Tessa Finch Isn't Good Enough

Copyright Copyright © Rita Harte, 2023 First published 2023 Email: [email protected] All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a database and retrieval system or transmitted in any form or any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the owner of copyright and the above publishers. Cover by Cover Ever After ISBN: 9798377968771 Imprint: Independently published Dedication For every reader who's ever thought that they're not good enough. Contents Title Page Free eBook Download 1 Tessa 2 Dylan 3 Tessa 4 Dylan 5 Tessa 6 Dylan 7 Tessa 8 Dylan 9 Tessa 10 Dylan 11 Tessa 12 Dylan 13 Tessa 14 Dylan 15 Tessa 16 Dylan 17 Tessa 18 Dylan 19 Tessa 20 Dylan 21 Tessa 22 Dylan 23 Tessa Epilogue: Dylan Free eBook Download Next in series: Michelle Finch Sticks To The Plan About the Author Tessa Finch Isn't Good Enough A romantic comedy with anxiety Rita Harte Free eBook Download Want more romance from Brekkie Beach? By signing up to my reader's list, you'll get immediate, exclusive access to Nick & Nikki in 1996, a short story about Brekkie Beach's favourite coffee-making couple's whirlwind romance back in the nineties. Get Nick & Nikki in 1996 NOW! 1 Tessa "You know Tessa, you look entirely too confident with that knife. It's rather frightening." I looked up from the chopping board, a scaly brown onion in one hand and a sharp paring knife in the other. "This knife?" I asked innocently, holding it aloft. "That knife," Alan confirmed with raised eyebrows. "I'm not sure whether you're preparing my dinner or planning to murder me." "Oh, I'd never try to murder you with this," I said, giving him a reassuring smile. "The blade's kind of short." I tapped the largest knife in the block. "If I had murder on my mind, I'd definitely go for the chef's knife." "Tessa is correct. A paring knife would not be suitable." Marcel's bald head appeared in the doorway and was followed by a body clad in a black turtleneck and unnervingly tight jeans. "The chef's knife would be a superior choice. The blade is long enough to reach vital organs in a single movement." "I'm going to ban you two from watching those true crime documentaries," Alan pointed a finger. "You're a bad influence on each other." "You're a dictator, Alan." I gave a long-suffering sigh. "I don't know if I can work under these restrictive conditions. I could abandon this pie right now, even if I did find the most delightful Kipflers at the market." "Pie, you say? Let's not be hasty. What are Kipflers?" "You've never had a Kipfler potato? You might be the toast of the art world, Alan, but you've clearly lived a sad, sheltered life." I shook my head sadly at the thought of a life without Kipfler potatoes and Alan snorted his amusement. "Very droll, Tessa," he said. "What's so special about these potatoes?" "This," I said, reaching into a hessian produce bag, "is a Kipfler potato. They're smaller than regular potatoes and kind of finger-shaped. They've got this fabulous, nutty flavour." Triumphantly, I held up the largest of the Kipfler potatoes, waving it in front of him. "Finger shaped?" Alan repeated. "I suppose if one has very large fingers." I looked at the potato again and my cheeks flushed. Nope, definitely not finger-shaped. Instead, it looked like a— "Penis," Marcel announced in his soft Belgian accent. "It resembles a penis." "If your penis looks like that, you should see a doctor." A deep voice broke the silence, and I looked over to see— "Dylan!" Alan turned his wheelchair in a tight circle to greet the man slouched against the doorframe. Dylan was looking at me – I was still holding up the potato – with a quietly amused expression. "Why on earth didn't you tell me you were coming?" I dropped the potato, and it rolled off the bench to the floor with a thud. I dove for it, mainly so I could hide my flaming cheeks. "I didn't want you to make a fuss," I heard Dylan say to his father. "You knew I was planning to come home. I booked a flight, so here I am." "Here you are," Alan echoed. "You look like the result of that Soviet sleep-deprivation experiment. Didn't you get any rest? I thought you were flying first class!" I looked up from the ground to see Dylan shift uncomfortably, as though he didn't want anyone – like me – to hear he had flown first class. But it was hardly a surprise. Alan had told me all about his fabulously successful son, who had just sold his tech start-up in Silicon Valley for a truly eye-watering price. Personally, I didn't think Dylan looked like the result of a Soviet sleep-deprivation experiment. He was broad-shouldered and tall, despite his slouched posture. Sure, there were rings under his eyes, his dark hair was plastered to one side of his head, and he clearly had foregone a shave or two, but that was to be expected after a fourteen-hour flight. Even if it had been spent in the luxury of a fully reclining sky bed. The dark rings and stubble only seemed to emphasise his high cheekbones and the depths of his very green eyes. Besides, I'd always found that haunted look strangely attractive. Not that I had any intention of admitting it. Nor did I have any intention of admitting that, actually, I already knew what Dylan looked like. Between photos unearthed during my interviews with Alan and a little light online stalking, I was very much aware that Dylan was handsome. Already nervous to meet my boss's son, I hadn't imagined I'd be brandishing a potato that, apparently, resembled diseased genitalia when I did. "It was a long flight," Dylan said, shrugging and taking a seat at the