Chapter 17 #2
And if she’d been willing to see it earlier—without the fog of past hurts—she might’ve realized he’d been like this all along.
Welcoming. Kind. But careful.
A flutter of uncertainty stirred in her chest.
And then . . . he looked up.
Caught her watching.
And he didn’t look away.
Daphne’s stomach tensed . . . and then flipped.
Could he tell? That she was seeing him more clearly now? Did he really want more than friendship with her? Hearts even?
“What are you doing hiding all the way over here in the shadows?” came Lindsay’s voice from behind her.
“What are you doing attending Wisteria’s Harvest Festival when you have a ten-day countdown until your wedding?” Daphne shot back, maybe a little too comfortable with a veritable celebrity.
Lindsay grinned, all glossy hair and relaxed elegance. “I grew up here, remember?” She gestured toward the crowd. “Besides,
I needed a little grounding before the glam whirlwind. And these folks are good for that.”
Daphne turned toward her fully, giving her brows a little wiggle. “You mean . . . like a palate cleanser before the chaos?”
“Nice reference.” Lindsay chuckled and then sighed, her attention drawn back to the dancers. “It’s easy to forget who you
are when the world keeps asking you to prove yourself with filters and follower counts. I needed the reminder that I matter
because I’m me. Not because of a dress size or trending recipe.”
Daphne nodded, something inside her easing at the truth in those words.
“And Travis?” Daphne asked. “He’s not overwhelmed by the Wisteria way?”
“Oh, he’s head over heels.” Lindsay’s eyes twinkled. “With the town and with me. And I think maybe I forgot how much this place shaped me. I wanted to get married here for a reason, you know?”
“I get it. Wisteria might be simple,” Daphne said, smiling. “But not less.”
“No ma’am.” Lindsay met her eyes. “Definitely not less.”
The music dipped into a sweet, fiddle-led waltz as children’s laughter echoed across the field and the familiar turn of Finn’s
accent blended with the crowd. These people had held her up through grief, celebrated her courage when she took over the bakery,
and today? They’d shown up—for her. For Finn. For the whole messy, beautiful journey.
Yes—home sweet home.
Her eyes drifted back to him. Finn. Laughing as Carrie Long spun away and ended the dance. His gaze cut through the crowd
like a compass—and landed straight on her again.
The flutter returned, stronger now.
Lindsay’s fingers looped through Daphne’s arm. “Come on. You deserve a little celebration.”
“What are we celebrating?” Daphne asked as Lindsay tugged her forward.
“A day of great food. Good people.” Lindsay marched impressively fast for someone in heels. “And . . .”
“And?”
“And an excellent pairing.”
“An excellent—”
Before Daphne could finish, Lindsay executed a devious little pivot and spun her directly onto the edge of the dance floor—right
into the path of Finn Dashwood.
He blinked at her.
She blinked back.
Excellent pairing indeed.
“Hi,” he said, as if she hadn’t just crash-landed into his personal space.
“I was pushed,” Daphne said flatly.
The soft strains of the fiddle swelled into a waltz, almost like a melodic nudge to draw closer to Finn.
“Well, then,” he said, voice warm as cider as he stretched his hand out toward her. “I’d be a fool not to take advantage of
someone’s excellent timing.”
Daphne stared at his hand, her words failing to emerge at first.
“Now, Daphne. I know you can dance. I’ve seen it on display with my daughter.” His grin hitched up—that grin—and her pulse promptly tripped over itself. His gaze dipped, just briefly, then bounced back up to meet hers. “And I
couldn’t help but notice—your very nice legs seemed to be working quite well all day.”
Both her brows rose.
And suddenly, a vulnerability stole into his expression. He searched her face before he stepped closer, hand still outstretched. “Dance with me?”
The question came out quiet. No smugness. No games. Just him. Waiting. Earnest.
The entreaty in his voice pulled her forward. She slid her hand into his, and his warm palm smoothed around her waist to settle
at her back, tugging her close, anchoring her near him. Her breathing remained stalled for a few more seconds, attempting
to adjust to his touch.
Um . . . so . . . this was certainly not how he’d danced with Rosemary.
A few beats of silence passed, the world narrowing to the feel of his arms around her. His scent—something warm and clean
and faintly spicy—enveloped her. He smelled as good as he looked, which was saying something.
He brought her closer, their bodies brushing, their feet moving in an unhurried sway while the music melted into the background.
With another little tug, he lowered his head, cheek pressing lightly against her temple. “You smell like cinnamon and sugar,”
he murmured near her ear.
The words sank straight into her skin, sending a delicious ripple down her neck.
She tilted her head up, their faces close. “Not salty enough for you?”
His smile curved—slow, tender, achingly sweet—and it took everything in her not to miss a step. “Perfect, actually.” He leaned
in, breath feathering over her temple. “Daphne Austen: sugar and spice and everything nice.”
She absolutely, positively refused to allow him to see her entire body swoon . . . or her entire nervous system short-circuit.
“Lathering on the charm a little thick, aren’t we?” she teased, trying—futilely—to inject some playful distance.
“Just telling the truth.” His voice stayed low. “You are—and have been—lovely.”
Her throat tightened, her heart vaulting like it was just waiting to jump directly into whatever those eyes offered.
His sincerity hit too . . . much. It was too poignant. Too real. “Another sweet comment?” she managed, narrowing her eyes.
“You must be pretty confident you’re going to win this competition.”
He chuckled, the sound a rumble that she felt in her chest.
“Actually . . .” He dipped his head slightly, hand on her back, not rushing, not pulling—just holding her there like he had
all the time in the world. Or . . . like he knew she needed the time? “The prize I’m after has changed. Significantly.”
“Is that so?”
“Mm-hmm,” he hummed. His hand pressed more firmly against her spine as if to punctuate his admittance, the heat of his touch
chasing straight through her. In truth, it was a little knee-weakening.
Her gaze dropped to his lips.
Okay, a lot knee-weakening.
“But,” he added, eyes locked on hers. “I’m afraid I might need to work a bit harder to convince her I’m serious.” His expression
turned sheepish. “And I must admit to hoping for more than friendship.” He swallowed hard, jaw tightening. “But if friendship
is all she can offer, I’ll take it.”
The air in her chest stalled.
Oh.
Well, she’d wanted honesty . . .
“So . . . what caused the change of mind?”
He tipped closer, those caramel eyes searching hers, his vanilla-spice scent enveloping her.
“More of a change of heart,” he said, his voice a husky murmur. “I started seeing you more clearly and”—his lips quirked—“to be perfectly honest, I’ve
been smitten ever since.”
Smitten.
That did not sound temporary.
“But,” he continued, “I’ve blundered rather fantastically. So I understand if you have doubts.”
She hadn’t expected this. Not the repentant pull in his voice. That earnest, almost boyish regret flashing across his usually
confident face. All of it pounding against her fear.
So in a trembling leap of faith—with hope that whatever this was between them might just lean toward the forever side of happily ever after—she swallowed through the knot in her throat. “I . . . I don’t think you’ve blundered beyond repair.”
His jaw slackened, surprise flickering across his face, followed by a soft, almost reverent smile. “I’ll take that.”
She exhaled, a slow unspooling breath, something uncoiling in her chest. Something that might have been trust. Or maybe just
the first fragile whisper of it.
And a little hope? It snuck in through all the little cracks she’d tried to patch over with suspicion and self-protection.
Warmth pricked her eyes, right before the music came to an abrupt, screeching halt.
A collective murmur spread through the crowd, followed by the unmistakable squeal of a microphone.
“Sorry to interrupt all the boot scootin’ and sweet talkin’,” Mayor Wilson’s voice boomed, “but we’ve got a very special announcement
we know y’all’ve been waiting for!”
Daphne’s stomach dropped.
Oh dear . . .
How many emotional roller coasters could one woman survive in a single evening?
The crowd whooped and clapped. Daphne’s cheeks caught fire.
This shouldn’t be a big deal. It was just a friendly competition.
Except . . . in this moment, with Finn’s hand warm against her back and the weight of his words still stirring in her chest—it didn’t feel friendly anymore.
It felt personal.
Too much like a popularity contest.
Her gaze snagged on Finn again.
He was so much more charismatic than she was. And his food was delicious. And he even had a cute daughter as a trump card
in this game.
How was she supposed to compete with that?
Finn stood beside her, all strong and present. She nearly leaned into him. Absorb some of that steady confidence. Breathe
in another hit of his intoxicating scent.
But no.
For this announcement, she needed to stand on her own.
Because if he won—no matter how much she liked him—she’d have to carry that disappointment solo.
Mayor Wilson handed the microphone to Travis, whose grin practically crackled with mischief.
His eyes found Finn and Daphne in the crowd.
“Come join us onstage,” he called, waving them forward.
And then—oh no—he handed the mic off to Lindsay.
Who turned toward the videographer.
Videographer.
Oh good heavens.
Stage.
Public humiliation.
Possibly live-streamed.
Could this night get any worse?
Daphne forced up a good-natured smile—at least, she hoped it looked good-natured—and made her way to the stage with Finn’s
hand steady at her back.
“When Travis and I lost our caterer three weeks before the wedding, we never imagined becoming a part of such a rivalry as #TeamTea and #TeamPub.”
Cheers erupted from the crowd.
Someone shouted, “I love you, Finn!”
Daphne’s eyes pinched closed.
Finn chuckled and leaned her way. “It was the ribs.”
And she giggled, despite the boiling temperature in her face and the very real chance she was about to lose this competition
in front of the entire town like some low-budget reality show contestant.
“Surprisingly,” Lindsay continued, “this rivalry has helped quiet some of the chaos leading up to our wedding—and reminded
me just how much this community means to me. How much it’s shaped me.”
“And that’s why we want to invite everyone to the reception,” Travis said, nodding toward the crowd. “Hosted by the Wisteria
Inn and Lindsay’s team at Lindsay Monroe Official.”
“And sponsored by Travis’s company,” Lindsay added, giving his hand a squeeze.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Daphne blinked. They were inviting the whole town?
What on earth was happening?
This was not a wedding. This was an event.
“We also didn’t plan to struggle so much choosing between two incredible culinary artists,” Travis said, gesturing to Daphne
and Finn.
“And the outpouring of support, fun, and social media chaos has been absolutely fantastic,” Lindsay added. “Honestly? I think
we’re all winners tonight—because we’ve proved just how special Wisteria really is.”
Another rousing response.
Daphne couldn’t help the smile that tugged free. Eccentric? Yes. Chaotic? Often. But this town had wrapped around her and
Jack in the hardest moments of their lives. And today they’d shown up again—for her and Finn.
“For decades Daphne’s lovely presentation and mouthwatering recipes have been a staple in Wisteria,” Lindsay said warmly. “Handed down by her beloved grandmother.”
The mention of Granny in such a moment brought another rush of warmth to Daphne’s eyes.
“And though Finn is new to Wisteria,” Travis continued, “his savory dishes have already made a lasting impression.”
“And drool-worthy reactions,” Lindsay teased, prompting chuckles as way too many eyes turned toward Daphne.
She groaned.
Finn grinned down at her, and the look he gave—sweet and gentle—was somehow more devastating than any flirty line he’d ever
delivered. But then his mouth crooked, adding just enough mischief to remind her the flirt was definitely still in there.
“We’re so glad this competition gave both of them the spotlight their food—and their personalities—deserve,” Lindsay continued.
“Which is why we’re thrilled to announce the result of your votes.”
A dramatic pause.
Daphne, despite herself, reached out and clutched Finn’s arm. She caught herself a second too late, but he only sent her a
wink—an infuriatingly adorable one—and she rolled her gaze heavenward. She was ridiculous.
So was he.
And, as if heaven heard her internal monologue, Lindsay and Travis announced at the same time, “It’s a tie!”
Cheers exploded across the lawn.
Daphne blinked. “A what?”
Lindsay clapped her hands like a fairy godmother two glasses into the punch. “A perfect, glorious, destiny-kissed tie! Which
means . . .” She turned to Finn and Daphne with the full force of a woman practically sparkling with matchmaking glee. “You’ll
both be catering our wedding!”
Daphne gaped at them. Work with Finn? Closely? For ten days?
Panic and something suspiciously close to giddy excitement battled for dominance in her chest.
Her brain stumbled, and as the shock began to dissipate—despite the heat climbing up her neck at the idea of such close daily
proximity to Finn—the reality of the situation hit her.
They had less than two weeks.
She wouldn’t have been able to do this alone.
But together?
Lindsay gave her an entirely unapologetic smile. “Why choose when you can have two people—or food styles—that pair so well
together?”
Finn leaned in, his voice just for her. “Two’s usually better than one anyway, don’t you think?”
She shot him a sideways glance. “Depends on the two.”
His smile turned slow and lethal. “Well, lucky me—looks like the real challenge has just begun.”
And despite herself—despite the spotlight and the looming chaos of this next week—Daphne smiled back.
One week. One wedding. One chance to figure out if Finn Dashwood’s charm was surface level . . .
Or if the man she was starting to believe in was the real deal.
Close proximity. Flirty distractions. Late-night planning sessions.
Heaven help her.
This was either the best idea she’d ever agreed to . . . or the most dangerous.
But ready or not—her heart needed to know the answer.