The Morgans hadn’t kept the ornate Victorian display cases that had once stood along one wall of the shop, but for the most part they’d retained other beautiful decor framed by the oak-lined walls and hardwood floors. Except, right now, despite the booths and tables, a few construction materials lay strewn about. Some paint cans nestled in one corner. But otherwise, the place looked ready to receive customers.
How had Finn achieved this miracle?
Had Harry been working on this place for Finn all along? Is that why she’d met him going in and out of the vacant shop so many times over the past two months?
Tricky Harry.He’d kept it all a secret.
He’d definitely hear about that when she saw him again.
And then—she almost gasped—on the far wall, someone had started ripping down the vintage rosebud wallpaper that had been Mrs. Duncan’s signature touch.
Half the wall stood bare, exposing drywall beneath, while the other half still bloomed with the delicate pattern that had made this shop feel magical to Daphne as a child. It was like watching someone tear down a piece of Wisteria’s history.
“You’re removing the wallpaper,” she said, unable to keep the accusation from her voice. She shifted a few steps nearer the devastating sight and placed a palm to her chest.
“Astute observation.” Finn glanced over his shoulder as he cleared a space on a makeshift worktable. “The pink roses don’t quite fit the English pub aesthetic I’m going for.”
“Some people appreciate tradition and history,” Daphne said pointedly, stepping closer to the scarred wall.
“Some people appreciate not having their restaurant look like it was decorated by a twelve-year-old girl’s diary,” Finn countered, his smile slightly softening the barb. “Though I suspect you were that twelve-year-old girl, which explains the attachment.”
Daphne bristled. “That wallpaper survived three businesses, two renovations, and one particularly enthusiastic church youth group’s attempt at painting murals. It’s practically a Wisteria landmark.” Daphne reached out to touch one of the intact roses. “Mrs. Duncan chose it because the very first business in this building in the early 1900s was a florist shop. The roses were a tribute.”
Finn studied her for a long moment, something unreadable in his eyes. “And that matters to you? The history of it? It’s just worn, peeling wallpaper.”
“To you, maybe.” Daphne turned to face him. “But to some, it’s... continuity. Something to hold on to when everything else changes.”
A shadow crossed Finn’s face, so brief she almost missed it. “Not everything that changes is bad, you know. Sometimes the past needs to stay in the past.”
There was something in his tone—a weight to his words that seemed to carry meaning beyond wallpaper. But before Daphne could puzzle it out, he waved toward the room, smile returning to his lips but not his eyes. “After all, I’m hoping this change for me will be a good one.”
She studied him for a breath longer. Had something happened to send him running from England to small-town North Carolina? A scandal? A heartbreak?
Perhaps Jack was right all the more. Just like so many others who’dmoved to their town from various places around the country, or world, Finn... What’s-His-NameneededWisteria.
Her ire bent a little beneath this revelation. “Well, you’ve picked a wonderful place for a change.”
He shrugged. “That’s what Harry says.”
“And Harry’s right.” Daphne pulled her gaze from his and stepped to the tray, quickly removing the items and laying out a cloth napkin, the scones, and the thermos of tea.
She sighed and raised the thermos like a peace offering. “I brought some of my own special tea blend called Midnight Muse, if you’d like to try some.”
Finn glanced at the thermos with a look that could only be described as mild suspicion. “You’re own blend, is it?” His expression soured slightly. “I appreciate the gesture, but I’m afraid I don’t drink tea.”
Daphne froze, the teacup poised midair on its way to the thermos. Did she hear him correctly? No, of course not. Next he’d tell her he enjoyed small talk and had never used the wordcheekyin his life.
“You own an English pub, but you don’t drink tea.” She didn’t phrase it as a question, because clearly, she had misheard.
“I own a pub that serves beer, ale, fizzy drinks, and hearty food. Tea doesn’t factor into the equation.” He had the audacity to look amused at her shock, as though he hadn’t just committed the equivalent of cultural treason.
She reeled. This was like finding out a chocolatier was allergic to cocoa. Or that a Frenchman refused to eat bread. Or—a shiver of horror—that a Southerner preferred unsweet tea.
And the fact that she’d packed her best china teacups now seemed ridiculously optimistic... and absurd. What sort of tragic, tea-related accident had turned a Brit against his own national beverage?
“Isn’t that like running a pizzeria and hating cheese?” She clutched the teacup a little tighter, protecting it from such heresy.
“I’d argue tea is optional.” Finn’s brow quirked. “Cheese is fundamental.”
