Page 272 of Banter & Blushes

I stand at the edge of the boardwalk, arms wrapped around myself, watching the horizon melt into gold and fire. Behind me, the Clever Lime glows with soft fairy lights, windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside. Laughter spills out every time someone opens the door.

It’s still ours.

It always will be.

Footsteps crunch lightly on the sanded wood behind me, and I don’t need to turn around to know who it is. I feel him before I see him—like gravity shifts just slightly when he’s near.

Keigan’s jacket is unzipped, because of course it is. He hates the cold but refuses to dress for it. His hand finds mine without a word, fingers lacing through mine like we’ve always done it. Like we’re made to.

“You’re going to freeze to death out here,” he murmurs, his voice low and close to my ear.

“You say that every time,” I reply, leaning into his side. “Yet here we are.”

“I’m a sucker for poetic scenery and stubborn women.”

I smile, watching a lone sailboat drift in the distance. “I thought you were a sucker for beach bars and bad jukeboxes.”

“Touché,” he says with a grin. Then quieter, “You okay?”

I nod. “More than okay.”

He studies me for a beat, then tilts his head toward the bar. “It’s packed in there. Mrs. Thompson’s trying to set up Joe with her niece again. Clara’s giving someone a crash course in cocktails they didn’t ask for. Your kingdom awaits.”

I look at him, really look at him. His hair’s wind-tossed, his smile a little crooked, and there’s a softness in his eyes that still trips me up sometimes. I don’t think he realizes what he looks like when he’s looking at me like that.

“Let them wait,” I say, squeezing his hand.

His eyebrows lift in mock surprise. “The boss lady’s slacking?”

“Momentary lapse.” I lean forward, resting my head on his shoulder. “You know, six months ago, I wasn’t sure if any of this was real.”

He brushes a kiss against my temple. “It’s real.”

“I know,” I whisper. “Now I know.”

We stand there for a while, the waves a steady hush beneath the murmur of life from the bar. The sky deepens into lavender, stars blinking their way into view one by one.

Then Keigan shifts, reaching into his coat pocket with a glint in his eye I know all too well.

“What are you up to?” I ask warily.

“Just… giving you something.” He holds out a small, folded napkin.

I take it, raise an eyebrow. “Is this your version of romantic now? A napkin?”

“Read it,” he says, mouth twitching.

I unfold it, and there—scrawled in his messy handwriting—is a checklist titled:

‘How to Win Over the Boss Lady.’

“Sounds like a movie title,” I say.

He smirks as I read.

Show up late with a bag of fries

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