Page 9 of Banter & Blushes #1

CADE

A ll my skepticism about Luna’s matchmaking process and ridiculous questionnaire dissolves when she finds a perfect match on the first try. From reading her personal bio, I’m certain that Gabielle Moore and I will be very compatible.

Gabrielle and I are meeting tonight at a fancy beachside restaurant known for its vast seafood menu and romantic ambiance. I could skip the romantic ambiance, but maybe it will impress my date.

I drain my coffee cup, bus it to the dishwasher, and jog out the door.

I’m meeting a potential buyer and their agent at a law office in town this morning.

They wanted to meet in person to discuss some questions about Hugo’s property.

That approach seems very old school—have they never heard of Zoom?

—but who am I to question a serious buyer.

First though, I’m going to stop by Plot Twists and Perfect Matches and thank Luna for finding my perfect match so quickly. If everything goes well tonight and Gabrielle and I hit it off, I’ll be well on my way to fulfilling Grandad’s ultimatum and finding the future Mrs. Bainbridge.

The little beachside community is hopping this morning.

Tourists are out and about, wandering down the main street wearing shorts, T-shirts, and flip-flops.

I feel overdressed in my three-piece suit.

When I whip into a parking spot two doors down from Luna’s shop, I chuckle.

Maybe this superpower isn’t as useless as I thought.

Luna’s shop is the busiest I’ve ever seen when I stroll through the door.

A group of older ladies are examining the crystal jewelry display.

Two teenagers giggle by the essential oils display, and I overhear them debating lavender versus sandalwood for attracting the opposite sex.

A preppy-looking couple are sitting at a café table enjoying tea and some of Luna’s bakery treats.

They both have a book by their elbow, reminding me of Luna’s comment about books and crumbs not mixing.

After I make a loop through the bestsellers section, I finally find Luna.

She’s standing beside the murder mystery shelf, having an animated conversation with an older man.

Neither one sees me, so I take a minute to watch the beautiful shopkeeper.

Her blue jean skirt and matching shirt are a new look for her—kind of gypsy meets urban cowboy.

Her bracelets clink together as she talks with her hands.

Dangly turquoise earrings sway back and forth on her ears, drawing my eyes because her hair is tied back into a ponytail rather than her usual down-around-the-shoulders style.

Glancing at her feet, my eyes go wide because she’s replaced the Chuck Taylors with a pair of pink cowboy boots.

“Cade!” Luna says the minute she turns her head towards me. A smile splits her beautiful face, she says something to the man, then she comes over to where I’m standing. “What can I help you with?”

I return her smile as my heart does a summersault in my chest. “I came to thank you for setting up the date with Gabrielle this evening.”

A small frown tips her lips as she rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet. “Oh, that’s nice of you. But I was just doing my job.” She opens her mouth, as if she wants to say more, but instead she snaps her mouth shut and remains silent.

“Any tips for my date?” I tease. “What does a matchmaker tell her client before his first matched appointment?”

“Um, well... Be yourself. If the match is meant to be, it will be.”

A song plays through my head after she says those words. Surprised by Luna’s short-winded answer, I say, “That’s it? No tidbits you want to share about romance? Suggestions for how to woo my date?”

She places her hand on my forearm and that zap of attraction again zips between us. The way she immediately lifts her hand as if her fingers were burned tells me that she also feels the chemistry between us. Taking a couple steps back, she says, “Cade, I’m sure you don’t need any coaching.”

Our eyes lock, and I have a sudden urge to kiss her.

I want to run my fingers through her hair.

Touch my lips to her tempting red lips and drink in her intoxicating smell: a mixture of vanilla, citrus, and spice.

Thoughts of Gabrielle Moore fly from my head, and all I can think about is Luna.

Her quirky outfits... Her sweet laugh. .. Her tendency to overshare...

“Do these soy candles come in any other color?” a woman asks, interrupting Luna’s and my moment. Or whatever that was.

Luna gives me a brisk nod, then says, “Let me show you our complete selection. These come in a variety of colors.” In seconds, she disappears to the other side of the shop.

I stand in the murder mystery section for a couple more minutes, questioning my need for a matchmaker when the fact is, I’m falling for my matchmaker.

Fortunately, the meeting with the potential buyer and real estate agent takes my mind off my conflicted feelings about Luna and my upcoming date with Gabrielle.

The two men had a raft of questions about the environmental study we conducted, the threat of beach erosion, and whether any hurricanes had hit the region in the last hundred years.

The meeting dragged on and on. The other agent even ordered lunch, which I felt obligated to dawdle over with them.

By the time I get back to my beach house, I’ve got just over an hour to get ready for my date.

When I spot the sand dollar Luna gave me, I sigh and flop down on my bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering whether I really know what type of woman I’m looking for.

Before I met Luna, my concept of the future Mrs. Bainbridge was so clear.

But the beautiful shopkeeper/matchmaker has put doubts in my head.

Resolved to wow my date, I hop into the shower, then debate what to wear.

These fancy restaurants usually require a suit complete with jacket and tie, so I go with another full suit, even though it feels a bit stifling.

If this was a date with Luna, we’d go to a casual seafood place where we could crack crabs with our fingers and wear shorts, T-shirts, and flip-flops.

Despite my growing attraction to my matchmaker, I’ve re-resolved myself that I need to maintain my current course and speed and pursue a big-city corporate professional for the role of Mrs. Bainbridge.

My fascination with Luna is just a chemical reaction.

An attraction that will burn itself out and we’ll be miserable in a couple years.

She lives in a small town, and I don’t see her moving anytime soon, especially since she owns a thriving business here.

With renewed enthusiasm for this date, I march into the Golden Anchor, ready to wine and dine Gabrielle Moore. When I arrive, a smattering of couples at intimate two-people tables is scattered around the dining room.

A waiter in a black suit approaches me. “May I help you, sir?”

“I have a reservation for two. Cade Bainbridge.” My eyes scan the tiny waiting area and the dining room for any sign of a woman that could be my date, and I spot two possible candidates.

There’s a woman hiding behind a book and wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap at one table and another woman hunched over her cell phone, dressed in a business suit, sitting at another table. Bingo! That must be Gabrielle.

“Follow me. Your date arrived a few minutes ago.” He leads me to the little nook in the far corner of the dining room holding the phone-distracted woman.

As we approach, the woman in the business suit looks up and stands.

She’s almost as tall as I am and is reed thin.

Her hair is pulled back into a severe bun that looks like it could give her a headache.

“Are you Cade?” she asks, her nasally voice catching me off guard.

“I am. Nice to meet you, Gabrielle.” We shake, but I don’t feel even a tiny tingle of attraction. No zing. No zip. Nothing.

The waiter leaves us with two leather-bound menus and glasses of ice water as we settle into chairs across from each other. A lone candle flickers in the center of the pristine white tablecloth, reflecting off the two place settings of silverware waiting for us to use.

An awkward silence falls between us as we stare at each other. I debate whether to pick up the menu and pretend to read it or try to broach a conversation.

Tingle! Tingle! My nose feels like it does when I’m about to have an allergy attack, but I shrug it off.

“How long are you here in Seabreeze Harbor?” I ask.

“Are you enjoying your stay in Seabreeze Harbor?” She asks.

Gabrielle’s brows slam together when we both speak at the same time. “You go first,” she says in an annoyed tone.

“No, please, you go first.”

Thankfully Gabrielle takes the lead so we don’t have to debate speaking order any further. “My mom lives here, so I’m staying a couple weeks with her. I understand you’re the one brokering the Hugo Sears land sale.”

I’m not surprised everyone in this small town knows about Hugo’s sale. “I am. We’ve had a lot of interest so far. As you probably know, it’s a prime piece of property.” I take a gulp of my ice water, then rest my elbow on the table.

She nods towards my arm. “Mable, Mable, sweet and able, get your elbows off the table.” Her nasally voice sets my teeth on edge.

“Are you the etiquette police?” I tease, thinking she just made a joke.

Her lips purse as she tosses me an unapproving glare. I quickly remove the offending body part from the table, feeling like a misbehaving child who’s been scolded by my spinster aunt.

“I strive for proper etiquette throughout a meal, and I hope you will do the same.”

Ouch! A trickle of sweat runs down the back of my neck. Am I going to use the wrong fork next?

We stare at each other for several beats. This is becoming one of my worst first dates ever. My brain spins as I try to think of an acceptable topic of conversation. “How do you like living in Tampa? ”

She shrugs. “I much prefer the west coast.”

When she doesn’t comment further, I blurt, “Less threat of hurricanes, right?”

“My opinion is not due to the weather, it’s because I prefer a gluten-free, eco-conscious lifestyle,” she says, her tone dripping with censure.

Yikes! Two scoldings in the span of two minutes. Maybe I just need to keep my mouth shut. A few seconds later, my nose starts to tingle again, and I sneeze. Loudly. Ahchoo!

“Bless you.”

Ahchoo! Ahchoo! Ahchoo!

Gabrielle slides her chair back as far as possible while still sitting at the table as I try to contain my sneezes behind my hand. “Are you ill?” she asks in an accusatory tone. She picks up the menu and holds it in front of her face like a shield to ward off any germs.

“No. This feels like”— Ahchoo! —“This feels like my allergies have been triggered.” Ahchoo! Ahchoo! Embarrassment floods my cheeks. I wish I had a box of tissues with me.

Her eyes go wide. “What are you allergic to?”

Ahchoo! “Are you wearing musk perfume?” I manage to wheeze the question out between sneezes. Ahchoo! Ahchoo!

She looks down her rather beaky nose and gives me an arrogant look. “Yes I am. My matchmaker suggested musk would be an alluring scent to wear this evening. I’m wearing an eco-friendly brand,” she huffs.

Huh? Eco-friendly or not, I’m obviously still reacting to the perfume. I’m sure I indicated that I’m allergic to certain fragrances on my profile sheet. It seems odd that Gabrielle’s matchmaker didn’t notice that.

Feeling another bout of sneezing coming on, I quickly stand and bid my date goodbye. “Sorry, but we’re going to have to reschedule.” Ahchoo! Ahchoo!

As I stride out of the restaurant, I ponder what just happened. I probably need to schedule another date with the CEO, although we weren’t exactly hitting it off. She seemed pretty put off by my bout of sneezing. Justifiably so. Who wants to be exposed to your date’s germs?

What seemed like my perfect match now feels like an epic fail. On the other hand, considering how awkward the date was going, was this a blessing in disguise?