“What do you mean?” she asked, voice pitched a little too high as she tried not to visibly sweat over a tray of her brand-new creation: Earl Grey and honey macarons.
Jack raised a brow like he could see right through her. “You didn’t return my meme jokes last night.”
She busied herself with her piping.
“And,” he added, thumbing toward the front window, “you’ve gotthreenew menu items on your chalkboard.”
She didn’t mention the five more she hadn’t written up yet.
“I have a wedding competition to win, remember?” She slid a shortbread cookie his way—a buttery little round perfected sometime between 2:00 a.m. insomnia and replaying that kiss on a mental loop. “Besides, since Lindsay’s taste testing, she’s posted all sorts of great things about Tea Thyme, and it’s brought in some extra business.”
“Well, that’s something.” Jack took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then immediately grabbed a second. “When I was up at the inn shooting engagement photos today, Margaret mentioned Lindsay and Travis are stirring up some sort of social media feud between you and Finn. What’s it called—GrubWars?”
“Wardefinitely feels accurate,” she muttered, glancing toward the wall separating her shop from Finn’s, where the faint thrum of rock music vibrated through the drywall.
But... at least he didn’t turn it on until she closed shop.
That was one nice thing about him.
And the kiss.
Ugh.
And did she even stand a chance against him with his experience and fare? He studied in Paris, for goodness’ sake. And Daphne was sure he offered items that appealed to a certain group of people. But, boy oh boy, she wanted this. Needed it.
More than bragging rights or proving she wasn’t just the lace-aproned tea girl with pastel signage, this was a chance to save her shop. Fix the leaks. Upgrade the kitchen. Keep Tea Thyme from becoming just another closed-door dream.
When she looked back, Jack was watching her. Too closely.
Heat rushed into her face, and she returned her focus to her piping.
He didn’t respond right away, so she spared him a look.
And, drat—now he was staring at the wall!
“The uptick in business is nice,” she said, trying to sound breezy, “even if I don’t win.”
“You have as good a chance as Finn, I’d say.” Jack took a bite of another cookie and then pointed with what was left of it. “These are great. Granny would have loved them.”
That hit her in the soft spot. “She inspired the tea obsession in the first place.”
“I know.” He softened. But only for a second. “Still... this suddenpastry renaissance wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with the coffee slinger next door, would it?”
Daphne froze mid-pipe, then turned to him, face arranged in its most dramatic look of betrayal.
“Why would you say that?” She pointed the icing tip at him. “Your pep talks and meme game are highly powerful... especially when I want them to stop.”
“Yeah, funny about that. None of my other pep talks ever resulted in you baking like you’ve joined the Pastry Olympics.” He popped the rest of the cookie into his mouth. “But ever since your Good Samaritan rescue of Finn and his daughter, you’ve been acting like someone spiked your English Breakfast with three shots of espresso.”
Before she could respond—or launch a tart in his direction—the front door creaked open, this time with an all-too-familiar and hot-lipped silhouette.
Speak of the Henley-wearing devil.
“I’m closed,” Daphne said, turning and pointing directly at Finn. “Especially to you.”
Jack’s eyebrows launched into his hairline.
But Finn? He sauntered forward like he owned the place—ignoring the sign, the finger, and the very clear no-trespassing glare she was shooting his way.
