Chapter 17
@WisteriaWeekly: From shortbread debates to swaying under the stars. Wisteria, are we witnessing the rivals-to-romance arc of the century?
#FromFeudToFlirt #LanternLitLove #FestivalEnemiesTo…
Comments:
@RosemaryatThyme: I saw the look. The “I’d bake you a thousand scones” look. Also, I have cinnamon rolls left if anyone’s stress-eating their
feelings. #SconeGoals #WisteriaWatchesEverything #HeLookedAtHerLikeSheWasPie
@WisteriaGeneralStore: To whoever carved a heart into the cider tasting table and labeled it “D + F”: We’re not mad. We’re monogramming mugs. Also,
we’ve created paired oven mitts that read: The Couple Who Bakes Together Stays Together #BlessThisMessyRomance #JustFriendsMyFoot
@JackAustenPhotography: If this turns into a kissing book, I want veto power. And fair warning. Just saying. #Gross #Inconceivable
@PastorNateNHC: “Love your enemies,” they said. Pretty sure Luke 6:27 didn’t have dancing and heart eyes in mind, but here we are. #EnemiesToLovers #BlessedAndBothered #OfficialWisteriaWatchCommitteeMember
@WisteriaGeneralStore: New item: T-shirts that read: Official Member of the Wisteria Romance Watch Committee. Also, aprons that read: Flirt First,
Bake Later. #JustKeepinItReal
@GrannyDOfficial: I taught her everything she knows. And if she doesn’t make him work for it, she’s getting a lecture with extra lemon bars.
#RaisedRight #BakeItTillYouMakeIt
@SavorTheSouthEats: Um, hi, just casually witnessing the cutest culinary rivals-to-lovers story of the year? Wisteria, NC—you’re officially on
our must-visit list. #FoodieRomance #SavorTheDrama #DaphneAndFinnForever
@LocalHistorian82: I haven’t seen this kind of romantic speculation since the ’78 Founders Day Pie Incident. This is better. Keep going. #HistoricalSwoonData
#DocumentingTheDashwoodEffect
@WisteriaGeneralStore: “The Dashwood Effect” mugs will be up for purchase within the week.
Daphne had wandered past the amphitheater and into the quieter stretch of park behind it, craving space. Distance. Air not
saturated with Finn Dashwood and all the maddening emotions that came with him.
Why couldn’t this be simple?
She cared for him. He cared for her. Ka-ching, happily ever after, right?
Ha!
She followed the sound of children’s laughter until it led her to the petting zoo and pony rides.
And there, right by the split-rail fence, stood Margaret Coleman—lemonade in hand, posture impeccable, and looking more composed
than Daphne had felt in weeks. She wore a sun hat the size of a dinner plate, but instead of looking ridiculous, she somehow
made it seem like the height of class. All Southern Living and elegance.
Margaret spotted her and offered her signature smile in welcome. “Is the cook-off finished already?”
“Just,” Daphne said, brushing wind-tossed hair out of her face and trying not to sound as emotionally scrambled as she felt.
“Voting closed a few minutes ago.”
“It’s all so exciting,” Margaret said, eyes following the ponies as they clip-clopped by. “Fantastic visibility for both of
you.”
“Truly.” Daphne nodded, eyes locked on a little girl trying valiantly to get her pony to trot. “A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“You’re adored in Wisteria, dear,” Margaret continued, her tone like chamomile tea with just enough honey. “But it’s nice
to see others finally noticing what we’ve always known. All that hard work. And that divine food.”
“Thanks.” Daphne turned toward her. “I’ve . . . actually loved the push of all this. I think I’ve been stuck for a while and
didn’t even realize I had so many ideas in me until Finn showed up.”
Margaret’s brow lifted slightly—the kind of lift that said, interesting, while her lips remained diplomatically silent.
Daphne flushed and quickly amended, “I just mean, competition gets the creativity flowing.”
“Mmm.” Margaret sipped her lemonade, her smile unconvinced. “He’s got the sort of presence that stirs things up, doesn’t he?
But he has a good heart too. And Wisteria suits him. Don’t you think?”
He did seem to have a good heart, but was it a faithful one? “He fits better than I expected,” Daphne admitted, watching another
pony circle. “And the town has basically adopted him.”
“Well, of course. Did you expect anything less from Wisteria?”
“No.” A reluctant smile tugged at Daphne’s mouth. “Once you’re in, we keep you.”
“Harry never even mentions going back to England, and he’s not half as outgoing and charming as Finn.” She paused, lips twitching.
“Charming, but not like that.”
A soft neigh drew Daphne’s attention back to the ponies. Lucy, perched atop a little white one with a pink ribbon in its mane,
caught sight of her and lit up like a sparkler. She waved both hands, nearly toppling sideways in her saddle from the enthusiasm.
Daphne’s heart went completely and irrevocably squishy.
“She’s smitten with you,” Margaret said fondly. “And Finn talks about you like you’re family. Your ideas, your likes and interests.
You’ve made quite the impression on him.”
Daphne’s cheeks flamed. “He’s just . . . friendly. With everyone.”
“He is friendly. One of his many charms.” Margaret tilted her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Has been as long as
I’ve known him, and that’s at least ten years.”
“And such a flirt.”
That eyebrow lifted again. “And that bothers you?”
Daphne hesitated, trying to untangle her own heart. She looked back at the ponies, waved again to Lucy. “It’s just . . . when
do you know if it’s more than flirting? If it’s real? Or just . . . fun for him?”
“Do you want it to be real?”
Yes? The answer flew to her mind too quickly, but she paused. “I . . . I don’t know. Maybe.”
Margaret turned, leaning her back against the fence and studying Daphne. “So you want him to stop with the flirting? The teasing?”
“No.” It slipped out too fast, too honest. “I just—I don’t want to be the only one who thinks it means . . . something.”
Her voice sounded small. A little scared. Which was inconvenient, considering she hadn’t meant to be either of those things
today.
“What makes you think he doesn’t mean it?”
Daphne looked away.
Margaret sighed. “Sweetheart, flirting’s easy. Light. But he knows you. Makes room for you—in his day, with his ideas, in
his conversations. Your thoughts matter to him. Flirting may be the icing, but it’s held up by sturdier stuff beneath.”
Daphne chuckled despite herself. “So, he’s cake?”
Margaret’s smile gentled with her expression. “You’re scared he’ll be like your daddy?”
Daphne flinched and then . . . the picture began to clear in her mind. No. Finn wasn’t like her dad. If she looked at the
evidence, the only comparison was his ready wit. But he’d weathered hard decisions and made the right choices. Offered his
little girl a steady, secure love.
Stayed . . . for Lucy.
“Maybe it’s time to look at him with fresh eyes, Daphne.” Margaret’s answer came softly. “Without fear clouding your vision.
He’s not perfect. And he can teeter toward arrogant, but he’s got a track record of caring well. And the way he looks at you?”
She leaned in just slightly. “That’s not a look you can fake. Not from the good ones anyway.”
They stood in silence a moment longer, the breeze rustling through the trees, Lucy’s laughter floating on the air.
Margaret straightened and waved her hand back toward the crowd. “Now go show that man how a Wisteria woman handles healthy
attention.”
Daphne arched a brow. “With quiet dignity and measured responses?”
Margaret’s grin turned deliciously sly. “I was thinking more along the lines of looking fabulous and making him sweat a little.”
Daphne laughed. Maybe she didn’t know exactly where this was headed. Maybe her heart was still a little afraid. But she wanted
to get to the truth. Finn Dashwood might be a flirt.
But he was much more.
And it was time to find out if that “more” included her and her future in the mix.
The stars had only just begun to prick the velvet sky, but the lanterns—dozens of them—already glowed golden around the amphitheater,
their light dancing over the lawn like fireflies in formation. The grassy space in front of the stage was already crowded
with people swaying and stomping to the jubilant cry of a bluegrass fiddle.
Daphne hovered at the edge of the clearing, cradling a warm mason jar of cinnamon cider like it might deflect incoming emotion.
Or at least Finn-shaped confusion.
The scent of woodsmoke curled through the crisp air, mingling with roasted peanuts, caramel apples, and someone’s cologne
that was two cloves past subtle. String lights stretched from the gazebo to the oaks like low-hanging constellations.
It was all so perfect.
Like something from a Hallmark movie.
Like . . . home.
And then she saw him.
Finn.
Still looking unfairly good even after a long workday, then a few hours at the food booths. His dark hair was mussed in that
way that made her fingers twitch. And his smile—ugh. That infuriating, crinkly-eyed, lopsided smile.
He was dancing an upbeat song with Rosemary, and it appeared she was teaching him the steps. His attention fixed on Rosemary’s upturned face, complete with that “no one else in the room” look.
But of course he’d be focused if he was trying to learn a dance.
His laugh burst out as he took a wrong turn.
And that reaction warmed her heart.
Her father—when he’d messed up—had scowled. Blamed someone. So had her ex-boyfriend. But Finn? He laughed at himself. Took
it in stride.
So what else had she been misreading?
He kept his distance respectable, his grin at the ready, his expression friendly, but—her hand squeezed the cider jar—it wasn’t
the same. Not like he looked at her. Not the splitting of distances she’d noticed between them.
Carrie Long asked him for a dance next. And with an exaggerated bow, he took her hand, his dark hair dipping over his forehead
as he attempted to repeat the dance with a new partner. Daphne’s grin itched to react.
It was the same as with Rosemary. His touch was that of a gentleman. Nothing more.