The community.
“Of course you did.” He waved a hand toward her. “English lovers, tea drinkers, history buffs, classy vacationers looking for a slice of Austen in the Blue Ridge.” His gaze flicked back to her, warming. “And you need to show off that humor of yours instead of keeping it locked away like a family secret recipe.”
“I do not!”
“You do!” He chuckled, but then his expression softened. “Or, at least, you have been for a while.”
Her stomach clenched. She focused on adding sugar and milk to her cup... and clearly avoiding her brother’s knowing look.
“Daph, you can be really funny when you’re not worrying about everything.”
“What do you mean ‘when I’m not worrying about everything’? I have a lot to worry about.” Like paying the bills, keeping up with repairs, holding on to memories so they don’t disappear—the usual.
“Exactly my point.” Jack shrugged, all nonchalance and infuriating wisdom. “You overthink too much. People love personality, and yours is golden when you let it shine instead of hiding it under a mountain of unnecessary anxiety.” He tapped a finger against the counter. “Remember when you narrated that entire tea party in the voice of David Attenborough, and Mrs. Belton laughed so hard she snorted Earl Grey out her nose?”
Daphne’s cheeks heated. “That was a onetime performance.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” Jack grinned. “Think about it: ‘Tea shop owner provides wildlife commentary on customers in their natural habitat.’” He gestured expansively, as if he could already see the headline. “You could go viral. Old-fashioned has its place, but changing a few things isn’t bad either.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, stirring her tea with perhaps more force than necessary. “I prefer the termclassic.”
“Right.” His tone was far too agreeable. “Classic, like the Pony Express. But even they had to modernize.”
She bit into a gingersnap and chewed with renewed vigor, begrudgingly acknowledging his annoying rightness. In all her research, this theme kept resounding in the “grow your business” category. Social media. Visibility.
Sure. She was an old soul. Loved vintage and timeless. But maybe she’d dug her heels a little too deeply into her grief, and those habits kept her afraid.
“And what about the weeklong social media conversation you had with a group of Austen lovers who, by the end of the nauseatingly flowery commenting section, basically invited you to come spend the summer with them in their cottage by the sea?”
“They were just being nice.” But, oh, what a lovely exchange it had been about scones, Mr. Knightley, and words that should be restored to the English language.
“Maybe, but you were also being charming.” Jack shrugged. “You had a way of making people want to engage with you. It’s a gift.” His smile softened. “I just end up being awkward.”
She snorted and then leaned back on the stool, drawing in a breath before returning her gaze to him. “And the second idea?” She raised a finger in warning. “And it’d better not involve me dancing.”
“Well, this one will probably help with the whole humor thing too.” His expression gentled. “Start dreaming again.”
She stiffened.
“You’ve been so stuck on keeping things the same for Granny because it was her shop, but you’re not growing it. And all those drink and food ideas you’ve been ‘waiting’ to try? I think you should give them a go.”
Daphne’s stomach twisted. It was like he’d peeked into her brain ten minutes ago and decided to narrate the contents out loud. “But Granny’s menu has been the same since—”
“It’s not Granny’s tea shop anymore, Daph,” Jack said, cutting her off gently and reaching for her fidgeting hand. His fingers curled around hers. “It’s yours.”
Him saying it out loud stole her breath.
“And she’d love for you tomake ityours. You can keep what you love best about her in it—because she’ll always be part of it—but you’ll love this place more if you bring it to life with your special brand of... you.”
Daphne swallowed hard, unable to break his gaze. She opened her mouth to argue—to ask what exactly made herher—when his attention suddenly shifted. His eyes narrowed, landing on something on the counter.
“What’s that?”
Her pulse skittered.
He was pointing at the unlabeled tin she’d absently set down while making his Irish Breakfast.
Every tin in the shop was labeled. Except that one. And itwasnew. Last night kind of new.
