Chapter 11 #2
The desire to laugh grew into a cough. “Impulsive facial decisions?”
Finn’s eyes narrowed the slightest bit as he studied her. “I’m apologizing for . . . any and all unplanned proximity that
may have resulted in . . .”
Her brows rose in expectation.
All humor slipped from his face, replaced with something low and intense. “Hurting you.”
Oh.
Daphne searched his eyes, trying to read what he really meant. This wasn’t flippant or coy. It was . . . genuine.
“I was wrong, Daphne,” he said quietly. “Forgive me?”
The apology hit her somewhere deep. Her heart gave a traitorous thud.
Wrong? About the kiss?
Her throat tightened.
Or about his interest in her heart?
And then, like the perfect interruption of a Hallmark movie, his phone buzzed.
He held her attention for a breath longer before glancing down at the phone. “It’s Gavin.”
With another long look at her, he raised the phone to his ear and stepped back toward the front of the shop. And Daphne stood
there, staring after him, wondering when exactly her revenge plan had become so . . . complicated.
Jack returned to the counter and then leaned forward. “What is going on between the two of you?”
His whisper breathed harshly across the short space between them.
She dragged her gaze back to her brother. “What do you mean?”
“Unplanned proximity?” Both his brows rose. “Impulsive facial decisions?”
The laugh-cough erupted for a short release. “It’s really nothing. A momentary . . . nothing.”
“Are you interested in Finn?”
Daphne let out a long breath, trying to exhale the knot in her chest. “He’s not my type.”
“Not my question.” Jack narrowed his eyes.
Heat crept up her neck. She turned back to her piping bag. “I’m not interested in his type.”
“Ahhh.” Jack stretched out the word. “So much clearer now.”
She rolled her eyes for his viewing pleasure.
“He’s all the things you’ve waxed poetic about for years: British, funny, food obsessed.” Jack ticked off fingers, then paused,
his tone softening. “Is it because he’s a dad?”
“No. Actually, being a dad is probably his best feature.” Daphne sighed. “And his version of nice”—she used air quotes—“is at least fifty percent jerk and ninety percent commitment phobic. He told me so. He’s nothing but
a flirt.”
But even as she said it, the memory of his apology flickered in her chest. Not so flirtatious. Not so light.
“What?” Jack pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, giving his head a little shake before staring back. “Um . . .
being a flirt doesn’t always equal shallow or heartless, Daph.” Jack shook his head. “No matter what Jane Austen says.”
She squinted at him. He grinned. Then sobered.
“A guy doesn’t apologize like that if he’s indifferent. Whether or not he wants a relationship, he clearly cares about not hurting you. And that’s not jerk behavior.”
She opened her mouth, ready to object—then closed it. Jack was right.
Again.
Finn wasn’t a jerk. He was a good dad. Genuinely decent to people, from everything she’d seen . . . and heard. Polite to Granny
D. Friendly with the whole town.
Well—everyone but her.
And still, that kiss had felt . . . different. Like he’d been surprised too.
She nodded, mostly to herself. It didn’t matter. Whatever spark existed, it wasn’t going anywhere. Not when he made it crystal
clear he wasn’t looking for anything beyond . . . impulsive facial decisions.
They could just be simple, neighboring competitors till death do they part.
“Who’s to say that he’s only really flirting with you?”
That stopped her mid-thought.
Her bottom lip dropped. “He flirts with everyone.”
“Does he?” Jack raised a brow. “Has he flirted with anyone else the way he flirts with you?”
She opened her mouth, ready to list names. Then paused.
Yes, he was friendly. Yes, he was smooth. But . . . was it the same?
And why did that suddenly make her think of all the horrible antics middle school boys engaged in when they were crushing
on a girl?
Her face went warm at the memory of his lips on hers. But Finn most definitely wasn’t a middle school boy.
Just then Finn returned, phone lowered, looking slightly less amused. “Gavin said we’ve got a problem at the pub.”
Jack stood.
“Oh no.” Daphne lowered the pipe. “What is it?”
“Dishwasher.” Finn grimaced. “Minor flood.”
Her stomach lurched. Was Finn’s plumbing connected to hers? Similar to hers, even? Surely her leak and his couldn’t be related,
could they?
“Gavin is steering suds toward the back door with a pizza peel.”
Jack snorted. “Everything falls apart without me, I see.”
“Very funny.” Finn took a few steps back. “I need to get over there.”
“I’ll help.” Jack followed.
“And, Miss Austen?” Finn turned, those caramel eyes locking with hers. “About the Triple-S-G, don’t think I’ve forgotten we
have a score to settle.”
Flirting again. But was it different with her?
“We do.” She lifted her chin, stepping into it with renewed curiosity. “I believe you’re still in my debt, Mr. Dashwood.”
Finn narrowed his eyes like a man about to start a war. Or kiss a girl.
She gave him a taunting smile.
Jack rolled his eyes.
Then the door closed behind them, and Daphne stood alone in the quiet bakery, staring after them . . .
. . . wondering which she wanted more.
The war.
Or the kiss.
Finn leaned against the prep counter, damp from the mop battle and smelling faintly of citrus cleaner and rosemary chicken.
The dishwasher was officially dead, but a replacement had been ordered within the hour, and no one had cried in public. So
far, so good.
He’d hired two solid guys as his main managers—Gavin and Jack worked well with him, intuitively.
“Daddy.” Lucy pulled her dragon tighter into a hug and smiled up at him. “Mr. Jack put Dragon in one of the bowls and floated it over the floor.”
Finn shot Jack a look across the kitchen. Jack just grinned. “When life gives you lemons . . .”
“Or in this case, a minor flood?”
“Make an ark?” Jack shrugged, finishing off the last bit of water pooling near the wall that connected their kitchen to Daphne’s.
Finn pulled Lucy up in his arms and placed a kiss on her head. “Jack should stitch that on a pillow, shouldn’t he?”
With Jack’s laugh echoing behind him, he carried Lucy to the front of the shop and set her down with her late supper. “I’m
going to help Mr. Jack finish cleaning up, all right, lamb?” She raised a carrot to her smile and nodded.
Finn returned to the kitchen and reached for a bottled water. “I’m grateful Pete was able to fix the problem so quickly.”
He tossed a bottle to Jack as the man stood from collecting the last of the dish towels. “Let’s hope that’s the last of the
chaos. I’ve got too much riding on Saturday night—money, reputation, and possibly a wedding gig that could keep us afloat
through the fall.” His eyes pressed closed. “And . . . tomorrow is Lucy’s first day of school.”
“On a Friday?”
“They do this staggered entry thing for kindergarteners. Lucy’s turn is tomorrow.” Finn gave a helpless shrug. Because of
course it would be.
“Well, Gavin and I are here for the full day to help prep. Whatever you need, we’re your guys.”
Finn nodded, grateful. Jack’s help had turned out to be more than just logistical—he’d been a steadying presence in the middle
of the bedlam. Between dish disasters, a whirlwind of emotions, and the storm of Finn rebuilding his life, Jack had shown
up for Finn like a man on a mission. And had become a friend.
With Harry running the inn, Jack offered a thread of community Finn hadn’t realized he’d been craving in the aftermath of a business scandal and the loneliness of single fatherhood.
“By the way . . .” Jack placed the last towels in a bucket by the back door. “I was able to sneak Pete into Daphne’s kitchen
like you asked.”
Finn straightened.
“Said her plumbing’s a mess, but he made a temporary fix.”
“How temporary?”
Jack shrugged. “He’s hoping a few months, but what the shop really needs is a renovation. It’s been running on borrowed time—and
love—for a while.”
Pete Marsh had warned him—the old plumbing that ran between their kitchens was a disaster waiting to happen. His side had
been updated in part, but the sections they shared? A cracked pipe away from catastrophe. From what Pete had said, Daphne’s
side was hanging on by a thread and a prayer.
“How much do I owe you?” Jack reached for his wallet. “For Daphne’s part of the repairs.”
“Nothing.” Finn waved him away. “It needed to be done anyway.”
With Wisteria’s Womanly Welcome—and Daphne’s very public matchmaking stunt—his shop had seen a healthy uptick in interest.
Hopefully the costs would even out quickly.
Jack’s expression didn’t budge. “Finn, the main leak came from her side.”
“I know.” Finn nodded as warmth flushed through his chest. “But now my side’s fixed and hers is patched well enough to get
her through a few more months. There’s no reason to make more of it than that, Jack. I’ve got a restaurant to open in two
days—and I need a working kitchen to do it.”
He could tell that explanation didn’t quite convince Jack. He gave Finn a long, assessing look.
“I’m part of this community now,” Finn added, keeping his tone even. “And you’re the one who said neighbors help each other, remember?” He lifted a brow. “Would you have done the same?”
Jack didn’t answer.
But the silence was enough.
“Then let it go.” Finn’s voice softened. And still, even with the price tag and the lingering doubt, it had been the right
call. A good one. One his younger, less-jaded self would have made without question—back before fear of being used or let
down had carved him into someone more cautious. “Save your money for when she needs a full replacement. Because she will.”
He exhaled. “And despite my blunders . . . I do want to be her friend.”
Or something more? The question sliced through him with the pain of a knife.
The very fact he was even asking the question said enough.
He was starting to care about Daphne Austen.
And that scared him more than the plumbing bill.
“Friend?” Jack breathed out a sigh and leaned back against the fridge, arms folded. “Look, I don’t usually play the protective
brother card. But—”
Here we go.
Finn braced.
Jack hesitated, eyes flicking to the sink before meeting Finn’s squarely again. “Daphne’s known a lot of hurt.”
Finn studied Jack, his thoughts spiraling back to the tea shop. No doubt Jack had heard Finn’s horrible attempt at a coded
apology . . . and had come to his own conclusions.
Finn’s defenses twitched. “Do you think I’m the sort who would wish to hurt her?”
Even though he had.
And he hated it.
Jack didn’t flinch. “Are you?”
The words hit like a punch to the ribs—sharp and deserved. Similar to the one he’d been giving himself for the past two days.
“I know I don’t want to hurt her again.” He hesitated. “Beyond that? I thought I had a plan. Thought I knew what I was doing. What
I wanted.” His eyes drifted toward the wall that separated their shops. “But now I’m not so certain.”
Something subtle shifted in Jack’s stance—like a hinge opening—and he leaned back against the fridge. “Our dad left when Daphne
was eight.” Jack swallowed. “Couldn’t handle our mom’s cancer diagnosis.”
Finn stilled.
“The three of us moved in with our grandmother—the one who started Tea Thyme. Mom passed not long after we came here. From
that point on, it was just Granny. She held us together.”
A pause.
“Until last year. Heart attack. No warning. One day we were planning the fall menu, the next”—his gaze came up—“she was gone.
We’ve had a lot of people leave. Most unintentionally.”
Finn didn’t speak. His chest had gone tight. That kind of loss? That much grief packed into a few short years? It was staggering.
And somehow . . . they still led with kindness.
Still gave.
It humbled him all the more.
“And that’s why I’m being up front,” Jack said quietly. “Daphne’s not wired for flings or games. She latches onto people and
loves with her whole heart. She remembers everything about the people she cares about. The way they take their tea”—he waved
to Finn—“or coffee, in your case, even if she hates coffee.” His grin flashed for a second. “She’s the type of person who
remembers the names of people’s dogs or that offhand comment they made about liking waffles more than pancakes. She files
it all away like it means something and then uses it to help them feel special.”
Finn’s mouth tugged into a small, sad smile, even as something inside him ached.
“Right,” he said quietly. “That tracks.”
“So if this is just a game for you—don’t.” Jack leaned in, his tone sharpening just a touch. “I don’t care how charming you
are. She deserves better than temporary.”
Finn rubbed the back of his neck, the weight of Jack’s words settling over him. “She does.”
Jack watched him for a beat, then gave a slow nod. Like he’d found whatever answer he needed.
Finn sort of wished Jack would let him in on the secret, because currently Finn felt entirely flummoxed from the heart out.
The front door jangled, likely Gavin returning, and Jack pushed away from the fridge. He paused near the counter, expression
thoughtful.
“Just remember that, man.” His voice was quieter now. “Because she might not say it—she might not even know it yet—but she
already cares more than temporary.”
Then he stepped away, leaving Finn standing in the wake of that knowledge.
Finn stared at the space Jack had just vacated. A small puddle of water still pooled near the dishwasher, reflecting fractured
shapes from the overhead light.
He didn’t move.
Because deep down he already knew the truth.
He’d started caring more than temporary too.
And he wasn’t sure if he was brave enough for the risk.