The old ache squeezed to a painful point in his chest, but he shoved away the thought.
It was so much easier to play the short game. Flirt, compliment, go on an occasional date here and there.
But forever?
Finn had already tried that story. And failed.
He wasn’t signing up for a sequel.
He sighed, remembering the disappointment on Daphne’s face at some of his less-than amiable responses. He’d been critical, dismissive—no doubt the opposite of what a woman like Daphne expected from a neighbor.
In fact, he’d even disappointed himself.
But something about her seemed to inspire his... defenses.
He tried to shake off the unexpected feeling.
It wasn’t her fault he hid a gaping wound in his heart and carried a chip on his shoulder. But he’d let her feel the brunt of both this morning, hadn’t he? Like a real clod.
Maybe he could at least try to be civil. No need to be best friends, but a little good-natured diplomacy between fellow business owners wouldn’t kill him.
His gaze landed on the single square of floral wallpaper he’d left upbehind the bar—one last remnant of the antique shop that had existed before he had come along to gut the place and turn it into The Green Dragon. He’d framed the piece with wood, telling himself it was a nod to history, but now...
He nearly groaned.
It was a good thing Lucy had fallen back asleep in the rear of the shop, because he had the sinking suspicion that if she had met Daphne Austen, the two of them would have been fast friends.
Which would mean more time spent around Daphne.
Which was not in Finn’s plans.
But he did owe her a legitimate apology. Maybe he’d pop over later. Smooth things over. He could even try out the oven in the back—make something properly English as a peace offering.
Maybe a treacle tart?She seemed the sort to like something like that.
Before he could dwell on the idea any longer, the bell above the front door jingled with a rather... loud entrance.
A trio of older women bustled inside, all wearing expressions that suggested they were here on a mission. And, from the drop in his stomach, he was the target.
“Mr. Dashwood!” The leader of the pack, a woman with a towering gray bouffant, who somehow stretched his name into seven syllables, flashed a bright smile framed in dark red lipstick. “Wehadto come by and welcome you properly!”
This isn’t anattack,he repeated to himself.This is... Southern hospitality.
Keep calm, mate.
He pushed up a smile and was opening his mouth to greet them when the second woman, a plump lady in a floral dress, stepped forward, pressing a very large casserole dish into his arms. “I’m Trudy Wallace. Made you my famous chicken and dumplings. Thought you might be too busy to cook while you set up your business all by yourself, bless your heart.”
Finnvery muchdid not like being blessed in that tone.
“Mrs. Jenkins.” The third woman, a wiry thing with sharp eyes that seemed to miss nothing but were uncomfortably focused on his mouth, held up a tin. “Homemade biscuits. None of that store-bought nonsense. If you’re gonna be a real Wisterian, you’ll have to learn the importance of a proper biscuit.”
Finn wasn’t sure if that was a threat or a friendly warning.
And, he hated to tell her, but those fluffy clouds of flour were not “biscuits.”
“Thank you?” He set the casserole on the bar, wondering how long a Southern welcome usually lasted, because his expiration date was approaching much more quickly than he had predicted.
The gray-haired woman leaned in, lowering her voice, the glint in her eyes almost terrifying. “Would your wife be somewhere hereabouts that we could welcome her too?”
