Page 144 of Banter & Blushes #1

T he Clever Lime feels like it’s holding its breath.

The usually cozy hum of the bar has turned into something louder, sharper, and just a little too bright.

The crash of waves through the open windows is swallowed by the swell of voices—tourists chattering, cameras clicking, someone laughing a little too loudly in the corner.

The air smells like sunscreen and sea salt and the faint, bitter taste of anxiety that’s probably just radiating off me.

I’m standing behind the bar, clutching a lime like it’s a lifeline, watching the chaos unfold.

Mrs. Thompson is knitting furiously at her usual table, her needles clicking like an alarm clock counting down to something.

Joe is sitting at the bar, nursing a beer and glaring at the influx of unfamiliar faces like they’ve personally insulted him.

And Keigan—well, Keigan is doing what he does best.

He’s leaning against the end of the bar, one elbow propped casually while he talks to a pair of tourists who look like they just stepped out of a travel catalog.

They’re hanging on his every word, their phones held low but ready, like they’re hoping to catch him mid-laugh or mid-sentence or mid-anything that will make their friends jealous.

Keigan doesn’t seem to mind. He’s smiling, gesturing with his hands, his voice carrying just enough for me to catch the tail end of his sentence.

“…and then I told the director, ‘If the car explodes, I’m not the one driving it.’”

The tourists laugh, and one of them leans in, her phone inching higher. Keigan notices and, with a quick, easy motion, shifts so the camera catches the back of his head instead of his face. Smooth. Effortless. Like he’s been dodging attention his whole life.

I slice the li me in half with a little more force than necessary, the knife thunking against the cutting board. Clara, perched on a stool beside the register, looks up from the stack of receipts she’s pretending to organize.

“Careful,” she says, her voice low enough that only I can hear. “If you murder the citrus, the tourists might start filming you instead.”

I glance at her, then at the lime, now oozing juice across the board. “It’s fine. Just… slipped.”

Clara raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press. Instead, she leans her chin on her palm and watches the room like she’s observing a social experiment. “You know, for a guy who’s supposed to be lying low, he’s not exactly blending in.”

“He’s trying,” I mutter, wiping my hands on a towel. “This is him trying.”

“Hmm.” Clara tilts her head, her ponytail swaying. “And how are you holding up, oh fearless leader?”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, too quickly, and her other eyebrow joins the first.

“Uh-huh. Sure. That’s why you’ve been rearranging the napkins for the past ten minutes and glaring at the blender like it owes you money.”

I glance at the stack of napkins in front of me, now perfectly aligned and color-coded, and grimace. “It’s just… a lot. That’s all.”

Clara hums again, noncommittal, and goes back to her receipts.

The truth is, it is a lot. The bar feels like it’s bursting at the seams, the normal rhythm replaced by something frantic and unsteady.

I keep reminding myself that this is temporary, that the tourists and the cameras and the noise will fade eventually.

But what if it doesn’t? What if this is the new way to do business, and I’m just supposed to get used to it?

“Hey.”

I look up to find Keigan standing on the other side of the bar, a glass of water in his hand and a question in his eyes.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice low enough that it doesn’t carry beyond the bar.

I nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just busy.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “You want me to get rid of them?”

He tilts his head toward the tourists, his expression somewhere between serious and teasing. “I can tell them the bar’s haunted. Or that you’re a famous recluse who only comes out during full moons. That might clear the place out.”

I huff out a laugh despite myself. “Thanks, but I think we’ll survive.”

Keigan leans on the counter, his smile softening. “You know, we could turn this into something good.”

I pause, the knife still in my hand. “What do you mean?”

“A charity event,” he says, his eyes lighting up. “We could use the attention to raise money for something local. Draw people in for a good cause instead of just… this.” He gestures vaguely at the crowd.

I blink at him, the idea settling in like a pebble dropped into water. “A charity event,” I repeat slowly .

“Yeah,” he continues, his energy picking up.

“I’ve been off the grid for a couple of weeks, and my manager’s been lecturing me about obligations to the studio.

It’s the middle of the press cycle, and they’re not thrilled that I’ve disappeared.

But if we tied the charity event into the press tour, it could work.

It would get some major eyeballs on whatever cause you want to support, and it would let me satisfy the studio and the investors at the same time. ”

I stare at him, my brain scrambling to keep up. “You want to make the charity event part of your press tour?”

He nods, his enthusiasm spilling over. “Why not? It’s a win-win. We get the media attention focused on something positive, you get to support the community, and I get to check a box for the studio without having to leave town. Everyone’s happy.”

I glance around the bar, at the tourists and regulars and the mess of it all, and my stomach twists.

The idea makes sense—more sense than I’d like to admit—but it also feels…

big. Too big. The bar has always been my safe haven, my little corner of the world, and the thought of turning it into something so public makes my chest tighten.

“I don’t know, Keigan,” I say, my voice hesitant. “This place isn’t really set up for… events.”

“It doesn’t have to be fancy,” he says, leaning closer, his voice warm but insistent. “Just something small and intimate. We keep the focus on the community, not me. I promise.”

I hesitate, the knot in my chest pulling tighter. “And you really think this will solve your studio problem?”

“I do,” he says without hesitation. “But more importantly, I think it’ll help you. This bar means everything to you, Becky. Let’s use this to make it stronger.”

I feel myself wavering. The idea is risky, sure, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me—hopeful and sincere and just a little mischievous—that makes me want to believe him.

“Okay,” I say finally, the word slipping out before I can overthink it. “Let’s try it.”

Keigan’s grin is instant and infectious. “You won’t regret this, Becky. It’s going to be great. Trust me.”

I nod, more to myself than to him, and return to the cutting board, my mind already spinning with possibilities.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of planning and prepping.

Keigan throws himself into the project with the kind of energy that makes me both admire and envy him.

He scribbles ideas on napkins, talks Clara into calling local businesses for donations, and even manages to charm Joe into donating one of his handmade birdhouses for the raffle.

Meanwhile, I find myself second-guessing everything. Is this the right decision? Will the regulars hate it? Will the bar lose its charm, its identity, its heart?

By the time the sun starts to set, I’m exhausted—physically, mentally, and emotionally. I’m wiping down the counter for what feels like the hundredth time when Clara sidles up next to me, a knowing look on her face.

“You’re spiraling,” she says, not unkindly.

“I’m fine,” I say automatically.

She gives me a knowing look. “Becky.”

I sigh, setting the rag down and leaning on the counter. “What if it changes everything, Clara? What if the bar isn’t the same after this?”

She smiles. “Change isn’t always a bad thing, you know. Sometimes it’s exactly what we need. He might actually be onto something with the charity event idea.”

I pause. “You think so?”

“Yeah. It’s not a bad plan. Turn the attention into something positive. Plus, it might get the tourists to stop asking me if we have a secret menu.”

I snort despite myself. “What do they think we’re hiding? Underground mojitos?”

“Apparently.” Clara grins, then sobers slightly. “Look, I get it. You’re worried about what this might do to the bar. But Becky, you’ve got a good thing here. One event isn’t going to erase that.”

I glance at her, my throat tightening. “What if it does? What if this turns into one of those places people only come to because they think they’ll run into someone famous?”

Clara tilts her head. “Then you remind them why it’s special. You’ve been doing that for years, Becky. It’s not going to stop now.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and she gives me one last pat before heading off to restock the lemons.

Later, after the bar has finally emptied out and the only sounds are the waves and the hum of the fridge, I find Keigan sitting on the back steps, staring out at the ocean.

“Mind if I join you?” I ask, stepping outside.

He glances up and smiles. “Not at all.”

I sit down next to him, the cool wood of the steps grounding me. For a while, we just sit there in silence, the breeze tugging at my hair and the stars flickering overhead.

“You’re quiet,” Keigan says after a while, his voice soft.

“Just thinking,” I say, pulling my knees up to my chest.

“About the event?”

“About everything,” I admit.

Keigan shifts, his shoulder brushing mine. “You’re worried.”

I nod, staring out at the dark horizon.

“You don’t have to be,” he says, his tone steady. “This is your bar, Becky. No one can take that from you. Not me, not the tourists, not the cameras. You’ve built something special here, and nothing can change that.”

I glance at him, his face lit by the faint glow of the moon. “You really believe that?”

“ I do,” he says without hesitation.

I look back at the ocean, the waves rolling in and out like they’ve been doing for centuries, and feel a tiny flicker of hope.

“Thanks, Keigan,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Anytime,” he says, leaning back on his hands.

We sit there until the chill of the night air drives us back inside, and for the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe again.