Page 4 of Banter & Blushes #1

CADE

A fter settling into the rental beach bungalow—not fancy, but adequate for my needs—I notice three missed calls, one of which I’d rather just ignore, but he’ll call back. Knowing his aversion to texting if he has to say more than three words, I swipe my phone and place the call.

As soon as the call connects, a boisterous voice asks, “How’s Seabreeze Harbor? Can you handle the funky small-town atmosphere for a month?” Jerry chuckles at his own joke.

Unfortunately, our family attorney knows me far too well.

I much prefer big city living, but after the interaction with the beautiful matchmaker/tea proprietor earlier, I might reconsider my stance.

“The scenery is spectacular, and the beaches are fairly uncrowded. I think I’ll enjoy the change of pace. ”

Jerry grunts. “Just don’t forget about the real objective. I’m concerned that all this trip will accomplish is further delays in an already tight schedule.”

“Oh, I won’t forget, you remind me about it all the time,” I huff.

He expels a loud breath. “Listen, Cade, you’ve had two years to fulfill your grandad’s stipulation, and yet here we are with only ninety days to accomplish the goal.”

My heart ticks up a notch with the mention of ninety days.

Three months sounds like a much longer timeframe, but when he expresses it in days , the reality of my situation slams into me.

“I’ve got a plan. There’s a matchmaker here and I’m going to enlist her services.

” The words spout from my mouth before I engage my brain. Now I’m committed.

“A matchmaker?” he snorts, disbelief lacing his tone. “Well, far be it for me to discourage you, but that ‘plan’ sounds a bit kooky. Since when does Cade Bainbridge need a matchmaker?”

Since I’ve dragged my heels too long and am now desperate.

Losing this multi-million-dollar trust fund is simply not an option.

“I’ve met the matchmaker, and she seems excellent at her craft.

” Hopefully our attorney can’t sense how much I’m stretching the truth.

Maybe she’s an expert at brewing tea, or identifying essential oils to alleviate a raft of ailments, but matchmaking?

“I’ll look forward to an engagement announcement very soon, then,” he says dryly. “Good luck.”

“You’ll be the first to know,” I assure him with minimal snark in my tone. I certainly can’t admit now that I’m skeptical as to what this matchmaking process entails and whether it will yield any results. But considering my recent dating history, what could it hurt?

Jerry sighs. “Cade, I know this deadline is forcing you to rush to a decision, however I hope you won’t lose sight of the fact that your granddad would want you to fall in love. Rather than simply settle.”

Fall in love in ninety days or less? Impossible. All I’m hoping for is to find someone I’m attracted to and can cohabitate with amicably. Doesn’t sound very romantic, does it?

I stifle a sigh of my own. “If this matchmaker is any good, she’ll find my perfect match.”

Chuckling, Jerry signs off and my screen goes blank.

Ding!

Attorney Jerry: 90 days (clock emoji)

My brows slam together when I read the text. Blasted man! We just spoke and he feels compelled to remind me that the clock is ticking?

In addition to all the work involved in putting Hugo Sears’s property on the market and getting him the deal of a lifetime, I’ve added this ridiculous matchmaking task to my already full plate.

Or more like my grandfather did without my knowing it all those years ago.

Marking my calendar to visit Plot Twists and Perfect Matches again this week and get the matchmaking ball rolling, I set aside my anxiety over my forced march to the altar and focus on the real reason I’m here. Snapping open my laptop, I get to work.

Late the next day, I’ve finished the heavy lifting of putting Hugo’s property in the local MLS, taking fancy photos—including those popular drone pictures everyone wants—as well as compiling a list of everything Hugo or I know about the land.

It’s a gem of a property, a rare ten-acre lot with its own private beachfront, and will be sought after by corporate and private buyers alike.

I’ve already received several inquiries, so we could be looking at a bidding war.

Since this midsummer day means I’ve still got a couple hours of sunlight left, I grab a beer and sit on the back deck overlooking the ocean, unwinding and enjoying the view.

The soothing sound of the waves crashing against the shore helps me relax.

A smattering of beachgoers strolls along the sand, but far fewer than earlier today.

A man throws a ball to a dog, who retrieves it and brings it back, starting the process all over again.

A group of kids laugh and shout as they play some sort of tag game in the sand.

A woman carrying a sand pail makes her way at a snail’s pace and appears to be collecting seashells, bright yellow Chuck Taylors on her feet catching my eye.

Wait! Is that the gorgeous shopkeeper? I sit up straighter in my chair and watch her slow approach.

She picks up a shell, inspects it, then tosses it back to the sand or into her bucket.

Without a second thought, I grab my baseball hat and sunglasses and rush down the stairs like a teenager chasing his first crush.

I’m hardly ever spontaneous, so I surprise myself at this rash move.

She doesn’t see me as I casually walk towards her, pretending to be on a stroll along the beach like everyone else.

I admire her tank top and cut-off blue jean shorts, which reveal a pair of long sexy legs.

The sight makes me catch my breath for a moment.

When she’s about ten feet away, she finally looks up.

Her eyes widen, and I see the recognition dawn on her pretty face.

“Hello again!” I say, throwing in an awkward wave for good measure. “So, in addition to running your shop, you’re also... a shell collector?” I nod toward her bucket like it’s the crown jewels and instantly regret the world’s lamest pickup line.

She doesn’t comment on my clumsy greeting and closes the gap between us, holding up her bucket for inspection. “I sell sand dollars in my shop,” she says. “With the strong waves lately, I knew there’d be a lot washed ashore.”

I nod, and my eyes widen when I look into her treasure bucket. “Wow, complete ones. I usually just find the broken ones.”

She grins, probably at my expense. “My mom says I have a knack for finding the perfect ones.” She shrugs modestly, like she’s not some kind of sand dollar wizard.

“Did you know sand dollars burrow in the ocean floor? Once they’re dislodged, the waves break their spines and they die.

” A fleeting look of sadness crosses her face.

“It’s kind of tragic, isn’t it? But I guess that’s the only way we get to enjoy them. ”

I find myself unexpectedly touched by her empathy. I hadn’t realized that about sand dollars. “Want any help?”

She gives me a look like she’s deciding whether I’m fit to handle such an important task. Then she shrugs. “Sure, but I only accept whole sand dollars, not the broken ones,” she teases. The joke softens the previous somber moment and brings a small smile to my face.

I fall into step beside her, scanning the sand like I might actually contribute something to this effort. “You know,” I say after a beat, “even though you served me fudgy black bean brownies and tea, we’ve never been formally introduced.”

She gasps dramatically. “Oh no! Where are my manners? I’m Luna. Luna Zapatta.”

Finally, a name to go with gorgeous shopkeeper . This feels like progress.

I extend my hand like we’re sealing a business deal. “Cade Bainbridge, at your service.”

With a beaming smile, she returns the handshake. The second our hands join, my heart flips and I feel the zing of attraction from my head to my toes.

After taking a second or two to recover from the electrically charged handshake, I say, with all the exuberance I can muster, “Well, Luna, let’s see if we can stuff that bucket full of sand dollars before the sun calls it a day.”

For the next half hour I find myself doing something I never thought I’d do: collecting sand dollars and enjoying the company of an unconventional and fascinating woman.

Buzzy corporate topics such as synergy, pivoting, career cushioning, or hybrid work never even cross our lips.

Instead, we talk about getting sand in our shoes, dodging sea gull droppings, and how far the tide has risen since we started on this walk.

“You drove a Zamboni?” I ask after our conversation strays into the topic of weirdest jobs we’ve ever done.

Her tinkling laugh matches the sunlight sparkling off the waves. “Yes, but don’t be too impressed. Just at a small rink where the city hockey league played. Two laps around and the rink was smooth again.”

I laugh. “What made you take that job?”

She chews on her lower lip for a few seconds, then says, “My boyfriend at the time played on the team. I was unemployed, so he got me the job.” Pausing to pick up a partially buried sand dollar, she says, “What’s the weirdest job you ever did?

” The sea creature doesn’t pass inspection, so she tosses it back onto the sand and we resume walking.

“I worked for my parents at their ice cream shop. It was a knockoff Dairy Queen.”

“No kidding? I’d have gained twenty pounds if I worked at a place like that,” she teases.

“What about your stance on sugar? I thought you don’t eat sugary treats,” I tease back.

She grins. “True. But when I was a teenager, I had no restraint.”

“Me either. I may have consumed my fair share of hot fudge sundaes with peanuts on top.”

We both laugh.

A comfortable silence falls between us as we diligently scan the sand for our treasure. “I’m surprised we’ve seen more sand dollars than trash,” Luna comments.

“Trash?”