“Southern towns don’t do privacy. They do pies, unsolicited advice, and neighbors who invite themselves in for tea.”
And yet, Harry had still recommended Wisteria as the best place for this Englishman to start afresh?
Finn drew a breath and pulled open the door. A man, not much younger than himself, stood on the stoop with his hands in his jeans pockets, a relaxed smile on his face. Blue eyes, wavy hair, and the kind of easy confidence that made Finn instantly suspicious.
“You Finn Dashwood?” The man’s voice had that Southern lilt—friendly.
“Yes?” Finn narrowed his eyes, waiting for the sales pitch. He half expected the man to whip out a catalog for scented candles or a timeshare for some coastal paradise.
“Jack Austen.” The man offered his hand. “Harry sent me down from the manor to make sure you hadn’t gotten lost.”
Jack Austen?
Where would Finn have heard that name?
Ah, the photographer?
“A helping hand,” hadn’t Harry said?Finn relaxed.
“Or been kidnapped by the local ladies’ club.”
Finn tensed all over again.
Mr. Austen shot him a grin and tipped his head back toward the way he’d come. “Because once they know you’ve arrived, well, I can’t vouch for your safety or sanity.”
Finn allowed the good-natured teasing to uncoil the anxiety he’d acquired during the flight and drive to a town he’d only seen online. He’d put a great deal of faith in Harry Coleman’s words. But how could he turn down the opportunity? Harry had already gotten the restaurant nearly ready for opening, spread the word, and used his position at the manor to garner local interest. It was the easiest step into ownership he’d ever had.
And after the disaster of his last business, a welcome redirection.
He’d make do with some local tittle-tattle.
“Sanity’s overrated from what I hear,” Finn shot back, and gestured for Jack to step inside. “Welcome.”
Jack strolled in, giving the space a slow once-over. “I’ve always thought this place deserved a more robust life than it had as a sandwich shop.”
“One of the most well-stocked sandwich shops I’ve ever seen from the high-quality appliances in the back.” And a primary selling feature for Finn to save money up front.
“Well, Mr. Morgan—or should I say Mrs. Morgan”—Jack waggled his brows—“had a great deal more interest in what things looked like, not necessarily whether they were needed or not.”
“The better for me then.” Finn walked deeper into the restaurant, the front windows lined with tables, with booths in the back and along the parallel wall. Tidy. Perfect for a small, consistent career.
“So does this place look like an English pub?”
Finn shot his gaze back to Jack Austen. Had the man never traveled to England? He shrugged. Finn supposed since the US was such a massive landmass, natives likely didn’t need to put in the coin to travel across the pond to feel as if they were visiting new places.
“If I can remove the rest of that bright pink rosebud wallpaper.” He gestured with his head toward the space that would become the bar, one of the few parts of the shop still needing some renovation.
Jack shrugged a shoulder and sent Finn a knowing look. “Mrs.Morgan.”
Ah. Well, there was no telling what the apartment upstairs would look like then.
Finn studied Mr. Austen again. “I think Harry mentioned that you’re a photographer?”
“I try.” Jack shrugged. “I cover most of the weddings up at the manor but pick up a few other jobs here and there. Having grown upin this town, I’m always running into someone who needs help with something.”
“So you’re aJack-of-all-trades, then?” Finn arched a brow.
Jack released a heavy sigh.
