Chapter 11
@LindsayMonroeOfficial: Wedding tasting at @TeaThymeNC. Pretty sure I’ve just stepped into a dream. If this isn’t the definition of wedding vibes,
I don’t know what is. #ElegantEats #SippingPretty #TeaTimeGoals
Comments:
@TravisLangfordConnects: But I had a food tasting at @TGDpub. If this doesn’t end up on the wedding menu, I’m running away with the chef instead.
#PubGrubPerfection #SorryLinds
@LindsayMonroeOfficial: @TravisLangfordConnects Nothing is that good.
@CCloves: You two can’t break up because of food. We’ve been following every step of this story from the beginning to now. We are in
it for the wedding.
@LindsayMonroeOfficial: @CCloves Our followers are the best, so we won’t let you down. We just have a little problem. We now have to pick a culinary
winner. How will we choose? Elegance over comfort food? Style over steaks?
“Okay, what’s going on with you?”
Daphne looked up from her tray of pastries and experimental savory bites to see her brother striding into Tea Thyme, eyes
narrowed with the sharp focus of a one-man lie detector.
He was usually a pretty chill guy.
Until he wasn’t. And then he made up for lost time.
But surely he couldn’t read her mind.
Couldn’t see the guilt simmering behind her smile. The flicker of disappointment that hadn’t left since . . .
The kiss.
The thoroughly unwise, thoroughly unforgettable kiss.
Which may have sent her into . . . lowkey falling for Finn a little.
Even though she shouldn’t.
Her stomach tightened.
Besides, Finn probably hadn’t even given it a second thought. Just another kiss in a line of many for him.
She frowned. If only she could forget it so easily!
“What do you mean?” she asked, voice pitched a little too high as she tried not to visibly sweat over a tray of her brand-new
creation: Earl Grey and honey macarons.
Jack raised a brow like he could see right through her. “You didn’t return my meme jokes last night.”
She busied herself with her piping.
“And,” he added, thumbing toward the front window, “you’ve got three new menu items on your chalkboard.”
She didn’t mention the five more she hadn’t written up yet.
“I have a wedding competition to win, remember?” She slid a shortbread cookie his way—a buttery little round perfected sometime
between 2:00 a.m. insomnia and replaying that kiss on a mental loop. “Besides, since Lindsay’s taste testing, she’s posted
all sorts of great things about Tea Thyme, and it’s brought in some extra business.”
“Well, that’s something.” Jack took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then immediately grabbed a second. “When I was up at the inn shooting engagement photos today, Margaret mentioned Lindsay and Travis are stirring up some sort of social media feud between you and Finn. What’s it called—GrubWars?”
“War definitely feels accurate,” she muttered, glancing toward the wall separating her shop from Finn’s, where the faint thrum
of rock music vibrated through the drywall.
But . . . at least he didn’t turn it on until she closed shop.
That was one nice thing about him.
And the kiss.
Ugh.
And did she even stand a chance against him with his experience and fare? He studied in Paris, for goodness’ sake. And Daphne
was sure he offered items that appealed to a certain group of people. But, boy oh boy, she wanted this. Needed it.
More than bragging rights or proving she wasn’t just the lace-aproned tea girl with pastel signage, this was a chance to save
her shop. Fix the leaks. Upgrade the kitchen. Keep Tea Thyme from becoming just another closed-door dream.
When she looked back, Jack was watching her. Too closely.
Heat rushed into her face, and she returned her focus to her piping.
He didn’t respond right away, so she spared him a look.
And, drat—now he was staring at the wall!
“The uptick in business is nice,” she said, trying to sound breezy, “even if I don’t win.”
“You have as good a chance as Finn, I’d say.” Jack took a bite of another cookie and then pointed with what was left of it.
“These are great. Granny would have loved them.”
That hit her in the soft spot. “She inspired the tea obsession in the first place.”
“I know.” He softened. But only for a second. “Still . . . this sudden pastry renaissance wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with the coffee slinger next door, would it?”
Daphne froze mid-pipe, then turned to him, face arranged in its most dramatic look of betrayal.
“Why would you say that?” She pointed the icing tip at him. “Your pep talks and meme game are highly powerful . . . especially
when I want them to stop.”
“Yeah, funny about that. None of my other pep talks ever resulted in you baking like you’ve joined the Pastry Olympics.” He
popped the rest of the cookie into his mouth. “But ever since your Good Samaritan rescue of Finn and his daughter, you’ve
been acting like someone spiked your English Breakfast with three shots of espresso.”
Before she could respond—or launch a tart in his direction—the front door creaked open, this time with an all-too-familiar
and hot-lipped silhouette.
Speak of the Henley-wearing devil.
“I’m closed,” Daphne said, turning and pointing directly at Finn. “Especially to you.”
Jack’s eyebrows launched into his hairline.
But Finn? He sauntered forward like he owned the place—ignoring the sign, the finger, and the very clear no-trespassing glare
she was shooting his way.
“You don’t get off that easy, Miss Austen.” His grin hooked sideways in that maddeningly confident way. “A harmless substitution
of salt for sugar does not warrant being hunted by wolves.”
Oh, right. She’d almost forgotten her little revenge prank.
“Where’s your adorable sidekick?” she asked, hoping to derail him. She’d seen the aftermath earlier—stepping outside after
Lindsay left and catching a glimpse of Finn being ambushed by a steady parade of Wisteria’s single (and not-so-single) women.
Some arrived with casseroles. Others came with mothers. One brought a crocheted scarf.
“She’s helping Gavin clean tables because she loves cleaning.” Finn groaned as he dropped onto the stool beside Jack, then pinned Daphne with a look.
“Gavin?” She gave her head a shake. “You have Gavin York working for you too?”
Of course Finn would convince one of the most well-known grillers in Wisteria to work for him!
Finn shrugged a shoulder like he accepted the power of his own charm. “And don’t attempt to divert the conversation from your
part of my torture. Because of you, I’ve been introduced to every eligible woman within a twenty-mile radius. Including two
who may have followed me from the farmers market.”
Jack turned slowly to his sister. “What did you do?”
Daphne lifted her hands in feigned innocence. “Just tried to help his business. Increased visibility. Good for marketing.”
“Help business, my eye,” Finn echoed with a glare far too dramatic to be genuine. “I’ve been drowning in gardenia body spray
and casserole-induced trauma. And all because someone couldn’t keep her foam art off my windows.”
She nearly snickered at his turn of phrase. He shouldn’t be so fun to irritate. He really shouldn’t.
But it was easy. And addicting. And—she blinked—surprisingly safe.
She didn’t worry about Finn overreacting. Or becoming angry. Or lashing out. How did she automatically know he could handle
it?
“Wait . . .” Jack shifted his attention between them. “Why do I get the feeling my sister has thrown you to the lionesses
of Wisteria?”
“She unleashed them.” And Finn, complete with a twinkle in his eyes, told Jack about the message she’d left on his restaurant
window and the ensuing result.
Jack groaned. “Daph, come on.”
But Daphne couldn’t quite summon a sincere apology. Not when Finn was trying so hard not to smile. Why did he have to be such a puzzle? Flirty but sincere? Easygoing but infuriating?
She just couldn’t seem to fully make him fit into a box.
“I did, however,” Finn said, with a smug little wink, “secure promises from all of them to stop by the pub Saturday night.
So . . . business will be booming.”
And that, my friend, is how a plan backfires.
Daphne resisted the urge to throw a tart at his head and then averted her attention. “So if all you wanted was attention and dinner dates, mission accomplished. No troublesome
hearts involved.”
The second the words left her mouth, she regretted them.
Finn’s gaze snapped to hers—too steady. Too . . . aware.
She shifted a step back from the counter, scrambling for a joke or jab, anything to shove the moment back into safe territory.
But her brain short-circuited under his expression.
Then, with a casual lean on the counter, Finn glanced at Jack.
And like there was some kind of invisible bro code, Jack stood and stepped over to the nearby shelf, suddenly finding her
turn-of-the-century Dutch Delft Dore teapot very, very interesting.
What was happening?
“About that . . .” Finn cleared his throat, cast another glance at Jack’s back, and leaned in just enough to lower his voice
to a conspiratorial hush. “That thing. The, um . . . thing that happened. Recently.”
Her eyes narrowed for a moment. She wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily for the thing that happened.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” she said, tilting her head and studying him. “What sort of . . . thing?”
Was he . . . blushing? All the way to his ears?
The very idea of this smooth-talking, confidence-wielding, swaggering man blushing over their kiss? It softened something
in her. Maybe her gut hadn’t been so off the other night after all.
“Right.” His eyes narrowed for an instant before he looked away. “Well. There was a moment. A particular moment. Of . . . proximity.”
A laugh nudged its way into her throat, but she swallowed it down. “Proximity?”
“Yes. You know.” His attention darted to Jack’s and back, before he lowered his voice even more. “When two people occupy a
shared . . . personal radius. And perhaps make impulsive facial decisions.”
Jack flinched.