Finn’s gaze locked with Daphne’s. “But you run a tea shop. That’s not exactly real food.”
Rosemary set down her glass. Jack and Nate pushed back from the table at the same time, as if preparing for World War 3. Granny
D leaned in. Even Lucy glanced up from her mashed potatoes.
Daphne lowered her fork.
“I’m considering it.” Her voice was as smooth as buttercream, despite the flush creeping up her neck. “Real food comes in
many forms.” She dabbed her lips with her napkin. “And I’ve catered events before, but since you barely know me, you wouldn’t
know that.”
“Have you now?” Finn leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Cucumber sandwiches and petit fours don’t exactly scream wedding feast.”
Her jaw clicked shut, then popped open again. “And yet, my tiny ‘not real’ food keeps locals coming back for more.”
“Harry said the couple wanted a blend of upscale and homegrown,” Jack offered, attempting to mediate. “Class with local charm.”
“Which I can provide,” Finn and Daphne said in unison, then glared at each other.
Nate chuckled nervously, clearly sensing the brewing storm. “The Lord made room for both manna and milk and honey.”
“What’s manna?” Lucy asked, head tilting toward him.
“Something less delicious than this shepherd’s pie,” Granny D interjected, helping herself to seconds. “Though Daphne’s lavender
scones could give it a run for its money.”
“Lavender scones?” Finn’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Bit fussy for a wedding feast, isn’t it?”
“Says the man who probably thinks wedding cake should be meat pie with gravy frosting,” Daphne retorted, instantly regretting
the childish tone.
To her utter horror, Finn laughed—a full, unguarded sound that made her insides tighten like a twisted apron.
“Lord, help us,” Nate said, buttering another biscuit like a man preparing for a long siege.
“You might be surprised by what I can do beyond meat and potatoes, Daph.” The nickname rolled off his tongue so easily it
made her pulse quicken, but she wasn’t sure whether it was to fight, flee, or . . . well, she didn’t want to consider any
other options. “I did train in Paris after all.”
Daphne gasped. “Paris?”
“Oui, mademoiselle.” His accent was flawless, his smirk incendiary.
“Oh, that was beautiful,” Rosemary mumbled.
“Well,” Jack said, scooping up the last bit of his shepherd’s pie, “sounds like we’ve got ourselves a proper culinary competition
brewing.”
“Oh, it’s a competition now?” Finn teased, twinkling gaze shooting back to Daphne.
“If it means proving that my business is the best choice for one of the biggest weddings in Wisteria?” Daphne folded her arms to prove her fitness. “Then absolutely.”
“Fine by me.” Finn raised his glass toward her. “I’m always up for a challenge.”
“As am I.” Daphne narrowed her eyes, refusing to budge an inch, despite the quavering in her middle. She might’ve never catered
a celebrity wedding before, but she’d sooner serve boxed mac and cheese than let Finn Dashwood win by default. “I’m sure the
high-end couple will appreciate someone who understands the nuances of refined palates.”
“And someone who can serve substance and style,” he countered, but this time his voice held a note of respect. “Though I have to admit, this green bean casserole
has both.”
It was the closest thing to a compliment she’d received from him in days. A pulse of pride hit her before she could bat it
away.
She stabbed her fork into her pie and tried not to smile. Or look at him.
Why was arguing with him so much fun?
“Just to be clear,” Jack said, grinning from ear to ear, “this is still about a wedding, not the next season of Top Chef: Passive-Aggressive Edition. You know, not a declaration of war.”
Nate snorted. “With these two? Might be both.”
Daphne stabbed a forkful of shepherd’s pie, refusing to give Finn the satisfaction of seeing how much she enjoyed it. But
when she caught his eye again, she saw something beyond the competitive gleam—appreciation, perhaps. Something . . . else?
“Bless it,” Granny D muttered, refilling her iced tea. “If the sparks get any thicker in here, I’ll need my fan.”
“You know”—Rosemary slid a glance Daphne’s way—“there’s a fine line between competition and courtship.”
“Which trope is that?” Jack scrunched his brow as if he hadn’t just sent Daphne’s cheeks into a broil.
She wanted to strangle everyone at the table and then hide for a thousand years.
But she wasn’t a quitter, so she lifted her glass toward Finn. “May the best chef win.”
Finn met her toast for toast. “To good food and worthy opponents.”