“So it seems.” He ground out the phrase.
Harry clapped him on the shoulder and led them through French doors into a small dining room bathed in sunset. The mountainssmoldered in the distance, bathed in gold and rose like some painter’s fever dream.
Finn paused by the window, letting the view settle the tightness in his chest.
“Spectacular, isn’t it?” Harry murmured beside him. “People say the mountains grow on you. At first I laughed. But it’s true. There’s something about them that weaves into your soul.”
Finn studied him, one brow listing.
Harry shrugged, grinning. “I know. I responded the same way too.” He gestured with a nod toward the table. “Let’s join the ladies at the table.”
They all settled around the table, and the scene grounded Finn. Something about being near Harry and Maggie again offered a comfort he’d not fully expected. Perhaps it was because Harry reminded Finn so much of Dad in the way they interacted and teased. Or maybe it was the solidness of Harry and Maggie’s relationship that afforded a sense of certainty about relationships he’d not felt in a long time.
Their relationship was good for Lucy too.
“Harry says you’re hoping to open the pub next week?” Maggie passed him the mashed potatoes.
“It’s only because of Harry that I can say that.” Finn scooped some onto Lucy’s plate, then his own. “Our apartment furniture should arrive tomorrow, and I’m waiting for just a few extra supplies, but otherwise we’re ready.”
“He’s already got the menu sorted.” Harry passed his phone to Maggie. “He sent me a snap of it earlier today.”
“‘Shepherd’s pie, fish and chips,’ of course,” Maggie read off. “The Dashwood Burger? You’ve gone full British.”
“Just the start,” Finn said, warming at the thought. “Once I’ve got a better handle on Southern food, I’ll work some of it in as well.” He moved his palm across the air as if reading a placard. “Where proper pub fare meets Southern charm.”
“Funny,” Harry mused. “Sounds like a perfect pairing with the tea shop next door.” Harry waggled his brows. “Whether you like it or not.”
Finn rolled his eyes and sighed. “Let’s not startthatconversation.”
“Oh?” Margaret’s eyes lit up. “Daphne is such a dear. She brings me the most wonderful lavender scones when I’m feeling under the weather and is one of the most generous souls you’ll ever meet, Finn.”
“Can we go to her tea shop?” Lucy bounced in her seat, practically vibrating with excitement. “She had flowers and teapots in her window!”
“Absolutely not,” Finn said too quickly, then softened his tone at Lucy’s fallen expression. “We’re too busy getting the pub ready, lamb. But... perhaps later?”
Across the table, Harry leaned back in his chair, eyes twinkling with far too much amusement. “Afraid your daughter might prefer tea parties to pub grub?”
“I’m afraid of nothing of the sort.” Finn stabbed at his roasted salmon with unnecessary force. “I simply don’t need Lucy getting attached to”—he waved his fork vaguely—“all that frilly business.”
“All that frilly business,” Margaret repeated slowly, “or the lovely young woman running it?”
“Either,” Finn said firmly, but the heat creeping up his neck betrayed him. “She’s just so...feminine.”
“Feminine?” Harry barked out a laugh. “I was under the impression you tended toward the feminine sort quite regularly.”
Finn glared at Harry as he rubbed at the heat climbing his neck. “I mean all the pink cardigans and vintage teacups and Jane Austen quotes.”
“And quick wit,” Harry added. “And kindness. And quite capable of giving you a run for your money, I’d say, based on that chalkboard war you’ve got going.”
“Oh, right.” Margaret’s eyes caught some of Harry’s twinkle. “I heard about this. Are you in a sour mood because Daphne’s winning?”
“No one is winning, because there is no war,” Finn insisted, but he couldn’t quite hide his smile. Harry and Margaret were plainly baiting him. And—dash it—he was falling headlong into it. “It’s merely a... professional disagreement about beverage preferences.”
“Of course it is.” Harry nodded, his entire expression comprised of mock seriousness.
Margaret, watching with keen observation, took a sip of her wine and casually joined the fray. “I’ve known Daphne since she was about Lucy’s age,” she mused. “Watched her grow up in that tea shop with her dear grandmother. Despite all those lace doilies and tasty sweets, she’s borne her share of difficulties. There’s steel under all that pink. I wouldn’t discredit her ability to challenge you, Finn.”
Finn scoffed internally. His definition ofdifficultiesand Daphne’s were likely worlds apart. Life was hard. Messy. It required sacrifice. Princesses rarely came prepared for the cost of a ready-made family.
