At the Willowbend Indoor Market—one of those half-boutique, half-farmers’-market places where the lighting is warm and soft enough to flatter anyone over fifty—Mark Ellison found himself having a conversation he wasn’t prepared for.
Mark was 63, a former high school football coach who still carried the build, even if his knees complained more than they used to. He’d been divorced for eight years, living alone in a quiet house that echoed too much when the TV was off. Most Saturdays, he came to the market for fresh bread and a little bit of human interaction.
But that day, interaction found him first.
Her name was Elise Garvey.
Fifty-six. A widowed florist with deep auburn hair and the kind of warm, teasing voice that made a man lean in without realizing it. They met at a booth that sold handmade candles—mostly because she reached for the same one he did.
Her fingers brushed his.
Her touch was warm.
Her smile warmer.
“Oh—sorry,” she said, pulling her hand back just enough to be polite, but not enough to end the moment.
He shook his head. “No apology needed.”
And then he saw it.
Elise bit her lower lip—softly, briefly, her eyes flicking up to meet his. It wasn’t the nervous kind of lip bite, the kind someone does when they’re unsure. It was deliberate. Controlled.
And it hit him low in the gut.
She set the candle down, pretending to examine another one, though she clearly wasn’t reading the label. Her tongue brushed the corner of her mouth, and she bit her lip again, this time holding it for half a second longer.
Mark felt the air go tight around them.
That was the first sign.
Not just attraction—permission.
They ended up walking the market together—she insisted, and he didn’t argue. Elise moved with a slow confidence, like someone who had spent years denying herself softness and was finally giving in.
At the olive oil booth, she stood close enough that her shoulder grazed his arm every time she leaned in.
At the spice rack, she touched his wrist—light, testing, but unmistakably curious.
And every time their eyes met, her lip found its way between her teeth.
But the clearest signal came at the wine-tasting table.
The vendor poured samples of a dry red. Elise lifted her glass, took a sip, and glanced at Mark over the rim. He watched her throat move as she swallowed. She watched him watching her.
Then she bit her lip slowly, deliberately tugging it inward as her gaze dipped—not toward the wine, not toward the crowd, but toward his mouth.
He felt heat crawl up the back of his neck.
“You always look at people like that?” he asked, forcing a smirk he didn’t truly feel.
She stepped a little closer, lowering her voice.
“I only look at men like that,” she said, “when I want them to look back.”
That line, paired with the lip bite she didn’t even try to hide, nearly knocked the breath out of him.
Still, she wasn’t done.
They walked toward the parking lot together, carrying small bags—his with bread, hers with a tiny succulent the vendor insisted she didn’t need to pay for.
The afternoon sun cast long shadows. Elise stopped beside his truck, her body angled toward him. The breeze pushed a strand of hair across her cheek. She didn’t fix it. She let him see the softness, the slight vulnerability.
Then she bit her lip again…
Not quick.
Not shy.
But slow, intentional, a gentle tug that made her breath catch just enough for him to notice.
“Mark,” she said quietly, “can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
She didn’t look away.
“When a woman does… that”—her eyes flicked to her own mouth—“and keeps doing it… what do you think she’s trying to say?”
His heart thumped hard, once.
“I think,” he answered, stepping just a little closer, “she’s saying she’s interested.”
“And if she’s very interested?” Elise asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
He didn’t need to guess.
He didn’t even need to think.
“That she wants you to do something about it,” he said.
Her smile bloomed slow and warm. She bit her lip one last time—lightly, playfully—then released it as she reached for his hand, letting her fingers slide between his.
“Well then,” she murmured, “I hope you’re the kind of man who doesn’t ignore a woman giving him very clear signals.”
Mark squeezed her hand gently.
“I’m not ignoring anything,” he said.
And when she stepped closer—close enough that he felt the heat radiating from her—he finally understood:
Elise wasn’t nervous.
She wasn’t unsure.
She wasn’t teasing by accident.
She’d been telling him all along—quietly, boldly, unmistakably—exactly what she wanted.
And this time, he didn’t pretend he couldn’t read the signs.