Page 271 of Banter & Blushes

His lips press against mine with a tenderness that makes my heart trip over itself, and I can’t help but lean into him, my fingers brushing against the fabric of his shirt as if to anchor myself. It’s not hurried or showy, but there’s a quiet intensity to it, like he’s speaking in a language made entirely of touch.

The faint scent of salt and the lingering warmth of the bar’s fairy lights wrap around us, and I hear the distant crash of waves outside, a soft rhythm that matches the steady thrum in my chest. His thumb moves in a slow, deliberate arc against my waist, and the simplicity of it sends a warmth cascading through me.

It’s not just a kiss. It’s a conversation, one that doesn’t need words but says everything anyway.

When he finally pulls back, it’s slow, reluctant, like he’s not quite ready to let the moment go. His forehead brushes against mine, and all I can do is stand there, my heart racing like it’s trying to catch up with the rest of me.

His voice, when it comes, is soft enough to feel like part of the night itself. “Consider that your invitation,” he says.

“Invitation to what?” I ask, breathless.

He steps back slightly, just enough to meet my gaze, his hand still lingering at my waist like it’s the most natural place in the world.

“To be mine,” he says, the sincerity in his tone cutting through the quiet like a steady heartbeat.

I look up at him, searching his face, and take a small step closer, my fingers brushing against the edge of his shirt, with a small smile. “You’re going to have to work for it.”

His grin spreads slowly, lighting up his face in that way that always makes my heart stumble. “Oh, I plan to.”

There’s a beat of quiet between us, the kind that feels comfortable and full of possibilities. And then, with one last glance, he presses a kiss to my forehead, soft and lingering, before finally stepping back and heading for the door.

“Goodnight, Becky,” he says, his voice carrying the kind of warmth that lingers long after he’s gone.

“Good night, Keigan,” I reply, my voice steady now, though there’s a smile tucked into the edges of it.

The door swings shut behind him, and I’m left standing, the faint hum of the jukebox and the twinkle of the fairy lights wrapping around me like a gentle hug.

I glance toward the window, catching a glimpse of him walking down the street, his hands in his pockets, his stride easy and unhurried. A small laugh escapes me as I shake my head, my heart feeling lighter than it has in a long time.

Turning back to the bar, I pick up the rag I’d abandoned earlier and start wiping down the counter, my smile refusing to fade as the locals keep the energy alive.

“Becky, you gonna stand there swooning all night, or are we getting refills?” Joe calls from his usual spot at the end of the bar, his grin wide enough to rival the crescent moon visible through the window.

“Oh, hush, Joe,” Mrs. Thompson chimes in from her table, where she’s knitting something suspiciously scarf-like for Winston. “Let the girl have her moment. I saw that kiss, and frankly, it’s about time.”

I feel the heat rush to my face, and I quickly duck my head, focusing on straightening the napkin holder.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, trying to sound casual, though the smile tugging at my lips probably gives me away.

“Sure you don’t,” Clara says, leaning on the bar with her signature smirk. “But just so you know, the whole bar saw it. You two weren’t exactly subtle.”

I groan, running a hand over my face.

“Sweetheart, when a handsome man like that kisses you, you don’t hide it,” Mrs. Thompson says firmly, her knitting needles clicking away. “You savor it. And you let everyone know he’s yours before some other woman tries to swoop in.”

The bar erupts into laughter and cheers ofagreement, and I can’t help but join in, the sound bubbling up before I can stop it.

“Fine, fine,” I say, throwing my hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll savor it. But first, let me get Joe his refill before he starts a mutiny.”

“That’s more like it,” Joe says, sliding his glass toward me with a wink.

As I pour his drink, the lively buzz of the bar wraps around me like a favorite song, familiar and comforting. The regulars are laughing, the tourists are snapping pictures of the fairy lights, and for once, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

EPILOGUE

SIX MONTHS LATER

The ocean is quieter in the winter. Not silent—never silent—but softer, more reflective. Like it’s taking a breath between stories. The breeze carries a salty chill, and the gulls are fewer, but the way the light hits the water just before sunset still gets me. Warms me from the inside out, no matter how cold the wind is on my face.

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