Chapter 14
@TGDPub: What would you rather have for lunch?
Pasties
A cookie on a fancy plate
Vote wisely. #TeamPub #FoodWars #TeamCoffee #BeanWaterIsLife
PS: Thanks for making opening night for #RealFood an amazing success, Wisteria!
Comments:
@TeaThymeNC: Wow. I see we’re asking the hard-hitting questions. Careful, Finn. The internet might just prefer sophistication over beer
snacks. #TeamTeaRoom #TeamTea #SteepedLeaf4Life
@TGDPub: Pasties are sophisticated. They’ve got layers. Also, wasn’t it you who nearly proposed to a short rib last night? #TeamPub
#SmokedMeatIsLove #SheMoaned #Receipts
@TeaThymeNC: A moment of weakness. Clearly. And it was a private moment between a woman and a very good rib. Lord, help me! You just told the whole town! And I did not moan. #FakeNews #RibsRNotWorthThis
@JackAustenPhotography: [blurry zoomed-in photo of Daphne’s face mid-bite] I believe the technical term is food euphoria. Evidence submitted to the
court. #SorryNotSorry #BigBrotherDuties #ReceiptsCaptured
@TeaThymeNC: DELETE THAT IMMEDIATELY. #Betrayed #NoMoreFreePhotography #TimeForANewWillAgain
@TGDPub: I’d like to order a framed print, please. For the pub wall. For . . . customer testimonial purposes. #HighestPriority #WillPayPremium
@TeaThymeNC: [photo of perfectly plated rosemary sea salt focaccia next to a teacup] Don’t you dare. Or you’ll never seen how well this
pairs with your ribs. #NotAboveBlackmail #BreadSwoon
@PastorNateNHC: Remember, friends: “Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.” Proverbs 16:18. That said, my vote’s
for the collaboration. #JustSaying #BringingPeopleTogetherSince2019 #AlsoThoseRibsAndFocacciaSoundAmazing
@TGDPub: Listen to the preacher, Daphne. You bring the focaccia. I’ll bring the ribs. Let’s see what happens. #CollabOrFlirt #ISayBoth
@TeaThymeNC: Fine. But only if you try some of my best tea too . . . with photo evidence. Also, I demand another piece of that sticky
toffee pudding. #TermsAndConditions #BreadBeforeDudes #StillNotFlirting
@WisteriaWeekly: A surprise collaboration (#TeamFocacciaRibs) Vote now! Results in next week’s issue! #WisteriaFoodWars #BettingPoolInProgress
#GrubWars
@NCFoodies: Thanks so much for alerting us to the #FoodieWar happening over in #Wisteria @LindsayMonroeOfficial They’re all over social
media. #WeWantIn
@WisteriaWeekly: You two are causing more commotion than the upcoming Harvest Festival. Just imagine if you had your own booths. Now that
would draw a sizable crowd at this point.
@SheriffGrady: It would. More people. More revenue for our dear town.
@TGDPub: Did the sheriff just comment on my social media page?
@TeaThymeNC: It’s about revenue. Of course he did.
@JackAustenPhotography: And to get his name on the same page as Lindsay and Travis. #PlayingWithTheBigBoys
@SheriffGrady: I’ve been playing the game longer than y’all have been alive.
@LindsayMonroeOffical: I love helping my hometown. And maybe that means the folks of Wisteria can help us decide about our caterer. Especially with
a real cook-off? What do you say, folks? Send help. Or votes. #WeddingWars #HowDoWeChoose
@TravisLangfordConnects: @LindsayMonroeOfficial Great idea. The whole town is following the plans online anyway. Might as well let them join in.
A quiet knock stirred Daphne from the kind of slumber that only happened by accident—and only when you were so cozy that your
body gave in before your mind did.
Lucy lay curled on the couch beneath a fuzzy blanket, her long, dark hair fanned across a floral pillow.
A sprinkle of freckles peeked over the bridge of her nose, and one arm had flopped dramatically over the side like a princess who had fainted mid-ball.
Daphne blinked fully awake, gently closed The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and stretched to stand, careful not to wake the sleeping beauty in her living room.
About an hour after arriving at Finn’s pub, Lucy had started to yawn. Another half hour in, she’d wilted just a little more—still
smiling, still game to pass out menus and wave like a celebrity, but the sparkle had dimmed behind her eyes. So Daphne had
offered to take her back to the apartment, let her rest if she wanted.
Finn thanked her, told her he’d expected Margaret Coleman from the inn to take Lucy for the night, but the woman had come
down with a stomach virus that morning, so she was out of commission.
What followed had felt like a balm to Daphne’s slightly weathered soul.
A cup of tea for both of them—in real china, thank you very much—and a round of princess braids while Lucy made up a bedtime
story involving a sword-wielding duchess and a dragon who liked sparkly accessories. It had made something warm bloom in Daphne’s
chest. Not quite grief, not quite nostalgia. Just . . . a sweet ache. The kind that whispered of things you hadn’t realized
you missed . . . or wanted.
Another knock. This one gently insistent.
Daphne padded barefoot to the door and opened it to find Finn on the other side, looking like a well-worn dream. His shirt
was open at the collar, sleeves still rolled up at the elbows, and his hair was doing that tousled thing that looked expensive
and intentional but Daphne suspected came from running his hands through it five hundred times. He offered a tired smile,
and she nearly melted to the wood floor.
He looked unfairly good at midnight after a long day of work. Which was rude.
And weird things happened at midnight.
Or so the stories said.
He held up a small container like a peace offering. “You didn’t get a chance to try this before leaving, so I saved you a piece.”
“You mean a bribe,” she teased, stepping aside to let him in. “You’re bribing me with food.”
“Or thanking you.” He passed the container into her hands. “And in my defense, you already liked my ribs, so I supposed you’d
like a bit of molten bourbon chocolate cake too.”
She wiped a hand across her mouth just to be sure she wasn’t drooling.
Either from the cake or the man . . . or the unjust combination of the two.
“Well, you do owe me after sharing with the entire cyberworld about my uncommonly public weakness for excellent food.” She
took the offering. “That was a low blow, Dashwood.”
His eyes lit, and for some reason it made her want to keep up the banter.
“I regret nothing. The internet loved it. And how could I let the opportunity pass?” He leaned back against the doorframe,
his grin flicking crooked. “There’s nothing quite as rewarding to any chef as having another worthy competitor value their
work.”
She studied him a moment, her ire reducing to a slight simmer at the truth. It did matter. That shared recognition of something
good. In fact, the little tête-à-tête about bread and ribs and spices she’d had with him earlier in the evening still hummed
a welcome theme through her mind. Still seemed to tether her to him in some way . . . like a lingering aroma.
“Well, I’d love to garner the same response, but it seems you’re allergic to trying my food.” She turned toward the kitchen.
“I’ve had your scones,” his low voice permeated the space behind her as he followed. “They were delicious, but it does smell
like you’ve been working on something else.”
“A peach cobbler tartlet recipe for the wedding, but something’s missing.
” She placed the container on the counter and turned back toward him.
“However, what you probably smell are the cookies Lucy and I made.” She waved toward the stovetop where a plate of cookies in various shapes, from hearts to flowers, were piled in a mound of sugar and sprinkles.
“Not to worry.” Daphne raised a finger. “I only allowed her to eat one.”
“I appreciate that.” He glanced at her, still smiling in a . . . new way? The same as at the restaurant. What was that about?
“So. Our rivalry’s officially trending.”
“I saw that! A woman today said she only came in because she ‘needed to witness the tension for herself.’” Daphne made air
quotes with her fingers.
“I had ten people visit tonight because they’d seen the rivalry online.”
A laugh escaped her as she leaned back against the counter. “Right? I’ve had a consistent uptick in numbers, which can’t be
a coincidence.”
Finn chuckled. “Glad we’re amusing the masses.”
“It’s good for business,” she said lightly.
“And fun,” he added, grinning as he leaned one hip against the counter. “Especially the part where I get to flirt shamelessly
with you and call it marketing.”
“Flirt?” Her stomach did an unhelpful somersault. She forced herself to scoff. “With me? Please. You flirt with everything
that breathes.”
“Untrue.” He tilted his head, a playful glint in his eye—though something quieter, more sincere stirred beneath it. “I’m friendly.”
“Friendly, is it?” She handed him a water bottle and leaned back against the island, doing her best to appear unimpressed.
“So you don’t mean to flirt?”
He took the bottle from her, letting his fingers graze hers in a way that absolutely wasn’t accidental.
“Not like I’m trying to seduce the entire town, no.
I like people. I like talking. Banter. Light engagement with men and women alike.
” He took a long drink, then set the bottle down with a soft thunk.
“But when I mean it . . . I’m apparently terrible at hiding it. Or so Harry says.”
Daphne’s throat tightened. What did meaning it look like, then? Because online flirting felt safe. Manageable. But in person, with Finn—his voice, his scent, his infuriatingly
kind eyes—it felt anything but safe.
“Daphne?”
His sudden seriousness seized her breath. His expression. The sincerity. She wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. Maybe it
was just part of that midnight magic in the storybooks. “Yes?”
“We may be rivals online for marketing, but I hope we can manage to be friends in real life.” His smile softened. “You’ve
proven to be fairly wonderful to me and Lucy.”
The compliment sent lovely warmth through her.