Chapter 10
@TeaThymeNC: Attention, tea lovers: Did you know that excessive exposure to inferior beverages can dull the senses? Protect yourself.
Choose wisely. #KnowYourWorth #BaristasAgainstBeanWater #TeaIsLife
Comments:
@TGDpub: Funny, I was just about to warn people about beverages that taste like hot perfume. Stay safe out there.
@WisteriaGeneralStore: Okay, I definitely see a T-shirt in the future. Maybe even #TeamTea and #TeamCoffee #OnIt #TeamBrew
@PastorNateNHC: I fear a church divided cannot stand . . . but if there’s a bake sale involved, I’m willing to mediate. #BlessedAndCaffeinated
@MapleRidgeFarm: As long as no one slanders hot cocoa, I’ll allow this debate to continue. #Switzerland
@MaggiesFlowerCottage: Just here for the inevitable showdown. Also, I volunteer as tribute to taste test both sides. #Peacemaker #PastriesGoWithEverything
#SoDoesCaffeine
@TeaThymeNC: @PastorNateNHC I’m happy to provide a proper brew for the mediation. Finn is, of course, welcome to repent.
@TGDpub: @TeaThymeNC Never.
@WisteriaGeneralStore: Merch ideas are now pouring in faster than an over-caffeinated barista on a Monday. #BraceYourselves #TeamBrew #WinBothWays
Lindsay Monroe had contacted Daphne by phone for an immediate taste testing.
And since Flynn . . . er . . . Finn’s kiss had done practically nothing else but distract her for an entire day and a half,
she welcomed the redirection back to basics. What was reliable. Constant.
And yet . . . ever since he left her apartment with Lucy in tow, her mind had detonated with flavor pairings and pastry combinations
like a rogue episode of The Great British Bake Off had hijacked her subconscious.
In fact, she’d stayed up all night long creating culinary masterpieces, from familiar favorites to brand-new offerings.
And all of them tasted phenomenal, if she did say so herself.
Rosemary, as her official taste tester, agreed.
“Whatever has inspired this sort of creativity,” she’d said, “I hope it sticks around.”
Daphne refused to confess to Finn as a part of said inspiration. But she couldn’t fully deny it.
A very productive, wildly inspired, completely unnecessary inspiration from remembering how his lips had felt on hers. How
her knees had gone suspiciously jellylike. How the earth had briefly tilted, and all she could think afterward was, Oh no.
No, she’d never been kissed like that.
But it wasn’t just the kiss—it was the moment after. The way something had changed in his expression, in his eyes, like he was scared of what had just happened. Like he’d wanted to take it back. Like maybe . . . he hadn’t meant it?
Or . . . had meant it and didn’t know what to do.
That was the part that wouldn’t stop replaying. And the part that led to her unfurling her frustrations into pastries, sautés,
and confectionaries.
The very fact she’d managed a semi-cool, semi-sarcastic exit was nothing short of divine intervention. And fear. The kind
that came from being left one too many times. Most people hadn’t chosen to go—her mom, her granny. But her father had. And
her high school boyfriend, once college happened. And a good friend who lowkey disappeared after Daphne had traveled out to
Colorado to visit her, following her move.
Her best friend.
Those three had all been similar.
Had the same irresistible, leading-man energy as Mr. Hotlips Dashwood.
Charming. Flirty. The human embodiment of the line “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”
Also? Dangerous.
Because he wanted shallow.
She’d heard him say it himself: “You can keep your heart.”
And she would. Thank you very much.
But, Lord, have mercy! Her face flushed from the memory—the firm warmth of his mouth, the lazy confidence of his fingers brushing
her neck, the way he’d looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth noticing.
And then, poof. Gone. The ghost of his cologne and the confusion his behavior left behind lingering longer than he had.
Her breath shuddered and she shook off the daze, narrowing her eyes at her reflection in the tea shop’s display case.
“‘Run mad as often as you choose, but do not faint,’” she whispered.
Do not faint.
Real people disappoint. Real people leave.
A haze of tears rose in her periphery, softening her own face in the glass. So many people had left.
She blinked away the sheen.
Knightley, Darcy, and Thornton—they never left. Fictional men stayed exactly where you needed them: safely pressed between
the pages, charming and complicated and loyal. Unlike real men who kissed you like you were air and then walked away like
they hadn’t just rearranged your internal organs.
Finn Dashwood was further proof that reality ruined more daydreams than fiction ever could.
She took a steadying breath and focused on what mattered. That kiss might’ve inspired a storm of sugar-fueled ideas, but it
didn’t change the fact that she had a job to do. This celebrity wedding was her chance to save Tea Thyme, and she wasn’t about
to let some smirking, broad-shouldered, kiss-like-a-sinner chef derail her goal.
Even if part of her stupid, traitorous heart wished he’d meant it.
Wished he hadn’t looked so scared. Or wounded.
Wished he’d stayed.
Daphne set out a delicate porcelain plate on the table she’d meticulously decorated—floral linens, soft gold accents, and
a centerpiece of fresh herbs and roses. Everything was curated to perfection. Elegant. Classy. The sort of presentation influencer-slash-model
Lindsay Monroe would appreciate, naturally.
Though Daphne had taken a sabbatical from social media over the last year, she’d followed Lindsay faithfully—Wisteria’s most glamorous export.
The woman had taste. Style. And a fondness for vintage that made Daphne feel like maybe, just maybe, they were kindred spirits across the aesthetic ether.
Even if Lindsay had never once glanced her way in high school.
The door jingled, announcing the arrival of the bride-to-be, the woman currently holding Daphne’s future in her manicured
hands.
Okay, not Daphne’s future.
But maybe Tea Thyme’s.
Lindsay glided inside, somehow glowing under the soft lighting like the entire shop had been staged just for her Instagram.
She wore a cozy-chic yellow blouse, distressed jeans, and boots that probably cost more than Daphne’s monthly grocery list.
But despite the influencer sheen, her smile was warm. Real.
“Oh, this place is adorable!” She took in the room, smile growing. “The photos online just don’t do it justice. It feels like
I just stepped into a storybook.”
Daphne’s pride did a little internal curtsy. “That’s exactly the idea. Tea should be an experience, not just a drink. A little
daily escape.”
“That’s what I keep telling Travis!” She stopped in front of the food-laden table. “That the food and the setting are part
of the whole thing. Our wedding’s small on purpose—for the magic, the intimacy.”
“And . . .” Daphne arched a brow, gesturing toward a chair in front of the delectable display. “Your fiancé doesn’t quite
see the vision?”
“Oh, he wants it to be nice. But where food is concerned?” Lindsay sat gracefully, crossing her legs. “He’s obsessed with
hearty, heavy comfort food. Think steak pies, pasties, full English breakfasts. If it doesn’t involve a stick of butter and
a food coma, he’s skeptical.”
Daphne arched a brow. “He sounds like an experience all on his own.”
Lindsay laughed. “He’s a wonderful man, but when it comes to food, he’s almost the equivalent of a walking cookbook from 1974.”
Her grin softened. “He appreciates refined food of course, but deep down he wants meals that remind him of growing up in Yorkshire.”
“That type of food has its place.” Daphne filed that away with interest. “But let’s see if we can expand his culinary worldview.”
She laid out the first round of her tasting menu—miniature savory tarts: wild mushroom and Gruyère, caramelized onion and
goat cheese, and smoked salmon with crème fra?che and a dill sprig so tiny it looked like it belonged in a dollhouse garden.
After all, her grandmother had been English. And Daphne loved all things British. So surely, with a few tweaks here and there,
she could dip further into more extensive savory options.
Think outside the box some more.
She drew in a breath. Not everything had to fit into her self-made boxes, did they? This wedding opportunity certainly didn’t.
It came out of nowhere. Totally outside her comfort zone.
And she already felt it pushing her in ways she’d been too afraid to try.
But wasn’t “necessity the mother of invention”? And maybe even the “mother of creative growing pains” in this case?
Lindsay took a bite of the mushroom tart and groaned softly. “Okay. That’s . . . absurdly good. And the crust? Flaky, buttery
perfection. Like a hug from Mary Berry herself.”
Daphne’s heart did a traitorous little skip. Not from the compliment—but because she suddenly realized she wanted this. Not
just the job. But the chance to be this version of herself in front of more than just her gran or Jack. Confident. Creative. Capable of making a roomful of
people melt with food. With joy.
And . . . to afford plumbing repairs was a nice by-product too.
“And that onion tart?” Lindsay was already reaching for the next. “Elegant. Flavorful.” She reached into her bag. “Mind if
I take some photos? My followers will love this.”
Mind? Try die of internal squealing. Lindsay Monroe had more than thirty million followers on her lifestyle, travel, and beauty social media pages. And she was
posting her dishes! Hers!
“Of course.” Daphne nodded, her voice breaking into a little squeak at the end.
As Lindsay artfully arranged a few tarts on her plate, Daphne unveiled the sweets: raspberry-rose pavlova with sugared petals,
a delicate Earl Grey peach tartlet, and an apple cider tea cake dusted with a whisper of cinnamon sugar.
“Oh wow.” Lindsay placed the remaining pavlova in her mouth, angling her phone for the perfect shot. “This isn’t just good.