That was the part that wouldn’t stop replaying. And the part that led to her unfurling her frustrations into pastries, sautés, and confectionaries.
The very fact she’d managed a semi-cool, semi-sarcastic exit was nothing short of divine intervention. And fear. The kind that came from being left one too many times. Most people hadn’t chosen to go—her mom, her granny. But her father had. And her high school boyfriend, once college happened. And a good friend who lowkey disappeared after Daphne had traveled out to Colorado to visit her, following her move.
Her best friend.
Those three had all been similar.
Had the same irresistible, leading-man energy as Mr. Hotlips Dashwood.
Charming. Flirty. The human embodiment of the line “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”
Also? Dangerous.
Because he wanted shallow.
She’d heard him say it himself:“You can keep your heart.”
And she would. Thank you very much.
But, Lord, have mercy! Her face flushed from the memory—the firm warmth of his mouth, the lazy confidence of his fingers brushing her neck, the way he’d looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth noticing.
And then,poof. Gone. The ghost of his cologne and the confusion his behavior left behind lingering longer than he had.
Her breath shuddered and she shook off the daze, narrowing her eyes at her reflection in the tea shop’s display case.
“‘Run mad as often as you choose, but do not faint,’” she whispered.
Do not faint.
Real people disappoint. Real people leave.
A haze of tears rose in her periphery, softening her own face in the glass. So many people had left.
She blinked away the sheen.
Knightley, Darcy, and Thornton—they never left. Fictional men stayed exactly where you needed them: safely pressed between the pages, charming and complicated and loyal. Unlike real men who kissed you like you were air and then walked away like they hadn’t just rearranged your internal organs.
Finn Dashwood was further proof that reality ruined more daydreams than fiction ever could.
She took a steadying breath and focused on what mattered. That kiss might’ve inspired a storm of sugar-fueled ideas, but it didn’t change the fact that she had a job to do. This celebrity wedding was her chance to save Tea Thyme, and she wasn’t about to let some smirking, broad-shouldered, kiss-like-a-sinner chef derail her goal.
Even if part of her stupid, traitorous heart wished he’d meant it.
Wished he hadn’t looked so scared. Or wounded.
Wished he’d stayed.
Daphne set out a delicate porcelain plate on the table she’d meticulously decorated—floral linens, soft gold accents, and a centerpiece of fresh herbs and roses. Everything was curated to perfection. Elegant. Classy. The sort of presentation influencer-slash-model Lindsay Monroe would appreciate, naturally.
Though Daphne had taken a sabbatical from social media over the last year, she’d followed Lindsay faithfully—Wisteria’s most glamorous export. The woman had taste. Style. And a fondness forvintage that made Daphne feel like maybe, just maybe, they were kindred spirits across the aesthetic ether. Even if Lindsay had never once glanced her way in high school.
The door jingled, announcing the arrival of the bride-to-be, the woman currently holding Daphne’s future in her manicured hands.
Okay, notDaphne’sfuture.
But maybe Tea Thyme’s.
Lindsay glided inside, somehow glowing under the soft lighting like the entire shop had been staged just for her Instagram. She wore a cozy-chic yellow blouse, distressed jeans, and boots that probably cost more than Daphne’s monthly grocery list. But despite the influencer sheen, her smile was warm. Real.
