Page 141 of Banter & Blushes #1

T he next few days unfold like a romcom montage, except instead of a perfectly edited sequence set to a catchy pop song, it’s a series of moments where I find myself trying very hard not to overanalyze everything .

Keigan, as it turns out, is absurdly good at finding ways to be useful—and at making me smile when I’m trying very hard not to.

He’s at the bar almost as much as I am, wiping down tables like he’s auditioning for a role in a cleaning product commercial, carrying trays with the kind of balance normally reserved for tightrope walkers, and—most impressively—fixing the perpetually squeaky hinge on the back door.

I’d been complaining about that hinge for months. Clara kept saying we should just embrace it as part of the bar’s charm, but every time it screeched, it felt less “rustic seaside vibes” and more “horror movie jump scare.”

But one afternoon, there he is, crouched by the door with a toolbox I didn’t even know we owned.

“What are you doing?” I ask, leaning against the doorway.

He glances up, grinning like this is a perfectly normal thing for a famous person to do. “Fixing the squeak. Unless, of course, you’re emotionally attached to it. In which case, I can leave it as is.”

“Oh no, please. By all means,” I say, gesturing dramatically, “save us all from the horrors of functional door hinges.”

He laughs, turning back to his work. A few minutes later, he swings the door open, and it’s silent.

Silent!

I didn’t even know it could be silent.

“You’re like a handyman superhero,” I say, genuinely impressed.

“Just trying to earn my keep,” he replies, flashing me a smile that’s way too charming for someone covered in grease smudges.

At the bar, Keigan is a hit with everyone. Mrs. Thompson decides he deserves a scarf.

A scarf.

In the middle of summer.

“Look at this,” she says proudly, holding up her latest creation. It’s a deep navy with a stripe of white at the ends—simple but classy, like something out of a catalog.

“It’s perfect,” I tell her, because it is. “But don’t you think he’ll melt if he tries to wear it before October?”

She waves me off with a smile. “He’ll appreciate it. You can tell he’s the kind of man who values a handmade gift.”

And you know what?

She’s right.

When she hands it to him the next night, he wraps it around his neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world, despite the fact that it’s at least 80 degrees outside.

“Thank you, Mrs. Thompson,” he says, his voice warm and genuine. “This is amazing. I’ll think of you every time I wear it.”

She blushes, actually blushes , and I suddenly understand why all the regulars are eating out of his hand.

Even Joe, who once told me he considers smiling to be “a waste of valuable energy,” softens around Keigan. One night, when Keigan delivers his beer with his usual easy confidence, Joe mutters, “Not bad, kid.”

It’s the Joe equivalent of rolling out a red carpet.

And then, of course, there’s Winston. My pug is famously stingy with his affection—he tolerates Clara because she sneaks him bacon, but that’s about it.

Keigan, though? Keigan has him fully converted in less than 48 hours.

It’s a lazy, golden afternoon at the bar, the kind of day where the sunlight filters through the windows and makes everything look a little softer, a little dreamier. The regulars are scattered around, chatting in low voices, while Winston snoozes under the counter on his little bed.

I’m busy wiping down glasses when I hear the faint sound of his nails clicking on the floor. My head pops up, and I spot him trotting confidently out from behind the bar like he’s on some very important mission.

“Winston,” I call, setting the glass down and leaning out from the bar. “Where do you think you’re going, mister? You know the rules. Bar dogs stay behind the bar.”

He pauses mid-strut, turning his head to glance at me with a look I can only describe as pure, pug-level indifference. It’s the canine equivalent of a teenager rolling their eyes.

“Don’t you dare,” I warn, but of course, he does.

He resumes his triumphant march toward Keigan, who’s sitting at one of t he window tables with a soda in hand, looking…

well, looking very good. His hair is doing that perfectly messy thing that probably just happens without any effort, and the sunlight streaming through the window catches on his jawline in a way that’s honestly a little unfair.

I immediately shake the thought out of my head. Nope. Absolutely not. We are not noticing things like jawlines today, Becky.

By the time I catch up to him, Winston has plopped himself right at Keigan’s feet, staring up at him with the kind of wide-eyed adoration usually reserved for treats or a particularly soft blanket.

“Well, hey there, buddy,” Keigan says, his voice warm as he leans down to scratch behind Winston’s ears.

Winston, being the shameless opportunist that he is, immediately flops onto his back, his little legs sticking straight up in the air.

“Oh, for the love of—Winston!” I throw my hands up, laughing despite myself. “He’s supposed to be working, you know. Your job is to stay behind the bar and look cute while keeping the floor free of crumbs. Not… auditioning for your attention.”

Keigan glances up at me, his grin spreading across his face in that easy, disarming way of his. “What can I say? I must’ve passed the vibe check.”

Winston grunts—a happy little sound—and wriggles closer to Keigan’s hand, clearly in agreement.

I sigh, crouching down to rub my hand over Winston’s belly, which is already being thoroughly spoiled. “He’s usually such a snob, you know. He doesn’t just take to people like this.”

“Well, I’m honored,” Keigan says, still grinning. “It’s not every day you get a stamp of approval from a pug this distinguished.”

“Distinguished,” I repeat, raising an eyebrow. “He once got his head stuck in a can for ten minutes.”

Keigan throws his head back and laughs, the kind of laugh that makes the regulars glance over and smile like they’re in on the joke. Winston, unfazed by the insult to his character, lets out another contented grunt and stays exactly where he is, basking in all the attention.

Clara passes by with a tray of drinks and stops when she sees the scene. “Well, would you look at that,” she says, smirking. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Winston take to anyone that fast. Becky, I think you’ve been replaced.”

Keigan looks up at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Sorry, Becky. I think it’s official. Winston’s my dog now.”

I let out an exaggerated gasp, clutching my chest. “Et tu, Winston? Betrayed by my own flesh and blood. Or… fur and blood. Whatever.”

“Sounds like a fair trade,” Keigan says with a wink, and I suddenly feel a little too warm, like the sunlight streaming through the windows has cranked up a notch.

Later, the town has the bonfire which happens on a Friday night, when the sky looks like someone spilled a watercolor palette acro ss it. The flames crackle and pop, sending little sparks into the air, and the smell of salt and smoke fills my nose.

Keigan sits beside me, staring into the fire in a way that makes it seem like he’s waiting for the right moment to speak.

“You know,” he says eventually, his voice low and thoughtful, “fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

I glance at him, surprised by the seriousness in his tone. “How do you mean?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s isolating. You’re surrounded by people all the time, but no one really sees you. Everyone wants something from you—your time, your attention, your image—but no one actually cares about who you are underneath all of that.”

I stare at him, my chest tightening. This isn’t the Keigan who jokes about ginger ale or charms my regulars. This is someone raw and vulnerable, someone who’s been carrying more than he lets on.

“I get it,” I say softly, turning my gaze back to the fire. “It’s hard to let people in. Especially when you’ve been let down before.”

He looks at me, his eyes searching mine. “Have you?”

I hesitate, my fingers digging into the cool sand beneath me. “Yeah,” I admit quietly. “And it makes you cautious, right? Like you’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

He nods once, his gaze fixed on the fire. For a few seconds, neither of us speaks. The flames crackle and pop, sending sparks into the night, and the ocean answers with a steady hush, like it’s listening.

Keigan shifts beside me, just enough that I can feel the brush of his shoulder against mine. His voice is low when he finally speaks, almost lost to the wind. “I want to kiss you.”

I blink, my heart stuttering once in my chest.

“But,” he continues, turning his head slightly so I know he means it, “I’m not going to. Not until you ask me to.”

He doesn’t look away. He just lets the words sit there between us, open and unhurried, like he’s not in a rush for the answer.

I breathe in slowly, the salty air cooling my throat. My eyes drift over the firelight dancing in the contours of his face, down to where his fingers are resting quietly in the sand. No tension. No pressure. Just presence.

That kind of patience does something to me. More than any grand gesture or pretty line ever could.

So I do the only thing that feels right.

I reach out and slip my hand into his. Not a bold move. Not a confession. Just a quiet yes.

His thumb brushes the back of my hand, and I don’t pull away. We sit like that for a while, letting the silence stretch and settle. The moon climbs higher, casting a silvery path over the water, and the fire die s down to a warm glow.

Eventually, he leans in just enough that I can feel his breath on my temple.

“I’m still not kissing you,” he murmurs.

And somehow, this feels even more intimate than a kiss ever could.