A brewed awakening, p.4
A Brewed Awakening, page 4
“Very funny.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s just a tea blend. Something I’ve been . . . working on. At night. When I can’t sleep.” When the shop was quiet and memories of Granny hit particularly hard.
“Like some of those recipes you concocted in the wee hours after Granny died?”
The tenderness in his teasing, the way he understood those moments—and had, in fact, joined her in a few—stung her eyes a little. “Yeah, kind of. I mean . . .” She shrugged, even as her throat tightened around the words. “Like you said . . . Don’t you think it’s about time?”
Jack shifted closer, resting his elbows on the counter. “Can I try it?”
It was one thing to allow a few of the regulars a taste. Most of them were the sweetest ladies on the planet and never found fault with Daphne (or Granny) in any way. But Jack? Jack knew her better than anyone.
And he’d speak the truth.
She hesitated, her fingers curling around the tin protectively. Maybe she’d lost her creative touch after so long. “I’m not sure I’m ready for you to try it. I mean . . . I think it needs . . . something.” Like courage.
“Let me be the judge of that.” His gentle urging nudged her bravery up a few notches.
And she wanted the truth.
Wanted to be brave.
The old Daphne was practically wrestling to get out.
She loosened her grip on the tin.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Jack waggled his brows. “I hate it, and you never make me tea again? Actually, that might save me from your experimental phase where you nearly poisoned me with that seaweed concoction.”
“That was matcha, and it’s very healthy,” she shot back, laughing. The tension in her chest eased just a fraction. Giving herself permission to . . . dream, like Jack said? Maybe that wasn’t so scary.
“Okay, but don’t just gulp it down. Actually taste it.”
She prepared the tea with careful precision, measuring the loose leaves, monitoring the water temperature, and timing the steep with the ancient kitchen timer Granny had used for decades. The familiar ritual calmed her nerves as Jack watched—and pilfered two more gingersnaps from the jar.
“What do you call it?” he asked as she poured the amber liquid into his cup. The aroma bloomed in the space between them—bergamot and black tea, yes, but with notes of lavender, warm spice, and a hint of citrus brightness that made it distinctly . . . hers.
“Not quite sure yet,” she admitted, unwilling to share the whimsical midnight thought that had sparked the blend’s creation.
Jack lifted the cup to his lips, eyes twinkling. “Smells great.”
Daphne held her breath, watching every minuscule movement of his face.
He tilted his head, swallowing, and then took another sip, longer this time. His smile emerged slowly, brightening his entire expression so much that she actually felt his pride.
“This is really good, Daph. Like, really good. It’s familiar but . . . different. In a good way.” He took another appreciative sip. “It tastes like . . .” He searched for words. “Like tradition with a twist.”
“Tradition with a twist?” She arched a brow, unable to suppress a grin. “Is that another hint to encourage me to branch out?”
He chuckled. “I didn’t plan it that way, but sometimes I’m brilliant without trying.”
She shook her head, pouring herself a cup.
“Somehow it fits you.” He moved his palm across the air as if displaying a headline. “‘Classic with Spice.’”
“You’re ridiculous.” She shook her head and drew her cup close, breathing in the tiny hint of orange she’d slipped in among the other ingredients. Something in her chest loosened at his words. “By the way, Mrs. Abernathy liked it too.”
“You served this to the Dragon Lady of Rosewood Street? And survived?” Jack nearly choked on his tea. “Wait—she liked it?”
Daphne bit her lip, fighting a smile. “Asked for seconds, even.”
Jack let out a whoop. “Then it’s official. You’ve created magic in a cup.” He raised his mug in a toast. “To Daphne’s . . . wait, it still needs a name.”
She hesitated. Then, on a breath, “What about Midnight Muse?”
His smile softened. “Perfect.” He clinked his mug against hers. “To Midnight Muse—Daphne Austen’s first official”—he raised a brow—“and solely original contribution to Tea Thyme’s legacy.” He took another sip and pointed at her with his cup. “And this only proves my point.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Oh?”
“You’ve got the talent, Daph. You’ve always had it. This tea is both a tribute to Granny and completely your own. That’s exactly what this shop should be.” His voice dipped into something quieter, something that brushed against the most vulnerable part of her heart. “And before you argue”—he lifted his brows—“I just want to add that Granny would approve.”
Warmth swelled into her vision. Having Granny’s approval had always meant something special. She’d been their anchor when Mom got sick, taking them in, making ends meet, all while watching her only daughter succumb to the relentless grip of aggressive cancer.
Daphne turned away, walking to the tea tins, giving herself time to gather her emotions as she nestled Midnight Muse among the others.
Change had always felt hard.
Life-alteringly hard.
Goodbye hard.
But with Granny encouraging her, she’d navigated and even grown through it.
Yet maybe, just maybe, some changes could still be . . . good?
And maybe all those times Granny had been helping her made her brave enough to make changes on her own. Maybe?
“So, have you had a chance to meet your new neighbor yet?”
And just like that, all the warm, budding feelings of growth and optimism fizzled into the ether.
She snatched a pair of tongs and turned toward the pastry case. “Briefly.” With swift, possibly aggressive movements, she began relocating the leftover scones to their overnight container.
“And I take it that ‘briefly’ wasn’t a good experience, judging by the way you’re attacking those pastries.”
“He made fun of Tea Thyme, Jack.” She whirled toward him, raspberry scone gripped tightly in the tongs. “Called it a princess tea shop. Had the audacity to assume my clientele consists solely of gray-haired ladies and my shop smells like potpourri.”
Jack’s lips tightened before he shoved a cookie into his mouth. Whole.
He’d better not even slightly agree with Mr. Fish and Chips. Not a bit.
Daphne pointed the scone—tongs and all—directly at him. “You know I have more variety than that. Today I had a whole host of ages.”
Jack took an exaggerated sip of tea, expression bursting with the effort to contain laughter. And that boorish British bad boy wasn’t right. Her precious tea shop was relevant. Special.
She’d prove it!
“And just like we discussed,” she continued, tossing the scone into the container, “I’m planning some changes. Create a”—she shrugged—“cool online presence. Social media, promotions, the works.”
Jack only nodded, humor dancing in his eyes.
She pointed the tongs again, warning him to contain that laughter. “Just because I have a vintage shop, enjoy classic fashion, and may have a slight obsession with England—”
“Slight?” Jack coughed. “Your goldfish were named after the Brontë sisters.”
Her jaw dropped. Traitor. “There were three. It made perfect sense.”
“You dress in costume on Jane Austen’s birthday.” Jack nodded, stealing another cookie. Where the man put those calories, she had no idea.
She scoffed. “It’s a sign of respect.”
“And I know how many classic British literature books you own. I moved them. With my own two hands.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. And being well-read does not equal obsession.”
Jack gestured broadly to the shelves of tea tins. “Daphne. All of your specialty blends reference English literature, movies, or gardens.” He sipped his tea. “You’re obsessed.”
“I would like to say to you, brother dear”—the tongs returned as a pointer, this time holding a blueberry muffin—“that I inherited this tea shop from Granny. If there is any hint of an obsession, it first began with her. So if you’re going to be snippy about it, I just want to remind you”—Daphne looked toward the ceiling—“that Granny can hear you, you know. Probably.”
Jack should have looked a bit more intimidated by the idea. After all, she was his granny, too, but he just tilted his head toward the ceiling and said, “Granny, your granddaughter caught your obsession and let it spread like monkey grass.”
Daphne huffed, slamming the muffin into a container. “Obsession or not, I can safely say I never want to see my British neighbor again.” Daphne sent a glare toward the opposite brick wall as if it held power enough to sting Mr. Rudeness out of sheer force of will. Her whole body tensed. He’d looked at her with those dreamy, arrogant eyes, then laughed at her and her precious tea shop. Perhaps it was time to fill her movie and book quota with a healthy dose of American heroes instead of English ones.
Maybe some obsessions needed to die.
“He’s staying, at least for now, and I can assure you, you’ll see more of him.” Jack stood, dusting off a few crumbs from his shirt before raising those sharp, knowing eyes to meet hers. “He’s not that bad, Daph.”
Daphne’s entire body came to a standstill, except for her neck, which turned, almost owl-like, toward her brother. “You’ve met him?”
“He’s Harry’s friend, and you know if Harry likes him, he’s got to be all right.”
Harry—the epitome of English grace and welcome. Poised. Pleasant. Polite.
“Everyone makes mistakes in their friendships now and again.”
Jack exhaled a voiceless laugh. “You know how sometimes you can jump to conclusions?”
Her glare was painfully impotent where her brother was concerned.
“And you’re too sweet to hold a grudge.”
“Is that a challenge?” She wrapped up the last blueberry muffin along with a cinnamon scone and placed them in a bag before handing it to Jack.
“He’s got a lot of adjusting to do. New town. New country.” Jack nodded his thanks. “You remember how Harry felt when he first arrived in Wisteria? Poor guy thought everyone was nosy, trying to assault him with Southern hospitality, or attempting to offend him at every turn. We mountain folk can take a minute to get used to.”
And there it came. The post-reaction compassion. Jack was right.
Daphne did not want to weaken.
And yet, the tongs began to lower from their attack stance.
But Daphne’s tea shop deserved a little more fight before she’d give in to the compassion. “But even Harry liked tea.”
“Maybe Finn does too.” Jack shrugged.
Finn? That was the guy’s name?
She frowned. It even sounded English. Was it short for Finnley?
Argh. She didn’t care!
“And not everyone is ready for all the . . .” Jack opened a palm to the room. “Power of this place.”
Daphne rolled her gaze heavenward. “Granny is still listening.”
Jack backed toward the door, palms raised in innocence. “And Granny would agree. It’s always nice to be neighborly.”
With that, the door closed on her brother’s self-satisfied smirk, and Daphne followed his steps to lock up behind him. Her gaze flicked toward the street, to where the Cabriolet had been parked a few hours ago. It was gone now, and most of the shops on Main Street were winding down for the night. Only Marla and Max’s Ice Cream Shop and Joe’s Diner still buzzed with late-evening customers.
Finn whatever-his-name was new to town.
And probably lonely.
She sighed and walked back toward the counter, weaving between her cozy café tables and delicate floral centerpieces. As she scanned the space, Jack’s encouragement replayed in her mind, and a flutter stirred in her stomach like tea leaves unfurling in hot water.
Tea Thyme wasn’t just Granny’s legacy anymore. It was hers to grow, to shape, to fill with her own voice and her own creations.
Her gaze landed on the small tin of Midnight Muse, then on her phone, the social media apps she’d used so frequently a year ago now painfully inactive. Maybe tonight she’d open one again. Post a reintroduction. Experiment with sprinkling in a bit of her humor to see how it steeped.
Tiptoe forward.
Maybe bring back a bit of the woman she used to be.
Take new chances.
Her attention shifted to the wall separating her from Mr. Obnoxious and his forthcoming pub.
She rounded the counter and tipped her gaze to the ceiling again. “Fine, Granny. I’ll give him another chance. To be more neighborly.”
She picked up her dishcloth and backed toward the kitchen doorway. “But it’s not because he’s handsome.”
She exhaled into the empty room and flicked off the lights, the dim glow of the evening casting warm, dusky hues over the shop.
“And it’s certainly not because he’s English.”
Chapter 3
@TeaThymeNC: Running a tearoom: 10% tea pouring, 90% wondering where I left my spatula and teaspoon. But at least there’re scones. Stop in and try some. They’ll go great with a delicious cup of tea. #TeaLife #SendHelpAndSugar #TeaThymeNC #TeaLoversUnite
Comments:
@JackAustenPhotography: Hold up. Is this my sister? Posting. On the internet. Voluntarily?? Is the Wi-Fi stronger in the tearoom or is this one of the signs of the apocalypse? #ProtectTheScones #ICaughtItOnCamera
@TeaThymeNC: You are not as funny as you think you are.
@PastorNateNHC: The Lord moves in mysterious ways. But really. Were there threats or bribes involved? #IKnowYourBrother #FaithAndFlour #TeaAndTestimony #HoldingTeacupsHostage
@WisteriaGeneralStore: New tote idea: “Where is my spatula?”—A Daphne Austen Original. Comes with pockets for rogue teaspoons. #MerchDrop #TeaRoomEssentials
@RosemaryatThyme: Daphne? Posting? Finally! #HerBrotherMadeHerDoIt
Daphne balanced the tray carefully on her hip as she stood before the freshly painted door of what would soon be Finn’s pub. The simple “Coming Soon” message on the large chalkboard outside the restaurant lacked the charm she would have chosen, but what did she expect from someone who dismissed Tea Thyme as a “princess tea shop”?
Yet, here she was, armed with fresh cranberry-orange scones and a thermos of Midnight Muse—all in the spirit of goodwill. Jack was right. Being neighborly was what Granny would have wanted. And maybe, just maybe, proving Finn What’s-His-Name wrong about her and her shop would be satisfying in its own petty way. Plus, if she were being honest with herself (which she tried to avoid before her second cup of tea), she was curious about the man behind the accent and the attitude.
After all, he was new to Wisteria.
And there was no one better at oozing welcome with the same flourish as Southerners. It was practically written into their DNA, right alongside an appreciation for sweet tea and the ability to say “Bless your heart” with seventeen different meanings.
She certainly wouldn’t hurt that reputation by being aloof just because Finn proved a tea shop snob.
Drawing in a steadying breath that carried the scent of drying paint and sawdust, Daphne rapped her knuckles against the door. Nothing. Curious. She’d heard movement in there for the past half hour.
She tried again, louder this time, and heard a muffled curse followed by the sound of something—or someone—falling. The crash was impressive enough to suggest either serious property damage or wounded pride. Possibly both.
She cringed. Oh dear heavens, had she just killed him?
Definitely not the best way to prove Southern hospitality.
She took a step back from the door, contemplating whether to run away, when the door swung wide.
There stood Finn, looking decidedly less put together than during their first encounter. His dark hair stuck up at odd angles, and a fine layer of dust covered his plain white T-shirt, which clung just enough to his frame to make Daphne acutely aware that he must work out regularly. A small streak of dark red paint decorated his left cheekbone like he was either preparing to free Scotland or make a touchdown. The overall effect was irritatingly appealing.
Finn blinked, the surprise in his eyes quickly replaced by that infuriating half smile that did absolutely nothing to her heart rate. Nothing at all. The same way she absolutely didn’t notice how his forearms looked with his sleeves pushed up or how his eyes were the exact shade of chamomile with just enough cream.
She preferred surprise. At least surprise didn’t make her stomach do that annoying little flip.
“Ah, my tea . . . neighbor,” he said with a nod, his British accent somehow both crisp and lazy at once. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure at”—he glanced down at an imaginary watch on his wrist—“half past too early in the morning?”
Daphne’s smile died on her lips. She’d waited until seven thirty! And clearly, he’d been awake already!
Costume dramas failed to prepare her for the sunny side down of the English. Mr. Darcy never gave Elizabeth Bennet sass about visiting hours. Then again, Mr. Darcy never had bedhead that managed to look artfully tousled rather than like the victim of a ceiling fan accident, which was Daphne’s usual morning look.
Perhaps it was time to call upon the strength of someone much greater than Granny. God, help her. “We weren’t properly introduced yesterday.”
“No, I don’t believe we were. I think you were much too distracted by my car to adhere to such whims as introductions.” His brow rose at a flirty tilt, somehow increasing the heat in her cheeks to the temperature of freshly baked scones.
She attempted to ignore the fluttering in her chest. Because of the car. Not the man. Or the grin. Or the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he was trying not to laugh at her. Definitely the car.
