Chapter 13 #3
“Um . . . well, if you’d like to test the theory.” Daphne sat back, shrugging a shoulder to try to displace whatever grins
lit Lindsay’s, Granny D’s, and even Travis’s face. “I could bring you a loaf. Of the focaccia.”
No big deal. Just two people sharing . . . food together.
“Perfect,” he said slowly. “We’ll let them meet properly. No pressure. Just two chefs. One table. Some objectively brilliant
food.”
“Exactly.” She slid a glance to Lindsay and back to Finn. “Just because we’re competitors doesn’t mean we can’t appreciate
each other’s . . . unique tastes.”
“Not at all,” he added, never looking away.
She swallowed down another drink of tea, drew in a deep breath, and refused to make eye contact with anyone else at the table.
Because just like that, the line between competition and something else entirely had gotten perilously blurry.
Finn wiped down the bar counter as the last stragglers ambled toward the door. The evening had gone far better than he’d imagined.
Not just in money earned but in the response of the community.
Only a few weeks in Wisteria, and he already felt . . . embraced. It didn’t make sense.
And he didn’t need it to.
After losing his wife, his dad, then his business, followed by half a year of trying to claw his life back together, he’d
landed in the most unlikely of places. And somehow, it fit.
Game night yesterday. A packed house tonight. Maybe it didn’t take years to find home.
Maybe it only took the right people.
Daphne’s face flashed to mind . . . a particular scene.
Her sitting across the table in a dress that highlighted her petite frame. One elegant hand lifting a rib. Just one bite.
And Finn felt it in his chest like a meteor strike all over again.
Daphne, who usually had the poise of a royal portrait, made a sound that definitely did not fit Miss Tea Shop. Her eyes fluttered
closed. Her head tilted back just slightly. And then she muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like,
“Heaven help me.”
And he forgot how to breathe.
She moaned. Over his ribs.
And then her appreciation turned into another conversation between them that he wanted on repeat forever. The flirting gave
way to something deeper. Her caution melted into this connection he’d never known before.
She wasn’t trying to impress him or compete with him. She was just being her—smart, creative, passionate. Animated in that way that made him want to lean in and never miss a single word.
As she talked—caramelized onions, cracked pepper crust, earthy flavor balance—he found himself nodding, absorbing, resisting
the very real urge to clear the table and kiss her senseless.
Because sure, the ribs were good. And yeah, his sauce deserved to be soaked into something spectacular.
But watching her light up, talk like they were coconspirators of some culinary masterpieces—that was the real magic.
And, heaven help him, he was absolutely, irreversibly . . . toast.
“I’d call this night a definite success.” Harry walked back from locking the front door, apron still tied. “Everyone—and I
do mean everyone—in Wisteria popped in.”
Finn sighed, a slow grin spreading. “Not complaining.”
Harry edged onto one of the barstools across from Finn.
“Told you this place was worthy of your dreams. These people too.”
Finn fixed two glasses—one for Harry, one for himself—using the familiar motions to buy time. The word success felt too small. It wasn’t just a good night.
It felt like something had clicked into place. A lock turned.
A sense of . . . belonging.
In each pat on the back, friendly hello, and even begrudged smile.
“It doesn’t make sense,” he said, leaning forward on his elbows, gaze drifting toward the darkened windows. Only the streetlamps
down Main Street glowed. “But they do make you feel a part rather quickly.”
Harry gave a knowing chuckle. “They make the right people feel a part quickly. That’s Appalachian clannishness for you. If you fit, you’re in. If not”—he shrugged—“might take
a while.”
Finn nodded, taking a drink. “It was like that for you?”
“Absolutely. I came in skeptical. But somehow I ended up in a small Southern town with people who treat me like kin.” His
grin softened. “For better or worse. And I know you needed that too.”
So that’s why Harry pushed for Finn to make the move.
He knew what Finn had needed even more than he’d known himself.
Finn studied the older man. “What else are you trying to say, Harry?”
Harry’s grin returned and he leaned back a little on the stool. “Do you remember the time you were invited to be a guest chef on the telly?” He snapped his fingers in thought. “What was the show?”
“Well Done?” Finn groaned, heat climbing the back of his neck. He’d hated watching himself on-screen. It had been a huge opportunity—and
it led to Sarah. Better chef. Big name. Glossy ambition. And he’d gone starry-eyed and pudding-brained over her. Never paused
to figure out if they fit.
Idiot.
“I remember the moment you got the call. You, me, and your dad were sitting around that table.”
“He’d just gotten back from hospital.” The first of a long trail of visits.
“Right.” Harry nodded. “And the pride on his face . . . I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man beam like that. He knew how hard
you’d worked.”
Finn took another drink just to have something to do. His eyes burned. “I remember.” His father had always been the best cheerleader.
The loudest. It was like he was making up for two parents.
“And the look on your face, well, it said it all. A dream had come true. You’d found your place.”
Finn’s attention shifted back to Harry, eyes narrowing. “I feel as though you’re trying to make a point.”
“Tonight, I saw that same look.” Harry leaned in. “That light. Joy, even. The sense you were exactly where you were supposed
to be.”
“Like we said, this town really showed up—”
“It wasn’t from the opening, Finn.” Harry shook his head, expression gentling. “It was when Daphne walked in. When you sparred
over ribs. When she spoke to Lucy.” Harry leaned closer. “You’re friendly with everyone, but anyone who knows you could have
read you like a book.”
“She’s great, isn’t she?” Finn tried for a smirk, but it landed somewhere in lovesick-puppy territory. “Smart, creative, beautiful.
Too good for me.”
“So that’s the problem?”
“I’m the problem, Harry.” Finn’s shoulders caved beneath the truth. “She thinks I’m a player,” he muttered, rubbing the back
of his neck. “And I don’t blame her. When we first met, I was . . . careless. Flirty. I didn’t know what this was going to
become. I didn’t expect—” His voice cracked. “I didn’t expect her.”
Harry’s eyes softened.
Finn stared down into his glass. “I’ve never felt this way. Not even with Sarah. It’s like—being near Daphne is . . . oxygen.
I’m better around her. I want to make her laugh. I want to listen to her talk about scones or tea pairings or obscure Austen
quotes and just . . . never stop listening.” He shook his head, almost in disbelief, the realization settling deeper. “With
Sarah, it felt like I had to work for those perfect moments. But with Daphne? Even when we’re bickering, it feels . . . easy.
Right.”
“You’ve grown since Sarah.” Harry gave a slow nod. “You know the difference between something that looks right and something
that is right.”
“Yeah.” Finn huffed a humorless laugh. “Grown—and still managed to act like a complete idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot. You did what a lot of hurting people do.” Harry gestured with his glass. “You built a wall. A pretty
one. Made of charm and banter and friendliness. But a wall all the same.”
“For Lucy,” Finn murmured. “And me.”
“But here’s the thing—walls don’t just keep pain out. They keep possibility out too.”
Finn winced. Daphne’s face flashed in his mind again. Those wounded eyes. Her voice like flint: “No troublesome hearts involved.”
“I want to change how she sees me,” he said softly. “But I don’t know how.”
“You change it by being honest.”
Finn looked at him sideways. “I’m a lot of things, Harry, but sentimental confessions aren’t exactly in my toolbox.”
“You’re a chef, Finn. You know presentation matters—but it’s the flavor that makes someone stay.”
Finn leveled his friend with a long look. “Are you really going to use cooking metaphors?”
He shrugged his answer. “Stop feeding her surface-level charm. Give her the deep stuff. The real you.” Harry’s smile crooked.
“Still be your usual gregarious self, but this time lead with your heart. She’s smart. She’ll see the difference.”
Finn was quiet for a long moment. “I . . . was hopeful she already had, at least a little.”
Harry chuckled. “Nobody argues that passionately about ribs and focaccia unless there’s something sweeter simmering under
the surface.”
Finn’s lips quirked. “Simmering?”
“What?” Harry raised a brow. “Roll with it.”
Finn chuckled and then looked down at his glass. “I just hope it’s not too late.”
Harry gave his shoulder a solid clap. “For real love? The kind that surprises you, makes your daughter smile like that, bowls
you over?” He leaned in, eyes alight with humor. “It’s never too late. Just don’t wait until the teapot boils over.”