“I draw the line at puppies.” His lips quirked. “Contractors, on the other hand...”
“I’m sure they’re thrilled to work with you.”
“I’m trying to apologize here.” The English lilt of frustration in his voice made everything worse. Because why did the English have to sound so good even when they were being difficult? Even when they played villains!
“Are you? Because it sounds more like you’re making excuses. Besides, I’ve imposed enough on your wallpaper demolition.” Daphne made it to the door, but it was closed, and her arms were too full tomake a quick escape. She fumbled with the knob, dignity crumbling by the second.
“Allow me.” Finn reached past her, his arm brushing against her shoulder as he moved to open the door, enveloping her in a scent that was part smoked vanilla, part... cedar? But all uniquely him.
She held her breath.
She was never listening to Jack again.
“I can manage,” she insisted, stepping back and nearly colliding with his chest. They performed an awkward dance of almost-contact, like magnets simultaneously attracting and repelling.
“Now you’re just being dramatic.” Finn sighed, reaching for her arm as she turned to leave. His fingers were warm against her skin, sending an unwelcome jolt through her body. Did he feel it too? That current that seemed to jump between them at the slightest touch.
Ridiculous, Daphne.Another utterly ridiculous thought to add to the growing mental quagmire.
“Surprisingly, I’m sure, not everything about me fits your stereotype, Mr....”
“Dashwood.” His gaze searched hers, his hand on the doorknob, arm blocking her escape. “Finn Dashwood.”
Gee whiz, did he have to have an Austen character-esque last name too? The universe was clearly having a good laugh at her expense. Next thing she knew, he’d mention having a sister named Marianne.
His entire expression softened and he released a deep breath, gesturing toward the bar. “Stay, have coffee. I promise not to insult your tea shop again... for at least fifteen minutes.” He gestured back toward the shop with his chin. “I’ll even time myself.”
Daphne pulled away, hating the lingering warmth where his hand had been. “Tempting, but I’ll pass.”
“Even if I sweeten the deal with tales of the haunted pub I ran in Yorkshire?” His eyes danced with mischief. “Complete with mysterious footsteps, moving objects, and one very disgruntled Victorian barmaid?”
Her lips twitched just a little. “Ghost stories over morning coffee? How charmingly macabre.”
She nearly blinked at her own comeback. Clever. Sarcastic. She usually saved such little treasures for her brother or Pastor Nate. Sometimes Rosemary.
One of his dark brows jutted northward, matching the corner of his mouth. “I find it pairs well with scones.” He leaned against the doorframe, all casual grace and surprising vulnerability. “Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot—”
“Both feet, really,” Daphne interjected. “Yours.”
The other corner of his mouth peaked a little, his gaze holding hers. “Fair enough. All appendages. But I’d like to... not be enemies.” He ran his hand through his hair again, a gesture she was beginning to recognize as a nervous habit. “Neighboring businesses and all that.”
Ah, right. Not nice to be nice. Just nice to make his life easier.
Yeah, she got it.
She stepped over the threshold of the door but paused to turn back for one final look. Finn was watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite decipher. All the compassion she didn’t want to feel started wrestling with her ire, but she gave it a hefty shove.
“A bit of advice, Mr. Dashwood—most people around here want to see you succeed. They’re usually nice, maybe too nice, but you’d find a lot more friends and future patrons if you showed a little... welcome too.” She glanced at the half-demolished wallpaper, pink roses fading into oblivion. “And maybe consider that sometimes a little pink isn’t the worst thing in the world.”
“Is that an invitation to visit your princess tea shop, Austen?” The corner of his mouth lifted in that infuriatingly attractive half smile, the one that suggested he knew exactly how it affected women. Including, irritatingly, her.
But at the moment, her disappointment dimmed the attraction.
“It’s a suggestion to be less of a judgmental jerk,” she shot back, butthere was less heat in her words than she’d intended. Like a cup of tea left too long, her anger had cooled, leaving something more complex behind.
“Noted.” He raised the half-eaten scone in a mock toast. “And for what it’s worth, these really are exceptional. You’ve set a high bar for my counteroffering.”
“Your counteroffering?”
