Page 118 of Banter & Blushes

Taking a breath, more for show than necessity (feigned disinterest always worked best) he stood up, leaning casually against the porch post with practiced indifference. “You lost, Hollis?” Her eyes found him, and the familiar, unyielding set of her jaw told him this was no social call. “Do I need to call the authorities?” he shouted down to her.

She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. She was manic energy wrapped in a pink sweater.

“Really, Beckett? You’re going to run and hide when I haven’t even made it to your porch?”

“You lost? Off course? Got the famous Caroline GPS malfunction? This doesn’t look like city hall,” he remarked, watching her step with purpose across the gravel in shoes that seemed hostile to Bluebell Bay’s casual terrain.

He put his mug down on the railing and curled his hands, shoving them into his pockets. Caroline wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in his space. Certainly not in his head.

“Nope,” she said, her voice breathless with certainty and sea air. “I’m right where I need to be. Turns out city hall needs a lot of help,” she replied, her steps rhythmic on the porch.

Those words got his attention.

“Well, Mayor Hollis, what can I do for you?”

Caroline stopped at the bottom of the stairs and put her foot on the first step. Pulling a planner from her oversized tote, she flipped it open with military precision.

“I need help.”

He blinked. “Not usually how people start conversations with me.”

“Bluebell Bay needs a rebrand. A website. A summer campaign. And according to your very nosy fan club at The Holler & Fork, you’re exactly the man for the job. You have a background in marketing.”

“Had,” he corrected.

“You’re retired.”

“Blissfully.”

“Not anymore.”

His brow lifted. “Excuse me?”

She looked up from her planner, sunglasses still perched on her nose like a shield.

“Bluebell Bay is floundering. Tourism’s down. Businesses are struggling. We need a campaign. Something fresh, modern, and effective. You used to create that kind of thing, didn’t you?”

“Used to.”

“So, you’re capable.”

For a moment, Beck stared, a mix of confusion and grudging admiration on his face.

“You always come in this hot?”

“Only when the future of my town is at stake.” After pausing for a breath, she snapped the planner shut. “And I’m on a deadline.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I retired for a reason.”

“You’re not eighty. You’re barefoot.”

“These are two excellent life choices.”

“And yet,” she said, sliding something across the porch railing, “you’re still curious enough to hear me out.”

He looked down.

A flyer. Or rather, a rough draft of one. At the top, bold font read:

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