Page 137 of Banter & Blushes #1

T he next evening drags in at a lazy pace, the kind of evening where you can feel the humidity settling in the air like an unwanted guest who’s overstayed their welcome.

It’s the sort of evening where you want to just sit on the couch with a bowl of chips and finish watching the movie you’ve started a thousand times.

I’m still thinking about him.

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 in being a 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 d own 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 does n’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.”

He smirks—just a hint of it—and takes another sip. “You could say that. I like to think I’m running toward something, though.”

I arch an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? And what might that be?”

He leans in slightly, to scan the bar, the way you look around when you’re trying to figure out whether you’re about to step into the mud or something more ominous.

“Good cocktails, good conversation,” he says, voice dropping a little, “and some peace and quiet.”

“Peace and quiet?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow. “You’re in the wrong place for that.”

“I know,” he says, a quiet laugh escaping him, “but I figured I could give it a shot.”

His words settle between us, hanging in the air like a shared secret. We’re both here, but we’re both still keeping something back. It’s like a game where neither of us wants to be the first to show our cards. The difference is, I think I want to know more than I should.

“Any other deep philosophical questions you’ve got for me?” I ask. I’m leaning against the counter now, watching him as I cross my arms. This feels like territory I shouldn’t be exploring, but I can’t help myself.

He shakes his head slightly. “Not unless you’ve got a good explanation for why people always want to tell you about their ‘life-changing’ experience with essential oils.”

I grin. “Oh, don’t get me started. They’ll try to sell you a whole lifestyle along with it.”

“That’s what I’m trying to avoid,” he says, like I’ve somehow just confirmed a suspicion he’s been holding.

I want to keep digging. I want to ask more.

But just like last night, he’s here, but not really here.

A part of him stays closed off, like there’s something bigger at play, something more complicated than I can see.

And I’m not sure if I’m trying to understand him because I’m curious about him or because I just don’t like being left in the dark.

He finishes the drink and pulls out a bill, leaving it on the counter.

“You don’t stay long,” I say, my voice a little too casual.

I’m trying to hide the fact that I wanted him to stay just a little longer.

He slides the empty glass a few inches forward, one brow lifting just enough to be dangerous. “Is that an invitation?”

I glance down at the glass, then back up at him. “Depends. Do you usually RSVP with mysterious exits and no forwarding address?”

His lips tighten like he’s trying not to smile. “Only when the company’s interesting enough to make me want a second invite.”

My fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the bar, but I keep my face cool. “Well, unfortunately, if you’re expecting a handwritten note and a trail of rose petals, you might be disappointed. I don’t even know your name.”

He studies me for a second, like he’s weighing something.

I tilt my head. “What? Did you forget your name? Told you that Trust Fall would have you rethinking life choices.”

That earns me a small, amused breath—barely a laugh, but enough to register.

“Keigan,” he says, finally.

It’s simple, no frills. Just a name. But the way he says it, low and even, makes it feel like a secret he chose to give me.

I give a slow, thoughtful nod, like I’m trying the name on for size. “Keigan.”

He leans one elbow on the bar. “You going to tell me yours? Or do I have to come back and guess it letter by letter?”

“I feel like you’d be the type to start with X.”

“And now I definitely am.”

I grab the towel I abandoned earlier and flip it over my shoulder, ignoring the ridiculous flutter in my stomach. “Guess you’ll just have to come back, then. I’ll be sure to wear a name tag next time.”

He stands, not in a hurry, but like he knows dragging it out would ruin the rhythm. “Nah. That’d take all the fun out of it.”

This time he doesn’t pause. He just gives me one last look that feels like a page turn.

“I’ll see you around… X.”

And then he’s out the door, sunlight catching on the edges of his silhouette just long enough to make me squint.

Clara appears beside me a beat later. “Okay, you have to stop pretending he’s just a regular customer.”

I busy myself wiping down the already-clean bar. “He ordered ginger ale. That basically makes him a teetotaling grandpa.”

She scoffs. “A grandpa who looks like that? Please. And you gave him a Trust Fall. So, he’s either in witness protection or a tragic hero from a soap opera reboot.”

I don’t answer. I guess I wasn’t ready for him to go yet.

And yet, I don’t know what I would have said if he hadn’t.