Page 246 of Banter & Blushes

Quiet Ginger Ale Guy.

I know, I know. I can’t get hung up on him. It’s just that—well, he just… sat there, drank ginger ale, and seemed more interested in watching the place unfold than inbeinga part of it. The whole interaction wasn’t like a date, but it felt like a dance, a weird, quiet rhythm that I couldn’t quite place.

And maybe that’s why I’m waiting for him tonight.

Clara’s voice floats over, pulling me back into the moment. “Beck, stop staring at the door. You’re starting to look like a lovesick puppy.”

“Shh,” I say, waving her off without looking away from the door. “I’m not staring at the door. I’m just…”

My gaze jumps over to Clara. She raises a brow, obviously skeptical. “I’m just wondering if I have some unclaimed dignity left, okay?”

Clara chuckles under her breath and takes another order from the tourist with the loud Hawaiian shirt. I grin a little as I wipe down the counter.

As if on cue, the door jingles again, soft and subtle this time.

“Welcome to The Clever Lime,” I call and look up, not expecting much, and?—

Oh.

It’s him.

I freeze, not sure if I should act like I didn’t notice or jump into a full-on greeting like he’s a long-lost friend. Instead, I go with the middle ground—just enough to acknowledge him without looking overly eager.

Tonight, he's dressed in a dark shirt that clings in just enough places to suggest that he occasionally lifts heavy things for fun. His ball cap is back, tilted slightly like it can't decide whether it wants to be casual or serious. He steps inside, his movements unhurried, and pauses just long enough for the door to swing shut behind him with a soft clink of the bell.

I straighten, the towel still in one hand, and watch him as he heads to the same stool at the far end of the bar. He sits with the kind of ease that suggests he's done this a hundred times, even though I know he hasn't. Not here, anyway. He’s wearing the sunglasses again, but his posture is a little different this time. He looks like he’s testing the waters. Or maybe he just doesn't like eye contact. Either way, it's intriguing. And a little frustrating.

“Back again for more of our ‘world-class’ ginger ale?” I say with a slight, teasing grin.

“Maybe. But I hear your cocktails are pretty impressive too. Thought I’d give those a shot.”

I want to see where this goes.

“Funny, you didn’t seem like a cocktail guy yesterday,” I comment as I put the towel in its place and grab a glass. “You sure you’re not just here for the ginger ale again?”

He shrugs, looking almost amused by the thought. I hand him the menu, and he doesn’t even glance at it.

“What’s the ‘you’ve-got-my-attention’ special tonight?” he asks, like he’s genuinely interested.

I laugh under my breath. “I’m going to say ‘The Trust Fall.’ But that might be a little too much for someone with your level of palate.”

He chuckles, a quick, low sound. “Try me.”

I’ve already got all the ingredients I need, and I start working—shaking and mixing in smooth, practiced motions. There’s something about having him here, about watching him sit there, watching me without any expectation, that makes my fingers move a little faster. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s not trying to impress me. That’s a relief.

When the drink’s done, I set it in front of him.

“Here’s your ‘Trust Fall,’” I say with a grin, “But be warned—it might make you rethink your life choices.”

He takes the glass, holding it for a moment before taking a careful sip. I’m almost too eager to see what he’ll think. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches me from behind those sunglasses, looking like he’s mentally debating something. Then he sets the glass down slowly.

“Not bad,” he says, nodding to himself, like he’s confirming something. “Maybe a little too much trust for my taste.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Told you. It’s not for the faint of heart.”

He leans back slightly. I glance out the window, noting how the evening is starting to dip into that dusky blue where the ocean looks almost like velvet. A perfect beach evening.

“So,” I say after a beat, “what’s your story? You seem like you’re on the run from something.”

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