Page 140 of Banter & Blushes #1

T he next evening, the bar hums with its usual soundtrack featuring the smooth stylings of the clink of glasses, bursts of laughter, and the low murmur of conversat ions blending with the distant crash of waves.

Fairy lights give a warm glow to the polished wooden surfaces, reflecting off the myriad bottles lining the shelves.

The scent of salt air mingles with the citrus from freshly cut limes, creating an intoxicating aroma that defines our little seaside haven.

I weave through the crowd, tray in hand, attempting to deliver drinks without incident.

My movements are usually fluid, a practiced dance honed over countless shifts.

Tonight, however, each step feels offbeat, like I’m perpetually a half-second behind the music.

The reason? A certain movie star who may or may not walk through the door at any moment.

Balancing a Problem Child, a beer, and a soda, I approach a table of regulars. As I set the drinks down, my eyes shift to the entrance for the umpteenth time.

Empty.

Relief and disappointment churns in my stomach, though I quickly shove the feelings aside.

“Everything okay, hon?” asks Mrs. Thompson, a sweet retiree who spends her evenings knitting at the corner table.

I force a smile. “Just peachy! Let me know if you need anything else.”

Turning away, I nearly collide with a barstool. Catching it just in time, I offer an apologetic nod to its occupant and make a beeline for the bar. Clara leans against the counter, watching me with a smirk.

“You’re jumpy tonight,” she observes, tossing a lemon slice into a customer’s water.

I feign ignorance, busying myself by wiping down the counter. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

Clara arches an eyebrow. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with you not-so-subtly scanning the room all night? Looking for a certain newcomer, perhaps?”

Heat rises to my cheeks. “I have not been scanning!”

She chuckles, folding a stack of napkins. “Becky, you’ve checked the door more times than I’ve refilled the peanut bowls.”

I sigh, leaning on the counter. “Okay, fine. I might be a tad… concerned about Keigan showing up tonight.”

Clara’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “Concerned? Is that what we’re calling it now?”

I groan, resting my forehead on the cool surface of the bar. “It’s complicated.”

“Enlighten me.”

Lifting my head, I glance around to ensure no one is eavesdropping. “I overheard him on the beach yesterday. He was talking to some guy about studios, paparazzi, and a movie called Ryan Killshot. Clara, he’s not just some tourist. He’s a full-blown movie star.”

Clara’s eyes widen. “Seriously? And here I thought he just had a face for film.”

“Exactly! And I called him an ‘almost movie star’ to his face. I feel like an idiot.”

She stifles a laugh. “Well, that explains the skittishness. But why are you so worried about him showing up tonight?”

I chew on my bottom lip, searching for the right way to explain.

“It’s just... now that I know who he is, it changes things.

Or at least, it feels like it should. Like, do I still treat him like the guy who orders ginger ale and sweeps the floor?

Or do I start acting like he’s... I don’t know, Ryan Killshot famous action hero? ”

I gesture vaguely, realizing too late that I’ve accidentally flung a napkin onto the counter.

“Because I don’t want to be that person who suddenly freaks out just because someone’s been on a movie poster or something.

But at the same time, I also don’t want to act like I’m completely unaffected and end up awkwardly calling him ‘sir.’”

Clara blinks at me, her smirk widening. “Sir?”

“I panicked!” I groan, throwing my hands up. “You know how bad I am at filtering things when I’m caught off guard. What if I accidentally say something ridiculous like, ‘Oh, how’s Hollywood?’ or, worse, ‘Nice hat, are you incognito?’”

I drop my head into my hands, groaning. “It’s like I’ve forgotten how to be a normal human being around him.”

Clara bursts out laughing, the kind of laugh that makes a few heads at the bar turn in our direction. “Becky, you’re overthinking this. Just be yourself. You’re great at being yourself. He obviously likes you for it, or he wouldn’t have kept showing up.”

I peek at her throug h my fingers. “But what if he doesn’t come tonight because he realized I’m the kind of person who says things like ‘almost movie star’ and makes drinks called Trust Issues?”

“That’s what makes you charming,” Clara says, still grinning. “If he can’t handle that, then he’s not worth the mental spiral you’re putting yourself through. You’re smart, funny, and gorgeous. If he can’t see that, it’s his loss.”

“Thanks, Clara,” I say with a smile.

“Anytime, hon. Now, how about you focus on your job and let things play out? If he shows up, he shows up.”

Nodding, I straighten up and grab the tray for my next round.

Clara’s right. I can’t let this throw me off my game.

The night wears on, and with each passing hour, my nerves settle. I’ve managed to avoid any major mishaps, and the bar is alive with its usual energy. As I’m clearing a table near the back, the door swings open, and a familiar figure steps inside.

Keigan.

My heart does a somersault, landing somewhere near my knees. He scans the room, his gaze landing on me almost instantly. A smile spreads across his face, and he starts toward me.

Panic sets in. I clutch the empty glasses to my chest like a makeshift shield, contemplating the merits of diving behind the nearest potted plant. Before I can act on that impulse, he’s standing before me.

“Hey,” he greets, his voice warm and genuine.

I manage a squeaky “Hi,” my throat suddenly dry.

He pulls out a barstool and settles in, his eyes never leaving mine.

“How was your day off?” he asks, leaning forward slightly.

I blink, trying to process the question. “Oh, it was… eventful.”

He chuckles. “Yeah? Do anything fun?”

“Well, I took Winston for a walk on the beach.”

His smile softens. “Sounds nice.”

“It was,” I agree, twisting the hem of my shirt. “Keigan, I?—”

“Becky, there’s something I should tell you,” he says simultaneously.

We both pause, then laugh awkwardly.

“You first,” I offer.

He runs a hand through his hair, in a nervous gesture that makes him seem more approachable. “I owe you an apology. I haven’t been entirely upfront with you.”

I tilt my head, feigning ignorance. “Oh?”

He sighs. “The truth is, I am an actor. I came here to get away from the craziness for a while. I didn’t mean to deceive you, I just wanted to be treated like a regular guy.”

I nod slowly. “I understand. It must be exhausting, always being in the spotlight.”

“It c an be,” he admits. “But meeting you has been a breath of fresh air. You didn’t know who I was, and you treated me like… well, like Keigan. Not some celebrity.”

I offer a small smile. “I called you an ‘almost movie star.’ Sorry about that.”

He laughs, the sound genuine and hearty. “Don’t be. It was refreshing.”

Silence settles between us. I fidget with my shirt again.

“I like spending time with you,” he begins, his tone earnest, “you’re real, and that’s rare in my world.”

I swallow hard, my heart accelerating.

Keigan reaches across the counter, his fingers grazing mine. It’s a small gesture, one that probably looks casual to anyone else, but it feels like a firework going off in the middle of an otherwise normal Tuesday.

“You’re unapologetically you. And that’s exactly what I’m looking for,” he says, his voice low but steady.

The words hang in the air between us, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. My heart is doing its best impression of a bongo drum, and I’m suddenly very aware of how warm the bar feels.

Is it just me, or did someone crank up the thermostat?

I glance down at his hand, still resting near mine, and then back up at his face. His expression is open, earnest, like he’s just handed me something fragile and is waiting to see what I’ll do with it.

And me? Well, I’m clutching that fragile thing like a toddler holding a glass vase during an earthquake.

My brain starts firing off a million thoughts at once. He likes me?

Like, likes me likes me?

But how is that possible?

He’s a literal movie star who probably has champagne fountains in his kitchen and a personal assistant named something fancy like Blaise or Cordelia. Meanwhile, I’m over here accidentally flinging napkins.

I need to say something. Anything.

But all I can think to do is laugh—an awkward, too-loud laugh that I immediately regret.

I pull my hand back.

“Well,” I say, my voice pitching up just slightly, “I’m glad my unapologetic awkwardness is working for someone.”

His smile falters for just a second, barely noticeable, but it’s enough to make my stomach twist. I didn’t mean to brush him off. Not really. But this is all happening so fast, and I don’t know what to do with it.

“I should, uh, get back to work,” I add, gesturing vaguely toward the crowded bar like it’s an emergency room and I’m the only doctor on duty. “You know how it is—peanuts to refill, drinks to shake, people to awkwardly apologize to after I bump into them.”

“Hey,” he says, his tone soft but insistent.

I freeze and force myself to meet his gaze. Th ere’s something in his expression—something vulnerable and a little unsure—and it makes my chest hurt in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

“I’m not expecting anything,” he says quietly. “I just wanted you to know how I feel. No pressure.”

The words hit and I feel like I’m standing on the edge of something big and terrifying and wonderful all at once.

But instead of leaning into it, I take a step back.

“Thanks for telling me,” I say, offering him a small smile. “I… I appreciate it. Really.”

It’s not a lie. I do appreciate it. But I also have no idea what to do with it.

Keigan nods, his smile dimming, and leans back. “I’ll let you get back to it, then.”

“Yeah,” I say, a little too tightly. “I’ll, uh, check on you later. Let me know if you need anything.”

I turn and make my way back to greet some customers who just entered the bar, my heart still racing and my mind spinning in a dozen different directions. I can feel his gaze on me as I move through the crowd, but I don’t look back.

Not yet.