Chapter 10 #2
It’s couture for your mouth.” She angled her phone for another shot, this time of the tea cake. “You know what I mean, right?”
“I do,” Daphne said with a somewhat-tempered grin. “I like to think of it as emotional support sugar.”
“I knew I liked you,” Lindsay said, taking a bite of the tartlet and actually moaning. “If your pastries can make me forget
that our caterer bailed, I’m calling you a miracle worker.”
“Only if miracles include a carb-based coping strategy,” Daphne quipped, refilling her tea. “You should see how people melt
after a bite of scone and a whiff of bergamot. I’m telling you, baked goods are like therapy.”
“Wisteria is like that too.” Lindsay sighed as she took another sip of tea. “The entire community has welcomed me like I never
left. It’s very grounding.”
“Well,” Daphne said, surprised at the sudden kinship blooming between them, “I think these hills carve out a little spot in
everyone’s heart who’s lived here long enough.”
Lindsay nodded, then turned thoughtful. “I never realized how much it would mean to be here again, and now to use a local
business for the wedding? It makes it feel more real somehow. Like . . . home.”
Daphne froze at the unexpected comradery.
Lindsay had been all over the world. Met famous people.
Made tons of money. But the fact that Wisteria still meant something to her .
. . well, the distance between struggling tea shop owner and world-renowned influencer didn’t seem as large as it did a few minutes before. “Home is a special place.”
“Exactly.” She nodded. “And special is exactly what I want people to experience at my wedding,” Lindsay continued, her eyes bright. “I don’t just want good food—I
want food that delights people. The kind of thing where every bite feels like a treat, from first look to last taste. And
maybe even helps people experience this”—she waved her hand toward the window—“home of ours. That’s why I wanted to meet with
you first while Travis is meeting with Finn.”
Daphne’s heart did a very unhelpful little hiccup at the mention of Finn, but she wasn’t sure if it was from professional
rivalry . . . or the way he’d kissed her like—her gaze dropped to the peach tartlet—like she tasted good. Heat ticked up her
neck and into her cheeks.
Drat that man and his disturbingly nice lips.
“Well,” she managed, smoothing the napkins even though they didn’t need smoothing, “you’ll have plenty to compare notes on
later. Just make sure you pick the right person for your big day.”
“I plan to.” Lindsay snapped another photo, then plucked another tart off the plate. “Travis may fight me on it, but if this
is the competition? Finn’s in trouble.”
Daphne’s gaze slid toward the wall separating her shop from Finn’s.
He should be in trouble . . .
And preferably avoidable.
After leaving her off-kilter from that kiss, the very least he should do is forfeit this competition, because that kiss probably
didn’t knock him for as much of a loop as it did her.
“Um . . . so is this kind of a competition between the two of you?”
Lindsay’s question pulled Daphne’s attention back to the woman’s face. “Um . . . well, he is sort of my competition, isn’t
he?”
One of Lindsay’s dark manicured brows rose northward. “I suppose he is.” Her gaze moved to the adjoining wall, and then her smile spread wide as she raised a piece of shortbread to her lips. “Mr. Dashwood may very well be in trouble.”
Daphne sipped her tea, trying to cool the heat in her cheeks.
Her gaze traveled back to the wall. No, he shouldn’t forfeit.
He needed to lose fair and square. Get a good dose of healthy humbling.
Because she was determined to win.
Finn had laid out a spread that could’ve made a lumberjack weep with gratitude—whiskey-glazed pork belly, mini Yorkshire puddings
puffed to golden perfection, and a take on bangers and mash that might’ve brought tears to a stoic Brit’s eye. Roasted root
vegetables and a display of his favorite desserts rounded everything out.
This was food that stuck to you. Food that made people groan in satisfaction.
Which was exactly what Travis Langford did the moment he took his first bite of the pork. His eyes fluttered shut like he
was catching a glimpse of the afterlife. “This. This is a wedding meal.”
Finn leaned back against the counter, cool and casual, pulling the towel from his shoulder to wipe his hands. “So I take it
you’re enjoying yourself?”
“If you don’t cater our wedding, I might have to cancel it outright.”
Finn barked a laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment, mate—though I feel like your fiancée should weigh in before you make
any dramatic life decisions.”
“I’m just chuffed we found another option in time. Lindsay was in full-on meltdown mode when the caterer bailed, so Harry’s
suggestion about you and Daphne came at the perfect time.”
“Harry and Maggie are dangerously well connected.” Finn gave a mock bow. “And Wisteria hasn’t even tasted my best work yet.”
“Harry mentioned you’re opening this weekend with a limited menu?” Travis speared a roasted carrot. “But if this is your ‘limited’ menu, I’m almost afraid to see what happens when you offer the full one.”
“I hope it brings in a large number of patrons.” Finn stood a little taller. Travis’s praise was a nice boost to the ego,
especially when a bloke was just starting over in a new town with more baggage than a honeymoon suite. Which inspired an idea.
“As a matter of fact, Travis, if you are still in town, I’d like to formally invite you and your lovely fiancée to The Green
Dragon on Saturday night. Special tasting menu. Drink pairings. I might even shave.”
“I’ll make certain we are here.” Travis nodded. “Because it’s going to take all the charm you can muster to win over Lindsay.
She’s been on this ‘curated elegance’ kick since January, and of course it fits her entire brand, so why should I be surprised
that she’s carried it over into the wedding? Says the whole day has to be an experience.”
“And I’m guessing your version of an experience includes more gravy than glitter?”
“Exactly.” Travis scooped up another bite of mash and groaned like the spirit of Yorkshire had descended upon him. “She wants
food that looks like it belongs in a bridal magazine. I want food . . . like this.”
“And maybe like this too?” He pushed a tray of sweets forward. “Molten chocolate cake, pecan fudge bombs, and”—because he
wasn’t completely devoid of romantic sensibilities—“a raspberry fool. Light, sweet, deceptively charming.”
The words stuck in his throat.
Deceptively charming.
Daphne’s face flashed in his mind. The shock in her eyes after their kiss. But worse—the guarded sadness that followed. Like
she’d known it would end that way. Like she’d expected him to pull away. And he had.
Because he was an idiot.
A fool indeed.
He should have said something. Anything. But the second her lips left his, it was like a trapdoor had opened beneath him. His pulse had thundered, his chest had seized—and all he could think was, Not again.
And yet, he’d wanted to stay. For the first time in a long, long while, he’d wanted to linger. Brew a pot of tea. Sit on her
couch. Ask her questions about her ridiculous blend names and that vintage baking tin collection. Maybe even . . . kiss her
again. Slower this time.
But instead, like a coward, he’d bundled Lucy up and made his exit.
Because that was safer. And safer was his default now.
Then why did safe suddenly feel more like an excuse than a protection?
Travis, mercifully oblivious to Finn’s spiraling, looked up like he might propose right then and there. “It’s like I’ve stepped
back into my nan’s kitchen. If she’d had a Michelin star and a flair for dramatic presentation.” His grin grew and he dipped
his spoon into the cake first, whimpering with pleasure at the taste.
Finn really couldn’t have asked for a better recommendation. He loved this part—watching people light up when they tasted
something that hit just right. Food was storytelling. Memory. Sometimes even redemption.
What might work for Daphne? Chocolate?
He stifled a groan. No. Food was much too shallow an apology when the damage was deeper than a burnt caramel or split ganache.
And he wanted to apologize. Make things right. Maybe even . . .
What?
Hope again?
Because of her and what those minutes of conversation felt like when all the barriers slipped away? When it was talk of food
and family? When it was just him and her without pretense?
Travis pointed his fork toward the spread. “Do you think there’s a way to make this look . . . you know, classier?”
It didn’t get classier than Yorkshire pudding, but if Finn wanted to be taken seriously by the wedding venue population, maybe he needed to think a little more . . . creatively. Sticky pudding in a dessert glass? Nicer plates? Microgreens?
“I could carve ‘happily ever after’ into the mashed potatoes,” Finn deadpanned. “With a gravy drizzle flourish.”
Travis laughed. “As long as the potatoes show up, mate.”
Finn chuckled, but his mind wandered—right past the Yorkshire pudding and raspberry fool, to the woman likely serving petit
fours and perfumed teas through the adjoining wall.
“Didn’t I see you and Lindsay drive in together?” He nodded toward the wall like he could see through it. “I’m guessing Lindsay
is with Daphne right now?”
Travis gave a sheepish nod. “She was already planning the Instagram caption in the car.”
“Which means Daphne is currently wooing her with bite-size baked goods and frosting.” He tried to sound unaffected. Light,
even. But a slow ache tugged behind his ribs. “Probably has rose petals scattered on the scones.”
Travis paused mid-chew. “I didn’t think about that.”
“Don’t worry,” Finn said, injecting false bravado into his voice. “I’ll win her over.”
He had to. It wasn’t just about the gig. Or the timing. Or even the ridiculous joy he got from proving himself.
“You sure?” Travis asked, eyebrows raised, before he delved into the Yorkshire pudding like he hadn’t eaten in twelve years.
“Because Lindsay has been dreaming about this day since she was five. She’s got vision boards. Plural.”
“She’s romantic. I get it.” Finn waved a hand over the food. “But this is a wedding. Not a garden party. People need fuel
to dance and flirt and make questionable choices.”
Travis grinned. “You’re not wrong.”
“And look, Daphne’s incredible,” Finn added before he could stop himself.
In fact, the statement slipped right out, complete with a surprising amount of .
. . awareness that he believed it. So why would he run away from incredible?
He shoved off the thought. “She’s got taste.
Grace. Probably has her own zip code on Pinterest.”
Travis laughed again and then tipped his head, studying Finn. “You know? If Daphne has the look and you have the”—he waved
his fork toward the food—“soul. Maybe the dream team is both of you.”
Finn’s jaw clenched, but he wasn’t sure why. Both of them? Sounded like . . . a relationship. “We’re not a team.”
“Oh?” Travis tilted his head.
“No.” He forced up his grin again, attempting to shrug off the way Travis’s suggestion twisted uncomfortably into his psyche.
“At the moment, we’re . . . competitors.”
Even if she’d kissed him back.
Finn raised his gaze to the wall, another pang twisting in his chest. He shouldn’t have kissed her. He’d known it before he’d
leaned in—knew it as surely as he knew how to time a soufflé. Knew she wasn’t like the others. And instead of dousing his
interest in her, the only thing that kiss had done was make him want more. More of her voice. Her laugh. Her stupid tea metaphors.
Her heart.
And that was the part that terrified him most.
Because wanting more meant risking more. And he’d done that once. With someone who had promised forever and left anyway. It
had gutted him. Changed him. Made him someone who didn’t reach for soft things anymore.
So no—he hadn’t kissed Daphne expecting to fall. But it was happening anyway.
And he had no idea how to stop it.