Chapter 18
@TeaThymyNC: Just because we have to work together to cater a wedding doesn’t mean our tastes are the same. The battle of Team Tea vs.
Team Pub is still very much on. It’s a simple choice: elegance, refinement, and a proper afternoon tea experience . . . or,
well, whatever @TGDpub serves.
How to Join #TeamTea:
Order a classic Afternoon Tea at Tea Thyme
Dress with dignity (bonus points for hats)
Recite a Jane Austen quote at checkout for a very small but very dignified discount
Join us and prove that culture still exists in this town. ??
#TeaOverGrease #ChooseWisely #GotToSupportWisteriaGeneralStore
@TGDpub: Oh, it’s on. Since @TeaThymeNC insists that dainty sandwiches and lukewarm tea count as a meal, allow me to present an alternative: #Team Pub.
Do you want tiny snacks or a real meal? Do you want food you barely nibble at or food you remember with tears in your eyes and sauce on your chin? Exactly.
How to Join #TeamPub:
Order a burger, wings, or anything that requires two hands to eat
Toast to the supremacy of hearty food
Bonus points, and a possible discount if you roast a tea drinker in the process #EatLikeYouMeanIt #BurgersBeforeBiscuits #NoTinyForksNeeded
Comments:
@TeaThymeNC: Elegance over indigestion. Choose wisely. ? #RefinedTaste #TeaTimeMagic
@TGDpub: Real food. Real full. Real happy. #NotJustForPhotos #NoPinkiesUp
@LindsayMonroeOfficial: I love both! And, just maybe, both are better together??? #FoodieDilemma #CantPick #UnashamedMatchmaking
@SecondHandTreasures: I’ve moved beyond food bets. I’m taking wagers on when Finn and Daphne finally kiss. Proceeds go to the town charity! #WisteriaRomanceWatch
@OldManRutherforton: Reminds me of when my wife and I nearly called off the wedding over the thermostat. True love finds a way. (And eventually
lands on 72 degrees.)
@LindsayMonroeOfficial: I think @OldManRutherforton just agreed with “both” too. #TrueLoveFindsAWay
@GrannyDOfficial: If they don’t kiss by the rehearsal dinner, I’m bringing my cane and locking them in the bakery’s pantry myself. #ElderPrivileges
#WisteriaLoveLockdown
@WisteriaWeekly: Breaking: Sources confirm that the true winner of Team Tea vs. Team Pub will be . . . LOVE (and possibly a very messy kitchen).
#OperationGetThemTogether #OurFavoriteSportIsMatchmaking
@PastorNateNHC: Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is also stubborn and in deep denial. #DontMessWithGrannyD
Stepping into another chef’s kitchen to share cooking space was an intimate thing. Finn knew it well. It was where magic happened.
Where failure happened. Where frustrations boiled over into mortifying reactions—and sometimes where something extraordinary
was born.
Daphne had agreed to meet for a planning and cooking session Friday morning while Lucy was in school and before his shop opened.
In her kitchen, in case she was needed at Tea Thyme.
He tapped at the back door, balancing a tray loaded with ingredients and a few early-morning preparations. No answer. He knocked
again, then cautiously nudged the door open.
The instant he stepped inside, the scent wrapped around him—freshly baked sweet breads, steeping tea, and . . . apples? His
smile spread. Perfect. She was already doing what he’d decided on after the Harvest Festival night before last: Use what’s
in season.
And apples were everywhere.
He stepped farther inside and his grin grew. He’d been inside it once before, when offering the sticky toffee pudding, but
he’d been more focused on Daphne than her surroundings.
The space fit her perfectly. Light. Airy.
Tidy to the point of perfection. White shelves neatly stacked.
Canisters symmetrically lined up like little soldiers.
Bowls organized in a patchwork of muted tones, the utensils hung near the stove in a fashionable arrangement of smallest to largest. Even the dish towels matched.
The entire room looked like something out of a magazine.
It was incredibly impressive, a little unnerving, and tempted Finn to go through it and rearrange a few things . . . just for fun.
He refrained.
Above the oven, a little plaque caught his eye: “When in doubt, say a prayer—and add butter.”
His grin unfurled fully. Butter and prayer—could there be a more fitting motto for Wisteria?
He edged farther inside, sunlight spilling through lace curtains, catching motes of flour dusting the air like fairy magic.
His chest tightened unexpectedly.
The night before last Daphne had given him a flicker of hope. That maybe their wildly different personalities could not only
amicably coexist but blend like sugar and spice.
Because every additional moment he spent with her only made him want another. He could almost see a life together—a life of
life and food and laughter and banter—a life he wanted to build.
And then, like she’d been conjured by his very thoughts, Daphne pushed through the swinging door, arms laden with a crate
of apples. Wisps of hair had escaped her ponytail, curling around her flushed cheeks. She wore jeans, a flour-dusted apron,
and a soft-blue blouse that matched the sparkle of her eyes. Her apron read: Whisk Me Away.
Finn’s heart responded with, Pick me, in Morse code.
“Is that an invitation?” he asked, pointing at her apron.
“What?” She glanced down and immediately blushed, the color blooming high in her cheeks. Her eyes narrowed even as she brushed
a strand of hair from her forehead. “We’re here to work, Mr. Dashwood. Not flirt.”
“You say that like the two are mutually exclusive.” He edged a step closer. “I’m rather sure they mix beautifully. I always cook better when I’m inspired.”
Something flickered in her eyes—a battle she was clearly fighting. Her mouth quirked. “Well,” she said, gesturing toward the
crate on the island, “I hope apples inspire you. We’ve got plenty. Lindsay specifically requested apple dishes for her autumn
wedding.”
“No problem there. I have some great ideas for apple dishes.” His grin sharpened. “Very inspiring ones.”
She shook her head and then nodded toward the island in the center of the room. “I thought we could plan first? Talk about
menus?”
A notepad and pens waited neatly. Of course she would have thought of that.
He slid onto a stool, and after a fractional hesitation, she sat beside him, her spine ruler straight.
Their dance at the Harvest Festival hovered between them, and he wasn’t certain how to navigate his steps into more, because
in all honesty, he just wanted to slice the tension with a kiss.
Daphne’s gaze flitted to his. She shifted the notebook on the counter and then cleared her throat.
Nervous seemed to be the order of the day.
Well, that wasn’t the best recipe for them, especially if they were to brainstorm a wedding menu or tip this simmering romance
into a boil. Oh no.
Time to stir things up.
“Your kitchen is very . . . tidy.”
Her fidgeting immediately stopped, and she slowly turned her head in his direction. “And that’s bad?”
“Of course not.” He raised a brow. “Merely an observation.”
She turned fully toward him now. He had to press his lips together to keep from laughing.
“I suppose yours isn’t tidy?” she challenged, lifting both brows. “More like a culinary explosion?”
He shrugged. “An explosion—with style.”
Her grin bloomed, and she let out a breath. “Then maybe we should cook here,” she said. “Since I’d like to avoid any . . .
surprises.”
“But”—he leaned in conspiratorially—“surprises sometimes make the very best dishes.”
“Not for a celebrity wedding we’re catering in a week.” She pointed her pen at him like a weapon. “Surprises are not good
for that.”
“You’re confusing surprises with accidents.” He waggled his brows just to see that pretty flush race up her neck again. “Surprises
should be nice. Pleasant things. Like . . .” He waved a hand lazily in her direction. “Like you’ve been for me.”
Her gaze caught in his, searching like they did on Wednesday night at the festival. As if she were trying so very hard to
place him in a category she wanted him to be.
And, from the look in those searching eyes, he wanted to be that man too.
She pulled her attention from his and tapped the little notebook on the kitchen island. Perhaps he was slowly breaking through
whatever assumptions she’d held about him and, admittedly, he’d encouraged in the beginning. And winning such a beautiful
heart?
He could only hope.
“From what Lindsay said, Harry and Margaret are covering the welcome grazing board at the inn, so we won’t have to worry about
that.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her ponytail clearly losing its grip.
It was her preferred hairstyle, he was beginning to notice. And, at this point, beautifully distracting.
“But we’re covering lunches, right?” he asked, nudging the conversation—and the warmth between them—forward.
Some of the tension in her shoulders eased.
She nodded and tapped her elegant script in the notebook. “A bridal luncheon and a groom’s lunch.”
“Which should be pretty straightforward on who covers which,” he teased, angling for another smile.
Sure enough, one corner of those pink lips crooked ever so slightly. “Unless you need help with the classy side of things, of course.”
Ah, there it was.
The jab he’d been waiting for.
“Men don’t need pretty. Just tasty.” He added a wink for good measure. “But if you need advice on how to feed the ladies more than toast, jam, and cucumbers, I’m available for consultations.”
“Funny.” She narrowed her eyes in a mock glare, but the soft laugh behind it made his heart kick against his ribs. She tapped
her pen against her lips, and—he wasn’t proud of this, or perhaps he was—he promptly forgot every coherent thought he had
for a solid three seconds.
“But that leads us to the rehearsal dinner.” She pulled a clipboard from beneath the notebook, the page so covered in notes
that Finn wasn’t sure there was any white left.