Page 5 of Banter & Blushes

My brows slam together when I read the text. Blasted man! We just spoke and he feels compelled to remind me that the clock is ticking?

In addition to all the work involved in putting Hugo Sears’s property on the market and getting him the deal of a lifetime, I’ve added this ridiculous matchmaking task to my already full plate. Or more like my grandfather did without my knowing it all those years ago. Marking my calendar to visit Plot Twists and Perfect Matches again this week and get the matchmaking ball rolling, I set aside my anxiety over my forced march to the altar and focus on the real reason I’m here. Snapping open my laptop, I get to work.

Late the next day,I’ve finished the heavy lifting of putting Hugo’s property in the local MLS, taking fancy photos—including those popular drone pictures everyone wants—as well as compiling a list of everything Hugo or I know about the land. It’s a gem of a property, a rare ten-acre lot with its own privatebeachfront, and will be sought after by corporate and private buyers alike. I’ve already received several inquiries, so we could be looking at a bidding war.

Since this midsummer day means I’ve still got a couple hours of sunlight left, I grab a beer and sit on the back deck overlooking the ocean, unwinding and enjoying the view. The soothing sound of the waves crashing against the shore helps me relax. A smattering of beachgoers strolls along the sand, but far fewer than earlier today. A man throws a ball to a dog, who retrieves it and brings it back, starting the process all over again. A group of kids laugh and shout as they play some sort of tag game in the sand. A woman carrying a sand pail makes her way at a snail’s pace and appears to be collecting seashells, bright yellow Chuck Taylors on her feet catching my eye.

Wait!Is that the gorgeous shopkeeper?I sit up straighter in my chair and watch her slow approach. She picks up a shell, inspects it, then tosses it back to the sand or into her bucket. Without a second thought, I grab my baseball hat and sunglasses and rush down the stairs like a teenager chasing his first crush. I’m hardly ever spontaneous, so I surprise myself at this rash move.

She doesn’t see me as I casually walk towards her, pretending to be on a stroll along the beach like everyone else. I admire her tank top and cut-off blue jean shorts, which reveal a pair of long sexy legs. The sight makes me catch my breath for a moment. When she’s about ten feet away, she finally looks up. Her eyes widen, and I see the recognition dawn on her pretty face.

“Hello again!” I say, throwing in an awkward wave for good measure. “So, in addition to running your shop, you’re also... a shell collector?” I nod toward her bucket like it’s the crown jewels and instantly regret the world’slamestpickup line.

She doesn’t comment on my clumsy greeting and closes the gap between us, holding up her bucket for inspection. “I sell sand dollars in my shop,” she says. “With the strong waves lately, I knew there’d be a lot washed ashore.”

I nod, and my eyes widen when I look into her treasure bucket. “Wow, complete ones. I usually just find the broken ones.”

She grins, probably at my expense. “My mom says I have a knack for finding the perfect ones.” She shrugs modestly, like she’s not some kind of sand dollar wizard. “Did you know sand dollars burrow in the ocean floor? Once they’re dislodged, the waves break their spines and they die.” A fleeting look of sadness crosses her face. “It’s kind of tragic, isn’t it? But I guess that’s the only way we get to enjoy them.”

I find myself unexpectedly touched by her empathy. I hadn’t realized that about sand dollars. “Want any help?”

She gives me a look like she’s deciding whether I’m fit to handle such an important task. Then she shrugs. “Sure, but I only accept whole sand dollars, not the broken ones,” she teases. The joke softens the previous somber moment and brings a small smile to my face.

I fall into step beside her, scanning the sand like I might actually contributesomething to this effort. “You know,” I say after a beat, “even though you served me fudgy black bean brownies and tea, we’ve never been formally introduced.”

She gasps dramatically. “Oh no! Where are my manners? I’m Luna. Luna Zapatta.”

Finally, a name to go withgorgeous shopkeeper. This feels like progress.

I extend my hand like we’re sealing a business deal. “Cade Bainbridge, at your service.”

With a beaming smile, she returns the handshake. The second our hands join, my heart flips and I feel the zing of attraction from my head to my toes.

After taking a second or two to recover from the electrically charged handshake, I say, with all the exuberance I can muster, “Well, Luna, let’s see if we can stuff that bucket full of sand dollars before the sun calls it a day.”

For the next half hour I find myself doing something I never thought I’d do: collecting sand dollars and enjoying the company of an unconventional and fascinating woman. Buzzy corporate topics such as synergy, pivoting, career cushioning, or hybrid work never even cross our lips. Instead, we talk about getting sand in our shoes, dodging sea gull droppings, and how far the tide has risen since we started on this walk.

“You drove a Zamboni?” I ask after our conversation strays into the topic of weirdest jobs we’ve ever done.

Her tinkling laugh matches the sunlight sparkling off the waves. “Yes, but don’t be too impressed. Just at a small rink where the city hockey league played. Two laps around and the rink was smooth again.”

I laugh. “What made you take that job?”

She chews on her lower lip for a few seconds, then says, “My boyfriend at the time played on the team. I was unemployed, so he got me the job.” Pausing to pick up a partially buried sand dollar, she says, “What’s the weirdest job you ever did?” The sea creature doesn’t pass inspection, so she tosses it back onto the sand and we resume walking.

“I worked for my parents at their ice cream shop. It was a knockoff Dairy Queen.”

“No kidding? I’d have gained twenty pounds if I worked at a place like that,” she teases.

“What about your stance on sugar? I thought you don’t eat sugary treats,” I tease back.

She grins. “True. But when I was a teenager, I had no restraint.”

“Me either. I may have consumed my fair share of hot fudge sundaes with peanuts on top.”

We both laugh.

A comfortable silence falls between us as we diligently scan the sand for our treasure. “I’m surprised we’ve seen more sand dollars than trash,” Luna comments.

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