A brewed awakening, p.1
A Brewed Awakening, page 1
Information about External Hyperlinks in this ebook
Please note that the endnotes in this ebook may contain hyperlinks to external websites as part of bibliographic citations. These hyperlinks have not been activated by the publisher, who cannot verify the accuracy of these links beyond the date of publication.
Dedication
To the people of the Blue Ridge Mountains who were affected by Hurricane Helene and who continue to work together to help our community heal. You are amazing!
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For more from Pepper Basham
Praise for Pepper Basham
Other Books by Pepper Basham
Copyright
Chapter 1
@WisteriaWeekly: Summer beans are in, y’all. Stop by Bea’s for your side dish starters and gossip updates. #ShopLocal #SnapBeansAndSnaps
@OldManRutherforton: If your potatoes don’t fight back when you mash ’em, they ain’t fresh. Get to Bea’s. #RutherfortonReviews
@WisteriaGeneralStore: Picked up my beans and potatoes. Forgot milk. Again. See y’all tomorrow. #SecondTripClub
@PastorNateNHC: Saw Bea singing hymns to her beans again. Not saying it’s why they taste better, but I’m not saying it’s not. #BlessTheBeans #SmallTownJoy
@RosemaryatThyme: Don’t forget to pop by Tea Thyme for the benefit! Daphne’s promised free samples of a brand-new scone creation.
Comments:
@JackAustenPhotography: Don’t hold your breath @RosemaryatThyme. I’ve been trying to convince her of some creative baking for months and she’s been stubborn.
@RosemaryatThyme: Don’t worry. I’ve used the children as emotional leverage. New tastes bring new people.
@JackAustenPhotography: I think brothers should bring emotional leverage too.
@RosemaryatThyme: They usually bring the wrong kind of leverage.
Ladies did not drool over cars.
A freshly baked chocolate croissant with vanilla cream? Yes. A semolina and rosemary loaf with fresh creamery butter? Most certainly. But an electric-blue Volkswagen convertible Beetle Cabriolet with—Daphne Austen gasped—a British flag front plate?
How could she help the unbridled fascination?
Especially since her dearly departed grandmother used to own something so quintessentially British. In fact, Daphne could almost hear her granny’s voice nudging her to indulge in the visual appreciation for just a smidge longer.
Sure, Daphne was only one-quarter English, but it was a very loud fraction. Practically opera-singing loud.
She sighed and glanced back through the doorway of her tea shop, breathing in the comforting aroma of freshly steeped Earl Grey.
Today was no day for dillydallying—also mentally stated in her granny’s voice. Daphne had a job to do. Getting carried away with some automotive miracle on Main Street didn’t fit into the schedule.
She forced her body back inside the shop, drinking in the pastel and floral loveliness all around. She’d spent the last two hours making certain every cup, saucer, serviette, and centerpiece in her Austen-inspired tea shop displayed a sense of elegance her upcoming guests deserved and adored. Hues of lavender and pink waved over café-style tables displaying girlish refinement. Dark wooden beams framed the rosebud-print wallpaper, and the shelves—lined with her glorious collection of vintage teapots—offered exactly the right amount of old-fashioned whimsy.
Tea Thyme hosted one of its largest events of the year—the late-summer benefit for the Wisteria Children’s Home. It had been Daphne’s idea and, for three years, had grown into one of the town’s most celebrated opportunities.
And this was the first year she’d hosted it without Granny.
The idea nestled deep in Daphne’s chest, tightening with the familiar sting of grief. But not only grief. A little bit of pride and . . . gratitude. That she’d made it almost an entire year on her own with this little shop.
Granny’s pride and joy.
She sighed.
Speaking of pride and joy?
Daphne’s gaze flew back to the Cabriolet.
Whose car could that be? Nobody in the whole of Wisteria loved England like she did! Was it some sort of practical joke set up by her friends—she narrowed her eyes—or her brother?
Main Street offered no answers. A few people strolled along the sidewalks lined with a quirky collection of rectangular buildings, but nothing seemed out of place.
Except the car. It beckoned to her like antiques in Bryson’s Treasures down the street.
Her breaths pulsed in conflict with her plans. In half an hour fifty people (or more) would descend upon Tea Thyme and spiral business from the red to the black for this month. A necessary boost for her fledgling little anomaly-of-a-shop among the small businesses in Wisteria, North Carolina.
She really didn’t have time for distractions, but her gaze shifted back to the car. Despite her best efforts at biting her smile into submission, it slipped wide beneath her teeth.
But she did have thirty minutes.
“Hey, Daph, do you want me to set the scones out on the counter or the serving tab—”
Daphne turned to find her friend and employee, Rosemary Knight, paused in the kitchen doorway, wearing a somewhat confused expression as Daphne was poised with one foot out the front door and one in. Very ladylike.
“Oh no you don’t!” Rosemary raised a finger from beneath the tray of scones, one dark brown eyebrow lifting to add extra warning. “There’s no way you’re leaving me to work this fundraiser alone.”
“I . . . I wasn’t planning to leave!” Daphne pushed up a bright smile, scrambling for an excuse that didn’t sound completely ridiculous. “I was just admiring . . . the weather. It looks like a beautiful day for the event, don’t you think?”
Rosemary’s golden, marble-hued eyes narrowed to slits. Without breaking eye contact, she set the scones on the nearest table and crossed the room, her brows knitting tighter with every step. “What’s going on?”
Daphne’s shoulders collapsed and she looked back out the door. “Do you see that?”
Rosemary followed Daphne’s gaze, scanning the quaint and quiet Main Street, before turning back to Daphne. “The fine day?”
“No, the Cabriolet.”
Rosemary blinked, ending another visual sweep of Main Street with a slow shake of her head, causing her tight curls to bounce a little. “Is that a new restaurant in town?”
“No!” Daphne took Rosemary by the shoulders and steered her in the direction of the car. How could she not know what a Cabriolet was? “It’s . . . that car. A Cabriolet.”
Rosemary turned in the direction, finally landing her focus on the coveted prize. And then it was Rosemary’s turn to release a sigh the size of Texas. “Oh, the car.”
“Yes, the car,” Daphne said, practically bouncing on her toes. Everyone close to her knew of her fascination. Daphne lovingly blamed it on her mother. God rest her soul.
And Granny.
God rest her soul too.
“It’s perfect, Rose. Exactly as Granny described. And it looks like the one Mom pointed out when I was a little girl. Same color.” Daphne teetered back toward the threshold, gesturing with her index fingers toward the doorway as her shoulders rose in a silent plea. “It would be a shame for me not to get a selfie with it while I can.”
With another glance from the car to Daphne, Rosemary’s demeanor broke and she released a soft chuckle. “You’re ridiculous.” Then she shrugged, rolled her eyes with enough exaggeration to ensure Daphne didn’t miss it, and turned back toward the kitchen. “But you’d better get that selfie before your car disappears in a cloud of English mist.”
As if Daphne needed more encouragement.
But it proved the perfect catalyst against her weakness.
With a slight shift in the direction of her pink stilettos, she stepped away from her shop and into the midmorning sunlight, moving forward in a vintage-English-induced trance. She’d daydreamed about this particular car since she was a thirteen-year-old girl sitting at her mother’s sickbed listening to a nostalgic conversation between her mom and Granny about Granny’s romantic history.
“Your grandfather bought me one a long time ago. Couldn’t bring it to America with me, but oh . . .” She pressed her palm to her chest. “You’d have loved it, Daphne dear. It was cute and stylish, like you.”
Cute and stylish. Even at thirteen Daphne had taken those words as gospel. Her grandmother, who breathed elegance like the fictional Lady Cora Crawley, Countess of Grantham, had already sealed her fate as a hopeless Anglophile.
Maybe the Cabriolet-craze had been the combination of her granny’s sentiment and the memory of her mama along with Daphne’s near obsession with England, but a deep and abiding fascination with the tiny car had stuck with Daphne ever since.
Electric blue came as a bonus.
She neared the street, expecting the car to disappear as Rosemary had predicted, but its glossy exterior only glinted in the sunshine like a beacon. Thank goodness her brother wasn’t around to witness this moment. He’d ruin it by laughing . . . at her.
But he wasn’t a Cabriolet kind of guy, so there was that.
Sidestepping a passing bicycle, she smoothed her palm over the sleek hood, her pink nails the perfect shade to complement the car’s hue. A giggle bubbled out as she examined every inch of the adorable automobile. It was real! Perfect, all the way down to the leather interior.
How many times had she fantasized about driving through the English countryside in a little beauty like this? Exploring her grandmother’s hometown and meeting family members over tea and scones. Her entire body sighed against the car.
“May I help you?”
Heat vaulted up Daphne’s neck into her face, and her eyes went wide at the sound of the deep, masculine voice, right before . . . She pulled her cheek from the car’s beautiful window.
She stifled a whimper, drew in a deep breath, and turned right into the stare of . . . another daydream.
Holy moly!
His thick dark hair stood in fashionable disarray, one rogue strand falling across his Romanesque brow. His jawline looked sharp enough to cut glass beneath the dark hue of a five o’clock shadow. But it was his eyes that caught her attention—an alarming shade of gold. No, caramel.
Her breath caught. Or maybe the perfect color of tea with just a splash of milk.
Lord, have mercy! She blinked.
But, why not? If God hand-delivered a Cabriolet out of nowhere, why not a perfectly delicious-looking stranger too?
She inwardly grimaced. Okay, God probably didn’t refer to men as delicious, but surely He understood the sentiment of this very single, unabashed romantic.
Besides, He of all people knew her unsavory history with a dastardly dad and a Wickham-like best friend. So it would be just like Him to create some wonderful compensation of cosmic proportions, right?
The man crossed his arms, muscles flexing under the thin fabric of his navy T-shirt. His amused expression grew downright wicked as the seconds ticked by. He was fully aware of the effect he was having on her.
Heat blazed a fresh trail into her face.
Well, she could pull herself together like the twenty-five-year-old woman she was. Daphne snapped her lips into a tight smile. “Um . . . I was only admiring.”
One of his brows slanted upward, along with a corner of his burgeoning grin. “Clearly.”
“The car,” she added, stabbing a finger at the Cabriolet. Although, let’s be honest—he was just as distracting as the car. And his voice? Pure mocha . . . with a drizzle of something sinful.
He smiled—no, smirked—and the deep dimple in one of his cheeks should have come with a warning label.
Maybe God had sent her more than she could bear, because now her cheeks were dangerously close to sizzling.
“My car,” he corrected.
Her throat released a sound that she really hoped wasn’t a squeak. “Y-your car?” This was officially the most elaborate prank in small-town history.
And then it hit her—that accent.
English.
“Are you certain that’s the only thing you were admiring?” His eyes glimmered, his accent like velvet, and Daphne’s brain flatlined.
Clearly, the starstruck look on her face answered his question more than her fumbling tongue ever could.
Oh, whoever set this up was going to pay dearly.
No more free scones for them!
Then again, if this man proposed in the next five minutes and handed her the keys to his car, she’d name her firstborn after the prankster in thanks.
“I . . . I was admiring your car and your . . .” Her traitorous gaze flicked down his body and back up, getting caught in those dangerously interesting eyes again. Warmth scorched her cheeks, but she powered through the kettle-steam embarrassment. “Accent,” she blurted.
His smile deepened. So did the dimple.
Unfair. All of it!
“My accent.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge.
And proved he’d witnessed every inch of her not-so-subtle inspection.
There would come a day when she’d respond like a grown-up around handsome men. This was not that day.
“It’s very English,” she said, her mind offering a slow clap for that brilliant deduction. “Otherwise, I would’ve given you a proper small-town welcome.”
“Slack-jawed and pawing my car is not the usual greeting here, then?” His lips twitched.
Her eyes watered from the swelter in her face. She smoothed her blazer with her palms and stood straighter, determined to salvage a shred of dignity. She was Southern and somewhat intelligent. She could handle this. Just don’t stare too deeply into his eyes. “How are you enjoying your visit?” Good. Progress. Sensical question.
“Visit?” He chuckled softly. Of course his laugh was sexy. “I’m moving here.”
Her heart stopped for the second time in three minutes. “M-moving?”
He gestured toward the vacant building beside hers, the For Sale sign still crooked in the window. “Actually, I’ve purchased the entire building. Plan to open a restaurant.”
The lump in Daphne’s throat lodged a little tighter. Harry Coleman had been in and out of the building for weeks, so she’d just supposed he’d purchased it as an additional business for the Wisteria Manor.
But this guy was certainly not Harry.
Her gaze shot to the windows of her little apartment above Tea Thyme and her brain flatlined yet again, this time for a full five seconds. This had to be a prank. “Purchased it?” Or an out-of-body experience. “As in . . . forever?”
For a former English major, she was having surprising difficulty finding coherent words to respond. This magnificent specimen of English masculinity was going to live and work next door to her?
“Well, I’ll give it a trial run of six months before I answer that question.” His voice dipped lower, almost a purr. “You know, see how the neighbors turn out.”
Oh for the love of biscuits. Was he flirting? No, surely not. This kind of man didn’t flirt with the likes of her.
Argh. She was a mess. And she tried so hard never to be a mess.
But, in her defense, her recent experience with romance consisted of two-dimensional costume dramas, a romantic movie collection large enough to start up her own Netflix channel, and a well-worn edition of Jane Austen’s works, which left her poorly equipped for three-dimensional swooniness with a heart-melting grin to boot. Not to mention whatever leathery citrus scent wafted off the man.
Her knees gave a little quake in homage.
She desperately needed more practice with real-life attraction, because practicing in her head was nothing like this.
Harry had mentioned in passing someone opening up a new restaurant in town, but he’d left out dazzling details like handsome, British, Cabriolet owner, next-door neighbor, and—her attention dropped to his left hand—possibly single?
The glint in his golden eyes lit her face with another flicker of responsive fire. He oozed charm from the top of his dark head to the soles of his . . . Well, her somewhat dazed perusal of his glorious person hadn’t made it to his feet yet, but his shoes were probably adorable too.
She forced a steady breath. “What kind of restaurant?”
“English cuisine.” His gaze held hers again and she looked away for sanity’s sake. “Do you fancy fish and chips?”
“Fancy?” Her attention shot back to his face. Did Queen Elizabeth II have excellent posture? “Of course. Is that what you do? Make fish and chips?”
Ah yes. Eloquence, thy name is Daphne.
“Hopefully more than that.” He chuckled again, the sound sending a residual tingle trembling through her at Richter-scale proportions.
Seizure by accent . . . or English chuckle. Was that even possible?
“Though I’m not sure how it’ll do next to a princess tea shop.” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder toward Tea Thyme. “Might be a little too much potpourri in the air for the crowd I’m hoping to draw in.”
