A brewed awakening, p.9
A Brewed Awakening, page 9
Her shoulders slumped, and though he’d meant for the deflection, he hated the disappointment in her eyes. Despite himself, he offered, “I suppose you could call it something like . . . The Lizzy Bennet.”
Her gaze snapped back to his, blue eyes wide. “Why?”
He shrugged and took another sip, rolling the flavors over his tongue. French vanilla. A great addition to dark chocolate. “Well, the salty part certainly suits her sharp wit.”
Daphne tilted her head, studying him. He couldn’t resist continuing, removing the disappointment. “And the dark chocolate? That’s the depth of her character.”
Her lips parted slightly, the pink bottom one looking entirely too soft for his peace of mind.
“But the surprising hint of French vanilla . . . with almonds, is it?” He leaned in just a fraction. “You taste it as an afterthought. Subtle, unexpected. It makes you take a second sip just to be sure. Much like Elizabeth and Darcy, wouldn’t you say? The first impression wasn’t as clear as the second.”
A tiny, strangled sound came from her throat before she abruptly looked away.
“Wowee, sounds like I need a sip of this here milkshake, Daphne dear.”
Finn turned just in time to catch Granny D arching a knowing brow at him, humor twinkling in her pale eyes. “She has a tendency to experiment with new drinks when she’s bothered about somethin’.”
Bothered. His gaze flicked back to Daphne, whose cheeks had taken on a shade that would put the raspberries in her scones to shame. A rather fetching hue on her.
“That’s not true, Granny D.”
“So frustration inspires your creativity, does it?” He took another slow sip of the milkshake, his gaze never leaving her face. “I’m surprised you haven’t invented at least a dozen new recipes since I moved in.”
“Actually,” she muttered, recovering just enough to give him a defiant tilt of her chin, “I have had more ideas recently.”
“I wonder why.”
She ignored that. “I haven’t modified the food recipes, though. They’re exactly as my grandmother made them.”
“Are they?”
Her spine straightened, that familiar fight stance kicking in. “Some things are already perfect as they are.”
Ah yes, the color-coded kitchen, the meticulously arranged canisters—this woman lived for structure. “I’m certain she wouldn’t mind. Experimenting is part of the fun of cooking.”
Granny D chuckled and took another bite of the toffee, waving the fork at him. “Now I’m gonna get back to my tea afore the two of ya’ll come to blows, but it was a real pleasure to meet you, Finn Dashwood.”
He dipped his head to the woman, her colorful clothing and string of varying length necklaces marking her in his memory. “A delight, Granny D.”
She reached up and patted his cheek. He nearly flinched at the unexpected . . . affection. His mind wanted to label it as assault, but he was in the South. Not England.
“I’ll stop by tomorrow with some of my homemade lemonade.”
For some reason, the statement sounded more like a warning than an offering. Daphne’s raised brows may have confirmed the former.
As soon as the woman exited the kitchen, Daphne added, “It’s adult lemonade. Just to prepare you. Homemade.” Her look turned pointed. “From the mountains.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“No, the mountains are great. I’m just saying that Granny D’s lemonade packs an unexpected punch.” She dipped the fork back into the pudding and took another bite before jabbing the fork toward him. “And, for your information, I don’t have to experiment to know when a good thing is good.”
Ah, he’d hit on her pride. Why not poke a little more? “But not great?”
“Do you just like to argue?”
“Not usually.” He lifted the glass again, watching her over the rim. “But you make it so much fun.”
Her lips twitched, and for a moment he thought she might actually laugh. Then, as if remembering herself, she abruptly restacked a nearby row of napkins.
He had to admit the game was entertaining. He only needed to be careful to keep it light. Simple. Uncomplicated.
“I know we didn’t get off to the best start, but I’m not the villain you think I am, Miss Austen. Most people find me quite friendly. Honest. Charming, even.”
A spark lit in her eyes, but before he could enjoy it, she pulled back, doubling the distance between them. Pity. He was developing a fondness for that spark.
“Friendly, huh?” She raised a brow. “Well, then, I think it would be particularly friendly and charming if you’d do me a little favor.”
He shrugged. “What is that?”
“Turn down that music you have blaring from the other side of the wall.”
He leaned back, feigning offense. “Blaring?” He paused, listening. AC/DC barely hummed through the walls. “You can hardly hear it.”
“You might not be able to hear it.” Her words dropped to a whisper—a harsh whisper. “But I hear it very well. Would you mind turning it down a little?”
He took another drink of the milkshake. “No, I can’t.” He even softened it with a small bow of his head. “I do apologize.”
“Why not?” Her question curbed into a little squeak. “You can’t expect people to enjoy eating to that”—she gestured to the brick wall separating their establishments—“that hideousness.”
AC/DC? Hideous? He feigned a look of deep injury. “It keeps me from hearing the classical nonsense you blast in your princess tearoom.”
Daphne’s mouth dropped open, and Finn immediately regretted his reaction, but she gave him no time for an apology.
“Nonsense? Babies’ brains develop better when they hear classical music.”
Oh well, why let the moment go without a chance to wind her up a bit. “So that’s your excuse for listening to such snobbish drivel then?” He pushed back from the counter, heat crawling through his middle in a mixture of regret and frustration. What was it about this petite, pink-clad woman that inspired his . . . engagement?
Her lips parted, but then, like a true warrior, she regrouped. “First of all,” she said, stepping closer, “a man with such a deliciously rich voice and utterly delightful accent should never waste it defending bad taste in music.” She pinched the air as if trying to squeeze the words from floating in her memory. “Ever.”
His lips twitched. “And yet, here I am. Wasting away, one power chord at a time.”
His response clearly derailed her attack list of his music choices because her lips tipped the slightest bit. “Tragic, really.”
“Tragic,” he agreed. “But you know what they say—every villain is the hero of his own sound system.”
Her eyes narrowed for the briefest moment before she continued, “Which leads me to my second reason.” She leaned in, just enough for him to catch the faint scent of lavender and sugar. Her sudden smile, all soft and welcoming, shot through him like a warning light, but he fell for the trap. “Do you really think I’m a princess?”
He grinned. “Most certainly.”
Her own smile was slow. Dangerous. “Then do as I say and turn down your abominable music.”
He chuckled. “This has been fun, but as you said, I must get back to my side of the wall.”
He dipped his chin, keeping the milkshake in hand just to irritate her. To his surprise, she followed him all the way to the front door.
“The least you can do is try to be neighborly,” she hissed behind him. “Just a little less rock music during afternoon tea?”
Of course he would turn it down. It was a small request, after all.
But why let her know that.
And, neighborly? Oh, he could do even better than neighborly. A deliciously infuriating idea came to mind. Well, infuriating for her.
“I’ll consider it, of course.” He paused at the threshold. “And I should probably thank you for the sweet message you left me this morning.”
Daphne’s blush evaporated and her bottom lip dropped. Every head in the room swiveled toward her. Finn nearly lost control of his laugh. Turnabout and fair play . . . and all that?
He dipped his head, stepping back through the door. “So I returned the favor.” And with one final wink, just to sweeten the deal, he was gone.
* * *
Sweet message?
All the heat drained from Daphne’s face. What was Finn Dashwood talking about?
Every head in the room swiveled toward her.
His wink landed like an exclamation mark on his ridiculous statement. How dare he turn her chalkboard joke into some kind of romantic gesture? There wasn’t a single ounce of romance in that little prank.
And he knew exactly what sort of rumors his implication would spark.
At teatime.
In front of her entire tearoom.
Daphne blinked as the room narrowed into a tunnel of stunned silence, the door swinging shut behind Finn. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. She nearly did something entirely unladylike—like chase after him and pummel him with . . . her shoe!
Instead, she turned back to the room with what she hoped was a composed smile. “Just so we’re all clear, Mr. Dashwood does not like tea.” She nodded for emphasis. “That should clear up anything he may have implied about me. And him.”
The glimmer in Granny D’s eyes only fueled Daphne’s humiliation . . . and determination. She was not, nor would she ever be interested in Mr. Finn Dashwood.
With that, she bolted for the door, rounding the front of her shop.
Her carefully curated chalkboard—previously home to an elegant list of tea specials and baked delights—had been defiled. Scrawled across it in atrocious handwriting (honestly, was he six?) was a new message:
Tried coffee again.
Smelled like determination.
Tasted like success.
Gave me the energy to win an argument I wasn’t even having.
Would recommend to all tea drinkers looking to upgrade their lives.
Final Rating: ★★★★★
Daphne inhaled sharply and snapped a glare to the front door of his pub.
Oh. It. Was. On.
Chapter 6
@TeaThymeNC: Out of sugar, running low on patience, but still steeping. If it’s too hot for tea, cool off with our newest treat: The Lizzy Bennet—a dark chocolate milkshake with a twist. Sweet, bold, and impossible to resist. #TeaLife #CaffeineAndHope #PrideAndDeliciousness
Comments:
@WisteriaGeneralStore: New merch drop: “Sweet, Bold & Impossible to Resist” T-shirts available in four pastel shades. Now taking preorders for matching mugs. #WisteriaStyle #LizzyBennetEnergy #GrannyApproved
@TGDPub: Naming a milkshake after a literary heroine and giving a neighbor chocolate? Flirtation or foreshadowing, Miss Austen? Asking for . . . literary purposes. 😏 #DarkChocolateAndDenial #TeamLizzy #BeanWaterStillWins #IllTakeOneOfThoseTshirts
@TeaThymeNC: There was no flirting. There is no flirting. Just a responsible milkshake and an alarming number of unsolicited opinions. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have spoons to polish. #Chocolate4All #NoRomanticSubtextWhatsoever
@GrannyDOfficial: Had one. May marry it. If Mr. Darcy doesn’t show up soon, I’ll settle for that milkshake. #GrannyKnowsBest #DarkChocolateIsMyLoveLanguage #FlirtingPairsWithChocolate
@PastorNateNHC: Some of you are dangerously close to idol worship. That said . . . I might have baptized mine with espresso. #CaffeinateAndRepent #GraceTastesLikeChocolate
@TheRidgesFineDining: Bold of you to create emotional dependency in one menu item. We approve. And fear you. #CulinarySassQueen #TeaRoomDominance
Finn half expected Daphne to appear later that evening with some form of retaliation—a glitter bomb perhaps or her attempt at a “strong” tea. Which, coming from her, likely meant something floral and vaguely offensive. But no sign of her. Not so much as a glare from the shop window.
She was staying well behind her wall.
While setting up The Green Dragon’s online accounts, he’d stumbled across a handful from Wisteria, including Daphne’s. Clearly, she hadn’t been at it long—her follower count barely cleared triple digits—but her humor peeked through, nonetheless.
And she’d actually taken his suggestion about The Lizzy Bennet? Finn tried—really tried—not to grin, but it clawed its way out anyway. No doubt her reference to being “low on patience” had everything to do with him. He wouldn’t deny he enjoyed lingering in a woman’s mind long after he’d left, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.
Still, he hated to admit he was mildly disappointed she hadn’t turned up at the pub before he and Lucy left for dinner at the Wisteria Manor. Surely a woman who’d dared a chalkboard duel wasn’t above escalating hostilities.
Then again, maybe his implying their “fake amor” in front of her tearoom had been a bit much.
But honestly, she’d started it. He’d been perfectly content in his antisocial Britishness until she’d shown up with her sunshine and scones far too early in the morning for civilized conversation.
And then left him a note on his own chalkboard.
Her fault. Plain and simple. He was merely finishing what she started.
If flirting and milkshakes followed, then all the better.
Still grinning to himself, Finn crested the hill and spotted the large stone sign that read: Wisteria Manor.
And the sprawling stone house poised on a hill overlooking the town of Wisteria certainly lived up to its reputation with its grand Victorian architecture softened by cascading wisteria vines. As lovely a combination of quaint and elegant as anything Finn had seen back in England.
Lanterns flickered along the drive, drawing them through a tangle of wildflowers and towering trees. Against the evening blush, the gray stone glowed, the mountains rising like silent sentinels behind it. The whole thing looked like the kind of place you’d find in a painting.
Which, annoyingly, made him think of Daphne again.
He frowned and guided the car around back, where Harry and Maggie’s portion of the manor branched off like an annex. The rest of the house held guests eager for that blend of small-town charm and old-world grandeur—a tagline Harry had leaned into with unrelenting glee.
In the rearview mirror, Lucy’s wide-eyed awe reflected back at him.
“It looks like a castle, Daddy.”
Right on cue.
“Fits this town, doesn’t it?” he said. The place was nothing like the old manors back home, but it belonged here somehow, nestled into the wild tangle of mountains.
Margaret Coleman met them at the door, her golden hair touched with silver, her smile so warm it erased any hesitation Finn thought Lucy might have had in being apart from them for a year.
“There’s my sweet girl!”
Lucy darted into Maggie’s arms before Finn could so much as blink.
“Look how big you’ve grown,” Maggie said, casting a grin up at Finn. “Whatever you’re feeding her, it’s working.”
Finn grinned and followed Maggie and Lucy through the door into a cozy sitting room complete with rock fireplace to match the exterior of the home.
“I brought the dragon you gave me for my birfday.” Lucy brandished her green stuffed toy for Maggie’s inspection.
“It rarely leaves her side,” Finn added, leaning in for his own hug from Maggie. “Even inspired the pub’s name. Bit of Tolkien thrown in.”
Maggie’s smile softened. “Isn’t that the sweetest thing? I thought after not visiting for a year, she’d have forgotten about us.”
“Not with the weekly video chats.” Finn slipped farther into the entry. The chats had helped ease some of the ache after his father’s death. Harry and Margaret had taken on the role of surrogate grandparents for Lucy as if they’d been made for it.
“Well, I’m glad they bridged the span of time until I got to hug her again.” Margaret pressed a kiss to Lucy’s head, then looked back up at him. “And I have a good notion Wisteria is going to love The Green Dragon as much as the folks who run it.”
“Well, maybe not the local tea shop owner next door.” Harry’s rich laugh preceded him into the room.
Maggie’s chuckle blended in with her husband’s as Harry came up beside her, his arm resting at her waist. “News travels fast around here, Finn.”
“So it seems.” He ground out the phrase.
Harry clapped him on the shoulder and led them through French doors into a small dining room bathed in sunset. The mountains smoldered in the distance, bathed in gold and rose like some painter’s fever dream.
Finn paused by the window, letting the view settle the tightness in his chest.
“Spectacular, isn’t it?” Harry murmured beside him. “People say the mountains grow on you. At first I laughed. But it’s true. There’s something about them that weaves into your soul.”
Finn studied him, one brow listing.
Harry shrugged, grinning. “I know. I responded the same way too.” He gestured with a nod toward the table. “Let’s join the ladies at the table.”
They all settled around the table, and the scene grounded Finn. Something about being near Harry and Maggie again offered a comfort he’d not fully expected. Perhaps it was because Harry reminded Finn so much of Dad in the way they interacted and teased. Or maybe it was the solidness of Harry and Maggie’s relationship that afforded a sense of certainty about relationships he’d not felt in a long time.
Their relationship was good for Lucy too.
“Harry says you’re hoping to open the pub next week?” Maggie passed him the mashed potatoes.
“It’s only because of Harry that I can say that.” Finn scooped some onto Lucy’s plate, then his own. “Our apartment furniture should arrive tomorrow, and I’m waiting for just a few extra supplies, but otherwise we’re ready.”
“He’s already got the menu sorted.” Harry passed his phone to Maggie. “He sent me a snap of it earlier today.”
