Page 138 of Banter & Blushes #1

T he ceiling fan hums with the lazy rhythm of a summer morning, spinning slow and a little wobbly, like it might tip into the room any second but never quite does.

Winston stretches beside me on the couch, a fuzzy donut who occasionally lets out a snore that sounds like a very small person being mildly offended in their sleep.

His paws twitch like he’s chasing something, probably the sandwich I didn’t share with him last night.

A breeze wafts in through the open window, bringing with it the smell of salt and the muffled laughter of kids already at the beach. Seagulls argue somewhere on a rooftop like they’ve lived here longer than all of us and want everyone to remember it.

I take a slow sip from my chipped mug and tuck my feet under me.

It’s my late start day, which means I’m granted two whole extra hours to pretend I live in a cottage by the sea where no one expects anything from me except maybe to finish this lukewarm tea and remember to leave a review for the book I’m currently devouring.

It’s a romantic comedy where the heroine is reading, like her and I are sisters in another universe.

Then my phone buzzes against the coffee table with the urgency of a toddler who just learned how to shout.

Clara: I’m the worst. Running late. Can you open today? Please? I will owe you forever and also muffins. Lots of muffins. The good kind.

I sigh into the rim of my mug. Winston stirs, sniffs, and immediately goes back to dreaming.

I text back with one thumb because I’m already pulling on my shorts with the other.

Me: You better.

Clara responds with seven muffin emojis and a gif of someone sobbing dramatically. Which feels about right.

The bar is still asleep when I arrive. I unlock the front door and breathe in. Sand. Wood polish. And the faint scent of last night’s margaritas hangs around like it’s hoping for a second chance. It smells like summer and stress, which is basically the business model.

The shutters are closed, and the chairs are still up.

I move through the familiar routine, my body remembering before my brain fully catches up.

Ice bins. Garnishes. Slicing citrus until my fingers smell like a fruit basket.

The blender stares at me from the corner like it knows I’m going to regret turning it on later.

By the time the first customers wander in, sun-kissed and flip-flopped, I’m almost convincing myself I chose this life. The bar fills quickly, a patchwork of locals and tourists, laughter and clinking glass, someone trying to explain what a Daydream Regret actually is to their confused date.

By six, it’s full chaos.

I pivot between the register and the service well like I’m training for a decathlon. Someone orders four frozen daiquiris with extra umbrellas, someone else wants a “spicy but not too spicy” margarita, and a table near the door is aggressively waving their check like it’s a hostage negotiation.

I don’t notice him right away. Not until I spin with a tray of drinks and he’s there, leaning casually against the bar like he didn’t just materialize out of nowhere.

“Evening, Xerxes,” Keigan says with a grin that might actually be illegal this close to closing time.

I set the tray down and raise one eyebrow at him. “Not my name.”

“I know. But I’m working on it. X is a tough letter. You look like you’re about three margaritas away from flipping a table.”

“That’s generous. I’m down to two.”

He watches me dodge a spilled beer and reroute a confused tourist back to the bathroom line.

“You need help,” he says, standing straighter.

“I need ten arms and a clone.”

“I can carry stuff.”

I glance down at his shirt. Buttoned wrong. Like he lost track halfway through and just committed. “You’d be a walking liability.”

“I’m skilled. I can walk and chew gum at the same time. That has to count for something,” he says. “Let me prove it.”

I shove a tray into his hands and point. “Table seven. Three lemonades and one iced tea. No ice in the tea. Don’t ask questions. And lose the sunglasses. I don’t need my customers thinking you're in witness protection, hiding out in my bar. Confidence, not mystery, Romeo."

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, “and it’s Keigan, not Romeo.”

He marches off with the tray balanced like it holds state secrets.

I fully expect a disaster.

He makes it halfway there before the tea sloshes, the tray tilts, and he spills on someone’s flip-flop.

He turns around and gives me a little bow before completing his journey.

Keigan returns with the empty tray and a shameless shrug. As he’s returning the tray, a college-aged girl near the jukebox tilts her head.

“Wait,” she says, squinting. “Is that?—?”

“No,” Keigan says without missing a beat. “I just have one of those faces.”

The guy with her pulls out his phone. “Nah, I swear you look like the guy who was in that movie last year. The one with the aliens and the dramatic music?”

Keigan grabs a towel and heads for the other side of the bar like it’s the most urgent place to be on the planet.

My face tightens, but I’m too buried in orders to really care. By the time I get to the blender, someone’s asking for trivia night flyers and another person is trying to start a tab with an expired credit card.

Keigan returns with the towel tucked over his shoulder like he’s been working here forever. A woman at the bar leans toward him.

“Excuse me, sorry, but has anyone ever told you that you look just like?—”

“Once or twice,” Keigan cuts in smoothly. “He’s taller in real life.”

The woman blinks. “Oh. Okay.”

He turns back to me. “Where were we, Xena?”

I point toward the mop. “Go small.”

He nods and begins mopping the floor like it’s a noble quest. A customer asks him for a beer, and instead of touching the taps, he just points and says, “Ask the professional,” with a dramatic flourish toward me.

I try not to smile.

He doesn’t stop there. He takes coasters to tables. Delivers bowls of peanuts with the seriousness of a surgeon. Greets people like he’s auditioning for mayor. Every now and then, he turns to me with a new X-name.

“Xandra, they want two more mojitos.”

“Xavi, your daiquiris await.”

“Xochitl, you’re glowing under this fluorescent light.”

“Stop it,” I say, sliding a plate across the bar.

“Never,” he replies, like it’s a vow.

Clara bursts through the door, cheeks flushed and hair caught in a ponytail that’s only half committed to staying up. She surveys the scene. Drinks. Noise. Keigan wiping down a table while explaining the correct way to pronounce ‘jalapeno.’

“What did I miss?” she asks, swinging around the bar and bumping my shoulder. Her eyes flick to Keigan. “He works here now?”

“Apparently. He spilled iced tea on someone’s foot.”

“Hot and clumsy. My type. I brought muffins.”

“You’re forgiven.”

She glances at Keigan again, then at me. “He keeps looking at you.”

I glance over. I catch him looking at me—not at the customer, not at the table, but me . The corner of my mouth lifts before I can stop it. “He looks at everything. He’s trying not to spill again.”

“No, I mean like he’s really looking.”

I wave her off. “He’s probably married. With three kids. And a houseboat named Serenity.”

“You asked him?”

“Of course not. That would require emotional vulnerability.”

Clara laughs, shaking her head. “You’re something else.”

Keigan returns to the bar just then, offering me a glass of water with the enthusiasm of someone presenting an engagement ring.

“For you, Xaviera,” he says, placing it directly in front of me.

I take it. “You’re relentless.”

“You’re stressed. I’m trying to balance the universe.”

“And you’re starting to like this, aren’t you?” I say, giving him a small, knowing smile.

“Helping? Yes.”

“Please. You’re enjoying being mistaken for someone famous. You’re an almost movie star.”

He leans in a little and grins. “No, that guy is overrated.”

Clara mouths behind him, Oh yeah. He’s totally into you .

I sip the water and let it be the end of the conversation.

Only it’s not. Because Keigan doesn’t leave. He lingers. Helps close down. Doesn’t even flinch when he’s asked to sweep under the pool table.

And somehow, even though the day started with spilled tea and a pug who snores like a kazoo, I find myself not hating that he showed up.

Which is probably a very bad idea.

Clara hums to herself as she tallies out the register.

She’s got one of those sneaky little smiles on, like she’s been quietly plotting something all night and is finally ready to spring it.

Keigan’s wiping down the last table, still managing to look like he belongs here even with a wet rag and the worst towel-folding technique I’ve ever seen.

I collect the garnish bins and slide them into the cooler, one by one. It’s past closing, and the place is finally quiet again, the kind of quiet that only comes when everyone else has gone home and the floors still smell faintly of limes and mop water.

Clara waits until Keigan disappears into the back room, supposedly to find the broom again though I suspect he’s just stalling. She watches him go with one eyebrow raised, then glances at me.

“You s hould thank me,” she says, stuffing receipts into the drawer.

“For what?”

“For the meet-cute.”

“That wasn’t a meet-cute.”

“It had all the ingredients. Chaos. A mop. Public embarrassment.”

I shake my head and grab the stool next to her. “If anything, it was a very specific cautionary tale about not letting strangers behind your bar.”

“He’s not a stranger,” Clara says. “He’s practically a local now. A very helpful, very attractive local who happens to look exactly like a famous actor.”

I stretch my legs out in front of me. My knees crack like old bubble wrap. “Yeah, about that. We should probably start preparing for the incoming conspiracy theories.”

“Please. This town lives for conspiracy theories. Last week someone swore the lighthouse was blinking Morse code at passing yachts.”

“Was it?”

“No, it was just Doug from the marina testing his new flashlight.”

We sit in silence for a minute, the kind of silence you only get after a long shift and a shared disaster or two. Keigan’s still in the back, either looking for the dustpan or reading our inventory list for fun, which honestly wouldn’t surprise me.

Clara bumps my knee with hers. “So? What’s the verdict?”

I frown at her. “Verdict?”

“On him. Don’t play dumb. You smiled at him. Twice.”

“I smile at lots of people.”

“Becky. You smiled and took that water like he’d just finished building you a treehouse.”

“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.”

I lean back and close my eyes for a second. The fan clicks overhead, slow and steady.

“I’m taking tomorrow off.”

Clara pauses mid-paper-towel-rip. “What?”

“I’m taking the day off. No open. No close. No frozen daiquiris.”

“You never take days off.”

“Well, I am now.”

Her voice goes high and suspicious. “Is this about him?”

“No. This is about me. And also about you abandoning me with a bar full of tourists and a man who thinks jalapenos are spelled with a G.”

She makes a face. “But I brought muffins.”

I glance at the counter where the muffins still sit, slightly squashed in their container.

“Not enough,” I say. “Enjoy your penance.”

Clara sighs dramatically and flops her head onto the counter like I’ve just delivered her a life sentence .

“But I said I was sorry.”

“And I said I’m sleeping in.”

She groans as I make my way to the door, Winston probably already dreaming of bacon and not having to share the couch.

Keigan appears just as I’m unlocking it, holding a broom in one hand and looking entirely too proud of himself.

“I found it,” he says.

“I won’t be here.”

A growing part of me hated saying the words to him.

His expression shifts—just a tad, but enough. The crease between his brows deepens, and his mouth presses into something close to disappointment. Then, a small nod, almost resigned. "Guess I’ll see you around."

“I’m sorry,” I reply, and push the door open before he can ask anything else.

Behind me, Clara is still sighing.

But I’m already out into the night, the smell of the ocean close and the moon pretending not to listen.

And a small ache in my chest, which grows with each step.