Chapter 15 #2
Walking through town in all its festival glory only deepened his sense of belonging. Autumn bunting crisscrossed the street
above him. Booths spilled down the sidewalks. The scent of cinnamon kettle corn mingled with crisp air and roasting pecans.
And apples. The scent of apples flooded almost every intake of breath, and in various forms of deliciousness. Ah yes. He needed
to use those in a recipe very soon.
People waved, raved about his food, asked how Lucy was doing, joked with him like they’d known him all his life.
He’d not even been open a week, and already he had regulars—people who stayed to chat over coffee, who updated him on town
gossip whether he asked or not, who already knew how he organized his bar. But mostly, he’d felt the community embrace him.
They’d folded him into the story of Wisteria with an ease that caught him off guard and completely transformed his definition of home.
And of course the town had gone all in for the cook-off.
Banners stretched over shop windows. All sorts wore T-shirts declaring loyalty to either #TeamPub or #TeamTea. The local embroidery
shop had added oven mitts and aprons to the mix. Some voters were loud about their allegiance. Others whispered it with shifty
eyes like it was classified intel.
And still, the energy perked with pure fun. Friendly. No fights.
Yet.
Finn kept looking up the hill toward the pinnacle of the street where the focus of the festivities came to their crowded and
most colorful culmination. One of the beauties of the town was how it rose from the bottom of Main Street at the Ashbourne
River to the top in a slow incline until it crested at the point of the town hall, First Baptist Church, The Marches, and
Wisteria Public Park . . . which happened to house an amphitheater with musicians ready to play.
Live music echoed faintly, weaving between tents and booths. Streamers wrapped around lampposts. Balloons bobbed overhead.
And the center gazebo had been turned into the town’s culinary battlefield. Two booths stood side by side, one trimmed in
pale pink ribbon with “Team Tea” written in delicate script, and the other bold and bright with gold streamers spelling out
“Team Pub.”
He scanned the booths and spotted her. His lovely opponent.
She stood behind her counter, pink shirt tucked into jean shorts that did a criminal sort of justice to her legs. A matching
ribbon held her ponytail back. She leaned over a tray of delicate tea cakes, laughing with a little girl holding a glitter-covered
notebook.
His grin took a slow journey from one corner of his mouth to the other. Oh, he liked her.
Her humor. Her grit. Her intelligence and kindness.
He liked the way she didn’t let him off easy. But he also—if he were being honest—liked the way she looked with the sun painting her cheekbones and that wild sparkle in her eyes when she laughed.
She was sunlight and spice and everything nice, and she tangled herself around his heart in a way that felt part fairy tale, part rom-com, and all permanent.
They hadn’t talked much in the few days since he’d carried Lucy from her apartment. Business had been good—which meant hectic—but
he’d caught glimpses. Short ones. Teasing exchanges in the café. Brief hellos when Lucy stopped by Tea Thyme right after school
on Monday for, heaven help him, tea and—evidently—some princess talk.
But none of those had been enough to gauge where Daphne stood. Not enough to ask the important questions: Did she feel it
too? And how about a more-than-friendship option?
“Ah, finally,” Daphne said, placing a hand on her hip as he approached. “I was beginning to think you’d chickened out.”
Heaven and earth! Once she’d given way to the banter, she’d gone all in.
And he was happily here for it.
“Not a chance. I’ve got a town to win over, a reputation to defend, and”—his gaze slid slowly over her ensemble—“a rival to
distract.”
“You wish.” Her eyes narrowed, but her smile gave her away. “I’ve got the town’s sweet tooth in my back pocket.”
“Maybe.” He leaned a little closer, catching a whiff of cinnamon. “But I’ve got short rib sliders on cheddar brioche, espresso
salted caramel brownie sundaes, and a T-shirt that’s already trending on social.”
“Salted caramel brownie sundaes?” she squeaked, her bottom lip dropping into a fetching look of surprise.
“Swoon-inducing, even.” He searched those eyes, allowing the heat between them to kick up a few degrees.
She blinked and stepped back, shrugging as if he hadn’t caught the slight hitch in her breath at his nearness. Ah, perhaps
he did have a chance. “Where is your much more adorable sidekick this evening?”
If she’d hoped to deter the attraction, her wit only enhanced it more. “Margaret took her to the pony rides, and how could I ever compare to ponies?”
She fought her grin for a moment, her cheeks still a lovely shade of rose, and then tilted her head as if trying to see the
back of his shirt. “So, what does your shirt say?”
With a wiggle of his brows, he turned slowly, just enough for her to read it.
Her laughter burst out. “Oh wow. Jodie at the general store sure clocked you, didn’t she?”
He whipped back around to see her grin, and then his gaze fell to the logo on her shirt. #TeamTea? Ah, one of Jodie’s creations
too.
“Your go. Turn around.”
Her golden brows arched in challenge, and she mimicked his slow rotation. His laugh erupted as he read: “No coffee necessary
to roast the competition.”
And in that very moment, his heart gave way to the pull completely and entirely. He was in love with Daphne Austen, and there
was no going back.
“Touché,” he said, watching her continue to battle with her smile. “But actions speak louder than T-shirt quotes, so we’ll
just have to see what the town has to say.”
“Good luck then.” She offered her hand, and as soon as his fingers wrapped around hers, she gave his hand a squeeze and said,
“You’re gonna need it.”