“But... you’re English,” Daphne said, trying to make sense of this rudimentary contradiction.
“Ah, there it is. The assumption that all Brits survive on tea and crumpets.”
“Well, yes! And rain, and sarcasm, andqueuing.”
Something almost fascinating lit his eyes, and Daphne might have appreciated it more if she hadn’t been so—what would Granny have said?—flummoxed?
“I prefer coffee.” His grin broadened for a moment, the dangerous dimple giving a flicker. “Black, bitter, and strong enough to stand a spoon in.”
A possible description of his personality, maybe?
His eyes met hers with unexpected intensity that made her stomach do a little flip. “Not everything about me fits your stereotype, Miss Austen. I assure you.”
Something about his tone suggested they weren’t just talking about beverages anymore.
“But—”
“Look, princess—”
“Daphne.”
“Fine,Daphne.” He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, and she absolutely did not notice how it made him look even more unfairly attractive. “I know you mean well, but bringing tea to convert the wayward Englishman feels a bit... presumptuous, doesn’t it? Like me bringing you a jar of concentrated yeast extract and expecting you to worship it because it’s ‘authentically British.’”
She actually liked the stuff! Not that she’d tell him now.
Heat crept up her neck, and she was certain she was turning the same shade of pink as the half-demolished roses on the wall. “That’s not—I wasn’t trying to convert you. I was being neighborly.” Shebegan gathering up her cups and napkins, the heat that had been in her cheeks now cascading through her entire body like a flash fire.
What an idiot! That’s what she got for taking a risk, wasn’t it?
Kindness? Unappreciated.
Authenticity? Treated with sarcasm.
Dignity? Bleeding out on the metaphorical battlefield.
Why did her life always involve some sort of Wickham?
Between her own father, an ex-boyfriend (of two years), and her high school best friend, she’d borne the brunt of one-sided relationships and faulty expectations.
Jack was wrong. Some people didn’t appreciate kindness.
She stuffed the rosette cloth napkins back into her basket with more force than necessary.
“Wait, Daphne.” Finn reached out to stop her frantic packing. He said her name with such gentle... Englishness, her feet froze in their retreat.
His hand brushed hers, and she tried to ignore the little spark that jumped between them. Probably just static electricity from all that synthetic wallpaper, or maybe it was her humiliation at the fact that taking such a chance just made her look like an idiot. “I was being a git. Again.” He released a sigh and caught her gaze. “It was incredibly kind of you to bring breakfast. I’m just... not much of a morning person.”
“Or a tea person,” Daphne muttered.
“Or a tea person,” he agreed with a hint ofthatsmile. “But I am a scone person. And these”—he picked up a half of one, examining it with genuine interest, his fingers tracing the golden-brown crust with something approaching reverence—“look amazing.”
Why did he have to go and compliment her baking when she had such excellent momentum to dislike him? Unfair!
She attempted a glare, but between the compliment and her desireto see him appreciate something she’d made, she offered, “They’re cranberry-orange. With a hint of cardamom.”
She was such a weakling.
“Adventurous. I like that.” His eyes caught hers, and for a moment, the distance between British pub owner and American tea shop proprietor didn’t seem so vast. Or disastrous.
