Page 139 of Banter & Blushes #1

T he morning sun filters through the blinds, waking me to a warm stripe. Winston sprawls on his back beside me, his soft snoring filling the quiet room, a gentle reminder of the peacefulness that comes with a day off.

I stretch, feeling the satisfying pull of muscles that have been overworked during the hectic summer season at the bar. Today is mine, a rare respite from the chaos.

Slipping into comfortable clothes, I clip Winston’s leash onto his collar. His eyes flutter open, and upon realizing the prospect of a walk, he springs to his feet with an enthusiasm that belies his small stature.

The coastal breeze greets us as we step outside, carrying the scent of salt and blooming jasmine. The town is already stirring; shop owners arrange their displays, and early risers jog along the shoreline.

We meander down the familiar path toward the beach, Winston’s nails clicking against the pavement. Seagulls wheel overhead, their cries blending with the distant sound of waves meeting sand.

As we approach the dunes, I notice a figure standing near the water’s edge, engaged in animated conversation with another man. The first man gestures broadly. The second man, dressed in a crisp button-down and sunglasses, exudes an air of polished authority.

Curiosity tugs at me, and I slow my pace, allowing Winston to sniff at a cluster of sea oats. The breeze carries snippets of their conversation.

“…need to lay low for a while. The paparazzi are relentless.”

“Keigan, I understand but the studio is anxious. They want assurances.”

“I just need a break from all the noise.”

I'm frozen. Absolutely frozen.

The animated man is Keigan .

Studio.

Paparazzi.

What?

I duck a little behind Winston, which makes no sense because Winston is shaped like a loaf of bread and offers zero cover, but the motion feels instinctive. He tugs at the leash, oblivious, determined to smell every clump this side of the Atlantic.

My eyes stay on Keigan.

He’s in profile, talking to the man in the button-down like he’s forgotten the rest of the world exists. His voice carries in waves, bits of sentences drifting in and out with the breeze.

“…I told them I’d finish the press tour after the Fourth, but I’m not stepping back into that circus yet. I can’t. I just?—”

He rakes a hand through his hair. “I needed one place where no one looks at me like I’m a headline.”

The man beside him adjusts his sunglasses. “You vanished off the grid, Keigan. Your face is on three different tabloid covers this week. One says you’re in rehab. Another swears you’re dating a Norwegian pop star.”

“I don’t even know any Norwegian pop stars,” Keigan says, and I swear he almost laughs. “Tell them to run with that one. At least it sounds more fun than me pulling pints and sweeping up peanut shells.”

The man doesn’t laugh. He crosses his arms. “You’ve got investors wondering if you’re going to show up for the reshoots. The director’s calling me every two hours. What do I tell them?”

“Tell them I’m not dead. Just tired.”

My jaw goes slack. My brain is scrambling, doing somersaults, making strange leapfrog connections.

The man in the button-down shifts his weight and says, “You can’t vanish in the middle of a press cycle, Keigan. Ryan Killshot is already behind schedule. The international release depends on your interviews. You’re the lead. Your face is the movie. If you’re not visible, we lose momentum.”

Keigan’s laugh is dry, quick. “So what? Everyone forgets how to watch a movie unless I’m doing backflips on late night shows? I’ve done two months of promo already. They’ve got more footage of me talking about fake explosions and motorcycle stunts than actual scenes from the movie.”

I suck in a breath, too fast.

Because I heard that.

Keigan is a movie star.

Like… a real one. A big one, apparently. The kind that has press tours and investors and headlines accusing him of dating Scandinavian singers.

I feel my eyes bug out so far I could audition for a cartoon reboot.

Keigan turns slightly, just enough that I catch a glimpse of his profile.

The sharp jawline, the messy-yet-perfect hair, the way he nods at Sunglasses Guy with the kind of authority that says he's used to making decisions on yachts or priva te islands or wherever it is that movie stars hang out when they're not pretending to be regular people in small beach towns.

I feel my stomach do a weird little flip. Not the fun, butterflies-in-the-stomach kind of flip, but the oh-no-l've-made-a-huge-mistake kind.

How did I not recognize him? How did I not see it? The sunglasses, the low hat, the quiet-but-confident way he carries himself-it all makes sense now. He's not just some guy who likes ginger ale and refuses to flirt with bartenders.

He's an actual movie star .

Which just makes this whole thing worse.

Panic sets in. My brain starts screaming at me to do something .

Winston tugs at his leash, oblivious to the seismic shift in my perception. My legs forget what they’re supposed to do for a second, like they’re buffering. I blink once. Twice. Then, very slowly, I pivot.

It’s not a graceful turn. It’s a weird half-pirouette that ends with one foot planted too far in a dune and the other scrambling for dignity.

I freeze again.

If I move too quickly, they might notice me. If I move too slowly, I will seem suspicious. Not that I’m not suspicious already, standing here like a cactus with a pug.

Winston snorts.

I begin to walk.

Not a normal walk, of course. That would make sense.

No, I do the overly casual, definitely-wasn’t-listening-to-your-private-conversation kind of walk. The kind of walk that says, “Wow, look at me, just an ordinary woman out with her dog, paying absolutely no attention to your blockbuster movie-star secrets.”

I smile at the sea oats. Wave vaguely at the ocean. I hum. Loudly. It might be a made-up tune or possibly the jingle from a breakfast commercial. I can’t tell anymore. My ears are ringing from the rush of embarrassment still pouring down my spine.

Winston chooses this moment to sit down and scratch his ear with the enthusiasm of a jazz drummer. The leash goes slack. I stop mid-step, and bend quickly, scooping him up like the world’s chubbiest football. His little legs dangle as I whisper, “Abort mission. Go go go.”

I hustle back toward the boardwalk, heart pounding in my ears like a runaway marimba. Keigan doesn’t call after me. Maybe he didn’t see me after all. I don’t turn around to find out.

Because I just heard with my own ears that the man I called “an almost movie star” to his face is not only not almost—he’s the whole actual package.

And I told him to mop the floor.

And he did it.

Back in my apartment, I release Winston like he’s a carrier pigeon that’s just completed a high-stakes operation. He immediately waddles to his food bowl and starts chewing like he was the one who had a brush with fame .

I stare at the wall.

Then the couch.

Then the corner where I keep my vacuum and the one sad umbrella I’ve owned since college.

My mouth is dry. My hands are clammy. I can feel the mortification building, a tsunami of secondhand embarrassment—except the embarrassment is firsthand. And it is vast. A canyon of cringe.

I told him he was “enjoying being mistaken for someone famous.”

He is famous.

And I doubled down, too. “Almost movie star” I said.

I cover my face with both hands.

What is wrong with me?

I pace the room, my brain conducting a highlight reel of every dumb thing I’ve said to him.

I sit heavily on the couch.

“I gave a movie star Trust Issues,” I whisper.

Winston lifts his head slightly, then drops it again.

And then there’s the real kicker.

I liked him.

As in, enjoyed his company. Looked forward to seeing him. Felt… something. Not in a swept-away, helicopter-rides-and-private-chef kind of way, but something quieter. Something steadier. Something that felt, terrifyingly, like it might matter.

Which makes this worse.

Because now it’s not just embarrassment—it’s a full identity crisis.

What is this feeling? It’s like being dumped by someone I wasn’t even dating, while also discovering I’ve been the unwitting star of a hidden-camera show titled Girl Fails to Notice Famous Person in Her Immediate Vicinity .

And then my brain, never one to pass up an opportunity to kick me while I’m down, supplies this little gem:

He probably thinks it’s adorable. The clueless small-town bartender who doesn’t even recognize him. How quaint.

I snort.

“What am I, a character in a romcom? Am I supposed to fall for him now, kiss him on a pier, and magically overcome my trust issues with one montage?”

I grab a muffin from yesterday’s batch and glare at it.

“I trusted you. This was supposed to be a chill day off. And look what happened.”

I try to eat the muffin, but even it tastes like poor life choices and sea salt regret.

My phone buzzes.

A text.

Clara: Is this day off less about me being late and more about the tension between you and Ginger Ale Guy? Because I know something is up.

I toss the phone on the couch and scream into a pillow.

It comes out more like a loud whimper, which feels on-brand.

The worst part? I’m not even mad at him. He didn’t lie. Not really. He just… didn’t say. Which, honestly, is his right..

But now I have to wonder, was it fun for him? Playing pretend bartender in a small town with the awkward girl who doesn’t know who he is? Was I just some cute little interlude before he returns to red carpets and Scandinavian starlets?

I open my laptop. The search engine stares back at me, smug and all-knowing.

I type.

Keigan + actor + press tour + Norwegian pop star

Then hit enter.

And there he is.

Dozens of hims, actually. Photo after photo. Movie premieres. Talk shows. Shirtless magazine covers that I will now never be able to unsee.

I click a headline. Hollywood’s Golden Boy Goes Off Grid: What’s Going On With Keigan Jordan?

Keigan Jordan.

I mean, he’s been in, like, ten movies I’ve watched. I just… never connected the dots. He’s one of those actors who looks different depending on his hair, his facial hair, his mood, his proximity to artisanal lighting.

I slam the laptop shut again and push it across the table like it might catch fire.

This is fine. It’s fine. I’m fine.

I pick up Winston, who is now snoring softly with his head wedged between two couch cushions like a very lazy explorer.

“You get to nap while I unravel?” I mutter.

He does not respond.

Because of course not. He’s a dog. Not the one thinking the famous person was just a vaguely charming drifter.

I fling myself backward onto the couch, muffin crumbs scattering, and stare at the ceiling.