That she was a culinary rebel? A biscuit bandit? A cookie criminal conspiring to overthrow the monarchy of Granny’s recipes one subversive pastry at a time?
She almost grinned. Maybe Granny would actuallylikeit.
“How’d the fundraiser go?” He nodded his thanks as she slid a cup of Irish Breakfast to him. His evening routine.
“Good.” She nodded, allowing the feeling of success to return her smile as she removed her apron. “Of course Mrs. Jennings and Mr. Thompson were incredibly grateful and the girls were great. One of them—Lily, I think—asked for Granny’s cinnamon shortbread recipe. Called it ‘revolutionary.’ It was one of those rare moments where I actually felt cool.”
He chuckled as he took a bite of the cookie. “So it helped?” His blond brow rose, crinkling the scar above his left eyebrow—souvenir from the time he’d tried to teach seven-year-old Daphne to ride a bike and ended up being the one needing stitches.
It had been the week before Mom’s cancer diagnosis.
“Enough to put some money back after the repairs last month.” She took a sip of her own tea and looked out over her beloved tea shop. “But I’ve got to think of some more things to increase revenue. Mr. Lawson’s news about the plumbing was depressing.”
He looked up from his tea. “How depressing?”
“To the tune of more-money-than-I’ll-have-in-six-months depressing.”
He winced, and then with a deep sigh he set his half-eaten cookie on the little doily she’d provided for him and held her gaze. “I have a few ideas about that, if you want.”
“Find a pot of gold? Rob a bank?” She waved a hand in the air. “Marry rich?”
His grin crooked. “You can aim for those, but in the meantime,there are less life-altering, criminal, or leprechaun-finding opportunities for building visibility and revenue, Daph. And you know it.”
He’d made statements like that before. Tried to bait her to ask for his suggestions or pick up where she’d left off when Granny died. But putting herself out there had been too hard, too raw. Faking happy when her heart thrummed an aching rhythm didn’t fit her.
Some days she’d even had a hard time posting an inspirational quote on her restaurant’s chalkboard, or turning the shop sign to “Open.”
Granny’s absence had come out of nowhere.
Gutted Daphne. Left her unanchored. And it had taken almost a year to start finding her feet again.
She channeled some of her courage from her earlier mental coaching, took another swallow of tea, and slid around the counter to sit next to him. His familiar scent of bergamot and citrus settled over her—he’d started stealing her Earl Grey soap last Christmas and never stopped. She’d pretended to be annoyed, but secretly it comforted her, this small thing they shared.
And it smelled good on him. A definite perk for his romantic future, if he ever actually decided to ask someone out.
Of course she could also use the bit of knowledge as blackmail. Just imagine what the guys on his basketball team would think of their favorite guard using tea soap!
“Start out easy on me.” She turned to face him. “How about just two ideas first? Baby steps before marathon running and all that.”
Jack’s brows rose, and he stared at her for a minute, as if measuring her sincerity. No wonder. She’d pushed away his ideas before. Wasn’t ready. Needed more time.
Wanted everything to remain just as Granny had left it.
Heaven knew she and Jack had experienced enough change in their lives.
He leaned back on the stool and stretched out his legs like he was settling in for a show. His grin grew slow and victorious—the exactlook he’d worn when he convinced her to bake a cake from instinct instead of blind obedience to the recipe. It had been her first attempt at baking recklessly. She’d nearly broken out in hives.
Jack always seemed to know what she needed to do before she did.
Kind of like Granny.
“Well, first things first—you need to get on social media again.” He waved a hand toward the shop. “Let folks who are driving through western North Carolina know there’s this charming, little, history-steeped tearoom just waiting to give them a sugar coma doused in Englishness.”
Daphne snorted. “Very funny and... eloquent.” She lobbed a dishcloth at him, but he caught it one-handed and twirled it like some kind of victorious battle flag.
“I’m serious. You used to have an excellent online presence and a faithful following.”
“Did I?” But even as she asked, she remembered the fun culinary conversations and beautiful aesthetics. The cooking recs and ambience creators.
