That little annoying flutter she didn’t want to feel came alive in her chest again.
Bad. Awful. Nope! She needed space from him ASAP.
Just as soon as he tried her scone.
The crook of his smile deepened—that smirk she was half convinced he practiced in the mirror—as he took a generous bite. His eyes closed, a low sound of appreciation humming in his throat. And just like that, Daphne found herself staring, with truly mortifying focus, at his lips.
The same lips that had, not too long ago, insulted her beloved tea shop with devastating precision. Those very same lips were now wrapped around her scone, experiencing, what appeared to be, unmitigated joy.
Her pulse ratcheted right up into a fevered pitch.
A true battle between liking him and loathing him took up residence in her chest. Which proved even more that she needed to keep her distance.
“These are actually fantastic,” he admitted, something warm flickering in his eyes. “You’re wasted on tea, Austen. You should open a bakery instead.”
She shook her head from the allure of his appreciation and continued packing up her things. “If you took five minutes to actually learn about my ‘princess tea shop,’ you’d realize I bakeandserve tea. They go together.”
With a tug, she picked up her tray and took a few steps toward the door. Even if he liked her scones, she needed to steer clear of hissmoldering glances and mesmerizing accent that made even insults sound like poetry.
He wasn’t nice.
And he wasn’t safe.
At all.
The flirt vibes practically screamed warning.
And his attitude practically promised heartache.
“So you claim.” He picked up the other half of the scone, then hesitated, a sudden vulnerability replacing his ridiculous swagger. He gestured back toward the kitchen. “I could make coffee. As a counteroffering. You bring tea, I subject you to proper coffee?” The invitation hung in the air between them.
“Subject me?”
“Proper coffee is an acquired taste, princess,” he said, the nickname softened by the smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Especially for someone who probably drinks...” He peered at her thermos suspiciously, like it might contain some mystical potion. “What did you call it? Midnight Moose?”
“Muse,” she corrected and took another step back toward the door.
Something in her heart hurt. A disappointment, maybe? That she’d hoped for something better and had been sadly wrong. That the scenario in her head about offering a welcome had ended in her feeling off-balance and maybe a little ridiculous. Why did chivalry have to be dead? Or relegated to fiction? “It’s a specialty blend with notes of bergamot, vanilla, and star anise.”
Finn grimaced. “You’ve just listed three flavors that have no business being in a beverage. Next you’ll tell me you put pumpkin spice in your porridge.”
Did he have to criticize everything? All right, no more Miss Nice Southern Girl. “Says the man who drinks coffee that could likely double as motor oil,” Daphne retorted, a scathing warmth creeping into her voice despite her best efforts.
“Touché.” Finn leaned against the worktable, and the motion caused his T-shirt to ride up slightly, revealing a glimpse of toned abdomen that Daphne absolutely did not notice. Not at all.
“Well,” she announced, wrenching her focus to the door. “I have a tea shop to run. One that caters to more than just ‘gray-haired ladies and smells of potpourri,’ despite whatsomepeople might think.”
Finn winced, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “About that... I may have been a bit harsh during our first meeting.” The admission seemed to cost him something.
“May have been?” Daphne arched an eyebrow as a very unhumorous burst of air emerged. It wasn’t quite a laugh—more the sound of disbelief crystallized into sound.
“Was. Definitely was.” He had the grace to look sheepish, his eyes meeting hers with unexpected sincerity. Those warm milky-brown depths a treacherous pairing with a coffee snob.
“You’re not really improving upon a second one,” she said, smile tight.
“Look, I’ve been under a lot of pressure with this move, and—”
“And taking it out on me and my tea shop seemed like the logical response? Mature even?” She took a few more steps back toward the door. “What next? Kicking puppies because your contractor is late?”
