Chapter 16
@WisteriaWeekly: It’s happening, folks. The cook-off begins TONIGHT. Get your taste buds ready and your vote tickets in hand. #TeamTea #TeamPub
#HarvestFestivalThrowdown
Comments:
@LindsayMonroeOfficial: Mood: sitting front row with a fork in one hand and popcorn in the other. May the best chef (and best slow-burn love story)
win. #TeamSwoon #MatchmakersUnite
@RosemaryatThyme: Just saw Daphne calmly adjust a garnish while Finn blatantly checked her out. This isn’t a cook-off. It’s a culinary rom-com.
@LindsayMonroeOfficial #IYKYK #MatchBaker
@LindsayMonroeOfficial: Right? @RosemaryatThyme. What are we really voting on? #FoodOrRomance #SugarOrSpiceButAllOfItsNice
@TeaThymeNC: @TGDPub doesn’t deserve to win. He just tried to sabotage my careful food placing by winking at me. If my soufflé falls,
he’s to blame. #CheatersNeverProsper #FlirtFail
@TGDPub: #Unashamed
@JackAustenPhotography: Guys. You’re standing three feet apart. We can see the heart eyes.
@PastorNateNHC: The Lord moves in mysterious ways. Sometimes through miracles . . . sometimes through muffins. Let’s all remember to support
one another in love, patience, and pastry-based outreach. #GraceAndGlaze #PrayForTheScones
@GrannyDOfficial: Her granny raised her better than to let a man’s wink ruin her soufflé. But then again, that man can cook and he’s mighty
handsome. Let her have a moment, Pastor. She’s only human.
@TGDPub: @GrannyDOfficial You do know you’re my favorite, right?
@MayorWilsonOfficial: Let the record show I voted once. (With my stomach.) And I’m abstaining from further comment. #JustBusiness #Mostly
@RosemaryatThyme: Weaponized flirting. Delicious. I’ll take two.
@WisteriaWeekly: New headline: “Local baker victim of baked-good sabotage via perfectly placed smolder.”
@OldManRutherforton: Back in my day, we settled rivalries with an arm wrestle, not a tart-off. That said, #TeamTea. I know good structure when
I see it.
@SheriffGrady: Bribery by baked goods: a proud Wisteria tradition.
@WisteriaGeneralStore: We’re printing “Weaponized Flirting” aprons and “Will Stop for Swoons” tea towels as we speak. Available by end of day. Limited
edition.
@QuiltedandCozy: I don’t even cook and I need that apron. Do they come in “blush” or just “full-blown fluster”?
@ClemAtTheGym: Is there a matching oven mitt that says, “Flirting is my love language”? Asking for inventory purposes.
@CoraReadsRomance: If someone doesn’t write a romantic suspense novel titled Weaponized Flirting, I swear I’ll do it myself.
@TeaThymeNC: I feel attacked. But also . . . can I preorder a pink one? Asking for a friend.
@TGDPub: Make mine black. Embroidered. Extra smolder.
Daphne adjusted a linen napkin on her display and tried to ignore the sound of Finn whistling “Rule, Britannia!” from his
booth next door.
Loudly. Proudly. And entirely off-key.
They’d been bantering for over an hour, volleying jokes and playful digs back and forth like it was a two-person comedy show.
The crowd had eaten it up—both figuratively and literally. News crews had come by, a few from as far as across state lines.
Food bloggers with cameras and sleek leather boots. Tourists who’d clearly never heard of Wisteria before this week. It was
exhilarating. And mildly terrifying.
All there to take part in the great Wisteria Cook-Off.
Lindsay and Travis had passed by several times, between confirming their florist and meeting with Jack for photography. Each
time they walked by, their eyes glimmered with the matchmaking mischief.
This town had too many matchmakers in its ranks!
And the crowd that had settled between the booths only grew as the hours went by.
Finn hit a particularly painful note, and Daphne angled her head toward him, arms crossing. “Really? Feeling patriotic, are
we?”
Finn grinned without missing a beat. “Just channeling a little British pride. You know, in case my actual food overshadows your delicate nibbles.”
A few dramatic gasps and chuckles floated from the nearby crowd.
“Delicate nibbles?” Daphne’s voice rose a full octave, her hand finding her hip. “That’s rich coming from a man who considers
smoked paprika and bravado their own food groups.”
A nearby customer snorted into her lavender lemonade.
Finn lifted his hands in mock innocence. “Bravado pairs beautifully with a hint of Southern cinnamon class, don’t you think?”
His gaze trailed down her, leaving a wave of heat in its wake that had nothing to do with the temperature in the air. In fact,
heat rose into her face so fast it could have steeped tea.
It wasn’t fair that his smolder held such power. It really wasn’t.
Well, she wasn’t about to let “Flynn” Dashwood know it mattered to her in the least.
“That smolder might melt your sliders, but I prefer a more authentic and classic approach.” She waved toward her display,
causing a few more chuckles in the crowd. “Refined flavors and excellent presentation create the best combination for a couple’s
wedding day.” She gestured toward his booth. “Now, if we’re trying to have a barbecue . . .” She let the comment linger.
“You sound as though you’re trying to convince me.” Those caramel-colored eyes of his lit, and he edged nearer.
“Oh, I am determined to woo you to the light, Mr. Dashwood.”
She should have chosen different wording, because the way Finn’s gaze darkened nearly sent her pulse boiling over.
“Team Tea for the win,” someone called from the crowd, egging Daphne on.
“Which is why”—Daphne turned back to her table with flair and retrieved a small, heart-shaped plate—“I made this.”
She placed the plate dead center on Finn’s booth table, right in front of his amused face.
He eyed the trio of perfectly browned shortbread rounds, each topped with a delicate lemon glaze.
“Shortbread?” His brows lifted in mock horror. “You wish to woo me with shortbread?”
The crowd exploded with encouragement, so she played along, although the heat in her face intensified. “Whatever it takes.”
“Daphne?” He stepped closer, voice low enough that the crowd probably missed it. “You don’t have to stoop to manipulating
flour and sugar to woo me.”
“Marry him now!” came a call from the watchers—the voice sounding mysteriously like Rosemary’s—clearly proving his voice wasn’t
quite low enough.
Finn didn’t look away from her. “Just say the word,” he whispered with a wink.
She cleared her throat and shoved the plate closer anyway, hanging on to her composure by a thread. “This is not just any
shortbread,” she said with a tilt of her chin, ignoring his comment and the flames of volcanic proportion likely emanating
from her face. “Spiced brown butter lemon shortbread. Made specifically with doubters in mind.”
He picked up one of the shortbread rounds and held it like it was sacred, giving it a theatrical once-over. “You know how
to flatter a man.”
“I know how to surprise one,” she said, and crossed her arms again. “Or are you too chicken to taste something that isn’t
slathered in aioli?”
Finn chuckled—low, warm, devastating—and took a bite.
Then froze.
Daphne leaned in, waiting.
He chewed again.
Swallowed.
And then let out a low, defeated sigh. “I hate how good this is.”
A few people nearby laughed, and her smile bloomed. But it wasn’t just because of the compliment—it was the way he’d made
sure people heard it. Like her work, her talent, she herself was worth celebrating out loud.
She held his gaze, and his expression shifted back into the man she’d spoken to at midnight a few nights ago. The tenderness.
The seeing. It pulled again at a thread buried way too deep in her chest.
And she realized . . . she wanted this.
Her breath caught.
Him.
He pointed his half-eaten cookie at her. “You laced this with something illegal, didn’t you?”
She hesitated, trying to climb out of the internal realization with some pride intact. “Brown butter and a dash of cardamom.”
She gave him a mock bow. “Goes straight to the soul.”
“Indeed it does.” Finn popped the rest of it into his mouth, chewing as he circled the booth to stand near her. “Do you recall
the old adage . . .” He looked up as if thinking, his voice low as he turned away from the crowd. “What is it? The way to
a man’s heart . . .” Slowly, deliberately, he lifted another cookie from the plate, holding it between two fingers like a
proposition.
Her heart hiccupped.
Was he joking again?
She didn’t move. Just stared at him, wondering how in the world one man could be so disarmingly charming and steady at the
same time.
And then—
“I’m ready to place my vote, Finn.”
A sultry voice snapped the tension. Daphne turned toward the source and nearly groaned.
Jayla March. Draped in designer linen, glowing like she owned the sun, and flanked by two equally glamorous friends.
Finn turned toward her, smile easy, open. “Well, I do hope I can impress you enough for a vote, Miss March.”
The raven-haired beauty breached the distance, her hand sliding onto Finn’s forearm like it was a familiar path. “My daddy’s
particularly interested in trying those sliders we keep hearing about.”
With practiced ease, Finn shifted behind his booth, voice lifting to match the crowd’s energy. He laughed. They flirted. And
Jayla’s friends, now crowding in, leaned into the performance like it was a Broadway show.
And something twisted in Daphne’s stomach.
Of course he was charming. That was just . . . who he was. Friendly. Approachable. Dangerously charismatic. Like that with
everyone.
His gaze slid back to her a few times, hesitating, warming, before Jayla pulled him back into conversation by the Designer
Trio.
“Cast your final ballots for Wisteria’s Cook-Off, folks!” Mayor Wilson’s voice rang out from the amphitheater stage.
Daphne turned mechanically toward the sound.
Lindsay and Travis stood next to him onstage, both looking like they just stepped out of their own designer magazines.
“We’re closing up votes in five minutes, so if you’re going to get yours in, better hustle over to Daphne’s and Finn’s booths
while you can!”
“And while there’s still food left,” Lindsay added with a wink, earning a ripple of laughter.
“Ms. Monroe and Mr. Langston have volunteered to count the votes to see who their wedding caterer will be, so stay tuned for
the announcement,” the mayor continued.
“And in the meantime”—Travis gestured toward the stage—“let’s get the dancing started!”
More giggles erupted from Finn’s booth. Jayla leaned in closer. Finn said something that made her throw her head back and
laugh like she was out for his heart.
And maybe she was.
And maybe—maybe it didn’t matter. Because if that kind of charm was just part of the Finn Dashwood experience, then none of
it was real. Not with her. Not with anyone.
Daphne blinked hard and turned away, the cookie still untouched in her hand.
But . . . but she couldn’t shake the memory of him with her having conversations about grannies and cooking and heartbreak.
Something deeper and sweeter than superficial.
As soon as the mayor wrapped up his announcement, she slipped from her booth, weaving through the crowd with a forced smile.
The music floated behind her.
Her mind buzzed. Tried to reason. Tried to sift through memories for truth.
She didn’t stop walking until she reached the edge of the square, near the rose garden. The booths and music fell away, and
she finally exhaled.
Why did it matter? Why did he matter?
He flirted with everyone. It was safe for him. Natural.
But it was dangerous for her. Because she didn’t just want fun. Or flattery. And definitely not the kind of attention that
flickered on and off like a stage light.
She wanted something real and . . . forever. The perfect ingredient for the recipe of her life.
And what scared her most—what made her stomach twist and her chest ache—was the terrible, impossible suspicion that maybe,
just maybe, Finn Dashwood could be exactly that.
And if she let herself believe it and was wrong?
She wouldn’t just risk losing the competition.
She’d lose her heart.