Page 143 of Banter & Blushes #1

T he next morning starts out slow and dreamy, the way mornings should in a sleepy beach town.

I’m perched on the back steps of The Clever Lime, a warm mug of coffee cradled in my hands, while Winston sprawls out at my feet like a little loaf of bread.

The sun is still low, soft golden light spilling over the dunes and creating long shadows across the sand.

The air smells faintly of salt and warm wood, and the distant rhythm of the waves is the perfect background music to my quiet.

I wiggle my toes in the sand, sipping my coffee and letting my mind wander.

It’s one of the rare moments when everything feels just right, like the world has paused for a breath.

The bar is cleaned, Winston is freshly bathed and content, and there’s nothing pressing on my plate until later tonight. Simple. Peaceful. Quiet.

Or at least, it was.

The faint click-click-click of a camera shutter cuts through the stillness, and I freeze mid-sip. My stomach does a weird little flip, and I glance around, half-hoping it’s just my imagination. But then I hear it again, louder this time, and my heart sinks.

I squint toward the dunes, where the tall grass sways lazily in the breeze, and at first, I don’t see anything unusual.

The beach is nearly empty this early, the only movement a jogger in the distance and a pelican gliding low over the water.

But then, just above the crest of the nearest dune, I spot the unmistakable glint of a camera lens.

My stomach twists.

“Winston,” I whisper, nudging him lightly with my foot. He lifts his head with a sleepy snort, blinking up at me like I’ve rudely interrupted his beauty rest. “Don’t look now, but I think we’ve been made. ”

He yawns, entirely unbothered, and flops back down with a huff. Clearly, he’s not concerned.

But I am.

I stand, clutching my coffee like it might offer some kind of protection, and try to act natural as I step back inside the bar.

My pulse is racing, and I can feel the warmth creeping up my neck.

It’s not like I’ve done anything embarrassing.

I wasn’t caught mid-yawn or tripping over my own feet or anything.

But still, the idea of someone snapping pictures of me— me —feels intrusive in a way I can’t quite describe.

As soon as the door swings shut behind me, I lean against it and let out a slow breath.

The Clever Lime is quiet, the morning sunlight slanting in through the windows and catching on the bottles lined up behind the bar.

Everything feels normal inside, like the world outside hasn’t just tilted slightly off its axis.

I set my coffee on the counter and try to ignore it, the way I ignore most practical advice. I’ve got chairs to unstack, citrus to slice, and apparently, a very famous boyfriend to accidentally soft-launch.

The Clever Lime usually smells like salt, lemon, and a little bit of spilled beer in the corners. Today it smells like anxiety and lavender shampoo, because I washed my hair twice. Not for any particular reason. Just… you know. Hygiene.

I’m halfway through reorganizing the cocktail napkins when I hear a voice behind me.

“Hey. Is it too early for a mango smoothie and existential conversation?”

I glance over my shoulder to find Keigan leaning on the doorframe, sunglasses pushed up on his head, a reusable cup in hand that I definitely don’t remember giving him.

I don’t question how he even got in here.

I gesture at the bar. “I don’t remember installing a smoothie bar.”

“It’s a suggestion. You could expand. Innovate. Be a trailblazer in tropical beverage fusion.”

“You mean steal business from Katie’s Juice Hut and have her chase me through town with her organic flip-flops? Hard pass.”

Keigan walks behind the counter like he owns the place and perches on a stool, his knee brushing mine as he does.

“So,” he says, picking up a lemon wedge and inspecting it like he’s never seen fruit before. “You’re still speaking to me. I’m taking that as a good sign.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I be speaking to you?”

He shrugs, not meeting my eye. “Sometimes people get weird after kissing.”

“Weird like… you burst into spontaneous monologues about the cosmos? Or weird like you suddenly appear out of nowhere and order mango smoothies at a dive bar?”

He gives a grin so quick and crooked it could derail a train. “Touché.”

He’s halfway through pouring himself a cup of coffee when I decide to just rip off the Band-Ai d. “By the way, there are photographers outside.”

He freezes, the coffee pot hovering mid-pour, and then slowly sets it down. “Photographers? Like, with cameras?”

“Yes. They’re by the dunes.”

His expression shifts, the easy grin fading into something more serious. “How many?”

“I don’t know. Two? Maybe three?” I shrug, trying to sound casual even though my heart is still doing its best impression of a hummingbird. “They were taking pictures of me, but I’m guessing you’re the main attraction.”

He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a groan and rubs the back of his neck. “I was hoping this wouldn’t happen.”

“What do we do now?” I ask.

He looks at me, and for a moment, I can see the wheels turning behind his eyes.

“I’ll handle it,” he says, giving me a reassuring nod. “Don’t worry, Becky. I’ll talk to them.”

I blink at him, genuinely surprised. “You’re just going to… talk to them?”

“Yep,” he says, already heading for the door. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Wait—” I start to protest, but he’s gone before I can finish. The door swings shut behind him, leaving me standing there with a growing sense of unease.

I peek out the window, watching as Keigan strides across the sand toward the photographers.

He moves with the kind of confidence that makes me doubt he’s ever been told no in his life.

I can’t hear what he’s saying, but he gestures with his hands a lot, his expression shifting between charming and firm.

The photographers don’t look entirely convinced, but after a few minutes, they start packing up their gear and heading back toward the parking lot.

When Keigan comes back inside, he looks unusually serious. “They’re gone. For now.”

“For now?” I echo, raising an eyebrow.

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing softly. “Once they’ve got a lead, they don’t usually let go. They’ll stick around town for a while, see if they can get more shots.”

I nod slowly, trying to process what this means.

Before I can respond, the bell above the door jingles. Not with the familiarity of a regular but with a flurry of energy that screams out-of-town. A woman in a straw hat and wedge sandals practically skids to a halt inside, phone clutched in both hands like a treasure map.

“Is he here?” she whispers, eyes darting around me like she’s searching for clues in our facial expressions.

“Who?” I ask, even though I already know.

The woman clutches her chest dramatically. “Keigan—oh my goodness. It’s really you. My sister’s going to lose her mind. Can I… can I get a picture?”

I turn to Keigan, who, to his credit, looks genuinely sheepish. He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, the door opens again.

And again.

And again.

By the time we reach mid-morning, there are seventeen tourists sitting at the bar, none of whom care about the imaginative names of my drinks. They only want one thing.

Photos.

Preferably ones where Keigan is smiling in the background and I look like the world’s most confused extra.

The side door creaks open just enough for Winston to squeeze through, nails tapping against the floor as he trots in like he owns the place. He pauses, surveys the crowd with narrowed eyes, then lets out a low growl that I don’t bother shushing.

“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands once, more for my own sanity than anything else. “If anyone here is planning to order something, now would be a great time to do it. Otherwise, I’m going to start charging by the stare.”

A few chuckles ripple through the crowd, but no one moves. One woman tries to angle her phone to get both Keigan in the frame, completely ignoring me. Keigan stands and clears his throat.

“Alright folks,” he says, sounding more like a sitcom dad than a movie star, “I’m going to respectfully ask that you all give the lovely owner here some breathing room.”

A few people murmur apologies. Some shuffle out. Others linger in that awkward way people do when they’re not sure if the party’s really over.

Once the door finally swings shut and the bar returns to its usual background track of ocean waves and easy silence, I grab a rag and start wiping down the counter even though there’s nothing to clean.

The motion gives my hands something to do while my brain catches up.

Keigan stays by the wall, arms folded, gaze tracking me like he’s not sure if I’m about to throw something or cry.

“So,” I say, not looking up. “You know Pam from the marina?”

He hesitates. “I don’t think so?”

“Blonde, talks fast, smells like sunscreen,” I say, still scrubbing at the same invisible spot on the counter.

“She came in here an hour ago, clutching her phone like it held state secrets. Said something about a photo going viral. Said her niece sent it to her. Something about how I was ‘official’ now.”

Keigan shifts, but I keep talking.

“And then Jerry, the guy who delivers the ice? He’s not even on social media. He was grinning like a possum and said, ‘Didn’t know I was in the presence of internet royalty.’ That was fun.”

I finally glance up. His brow furrows.

“I didn’t post anything,” he says carefully.

“I know,” I say. “But someone did.”

“The paparazzi,” he says, the words landing heavy. “They must’ve caught us yesterday. I didn’t see an yone, but I was having too much fun with you.”

“I’ve heard they’re relentless.”

“They are,” he sighs. “They’ll hide in the dunes or rent out a paddleboard just to snap a shot.”

“And now apparently there’s a blurry photo of us kissing under pastel skies floating around. It’s even got a hashtag, Keigan. Hashtag Beckigan.”

He groans. “No.”

“Yes.”

“That’s so much worse than I could have imagined. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“I know,” I say, already halfway through slicing a lime. “It’s not your fault.”

He watches me work for a second, then reaches over and stills my hand with his. “But it is affecting you.”

I glance down at our hands. My fingers are sticky with citrus. His thumb traces a slow circle on my palm. My throat feels like I swallowed a shell.

“I liked it better when you were just the weird guy with ginger ale,” I murmur.

“Give it a week. Someone else is statistically due to trip over a microphone cord or kiss their co-star, and give the internet something to talk about. People will move on.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes me stop what I’m doing. I glance up, and he’s already looking at me. Like he’s trying to memorize my face in case I bolt.