Page 146 of Banter & Blushes #1

T he late afternoon sun dips low over the horizon, painting the beach in hues of soft gold and rose.

The Clever Lime hums with life—the chatter of regulars mingles with the clinking of glasses and the occasional laugh that rises.

The small adjustments I’ve made to the bar over the last few weeks—stringing more fairy lights, adding a couple of high tables near the windows, and swapping out the old jukebox for one that doesn’t eat quarters—seem to have hit the sweet spot.

It feels… right. Cozy. Still ours. The regulars have their usual spots, the tourists get their social media moments to post, and somehow, it all works.

I’m behind the bar, wiping down the counter and keeping an eye on the crowd when I hear his voice.

“Hey, boss lady, you got room for some free labor?”

I glance up, and there he is, leaning casually in the doorway like he owns the place, his hair windblown and a mischievous grin tugging at his lips.

Keigan, in all his movie-star-meets-beach-bum glory.

The regulars cheer his arrival, lifting their glasses like he’s some kind of local celebrity, which, let’s face it, he kind of is now.

“You’re late,” I call back, pointing my rag at him.

He saunters in, hands in his pockets, his grin widening. “Traffic on the boardwalk was brutal.”

“You walked here,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Exactly,” he says, hopping onto an empty barstool like he’s been doing it his whole life. “Those seagulls are relentless. Had to fight them off with a bag of fries.”

I shake my head, but the corners of my mouth betray me, twitching upward despite my best efforts. “If you’re going to sit ther e and take up space, you might as well make yourself useful.”

“Always happy to oblige,” he says, hopping off the stool and sliding behind the bar with an ease that makes it clear he’s done this before. He grabs an apron from the hook and ties it around his waist, looking entirely too good.

“Don’t you have, I don’t know, a movie premiere to attend or something?” I ask, raising an eyebrow as he starts stacking clean glasses.

“Not tonight,” he says, his tone casual but his eyes glinting dangerously. “Tonight, I’m all yours.”

The glass I’m holding slips in my hand, and I barely catch it before it hits the floor. Keigan notices, of course—he notices everything—and his grin turns smug.

“Careful, boss lady,” he says, leaning just a little too close. “Wouldn’t want to break anything.”

I roll my eyes and step back, putting some much-needed distance between us. “Just don’t get in my way, Hollywood.”

The jukebox hums to life, and notes of an old-school love song drift through the bar. A few of the regulars start clapping along, and Keigan’s head tilts like he’s just had an idea. A dangerous one, judging by the way his grin shifts into something even more mischievous.

“Dance with me,” he says suddenly, turning to me with a hand outstretched.

I blink at him, caught completely off guard. “What?”

“Dance with me,” he repeats, stepping closer and wiggling his fingers like he’s daring me to take his hand.

I glance around the bar, half expecting someone to jump in and save me from whatever this is, but of course, no one does. In fact, Mrs. Thompson is actively encouraging it with an exaggerated wink and an enthusiastic clap.

Traitor.

“I don’t dance,” I say, crossing my arms in what I hope is a definitive gesture.

Keigan leans in, his voice dropping just enough to make my pulse skip. “Sure you do. You just haven’t danced with me yet.”

Before I can argue, he takes the rag from my hand, sets it on the counter, and tugs me gently toward the open space near the jukebox.

My feet follow, apparently deciding they have a mind of their own, and suddenly I’m standing in the middle of the bar with everyone watching as Keigan rests one hand at my waist and takes my other hand in his.

“Captain Confidence,” I say, trying to ignore the way his hand feels warm and steady against mine.

“So I’ve been called,” he says, his grin practically glowing as he starts to sway, guiding me into the rhythm of the music.

It takes me a moment to catch on, my movements stiff and awkward at first, but Keigan doesn’t seem to mind. He just keeps smiling, his steps easy and confident.

“You’re not bad at this,” I admit, my voice quieter now that we’re closer.

“Not bad? ” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll take it. But you’re underselling yourself, Becky. You’re a natural.”

My lips curl upward. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Good thing I’m not trying to get anywhere,” he says, his voice softening just enough to make my chest feel a little lighter. “I’m just trying to enjoy the moment.”

The song shifts into its final notes, and Keigan dips me dramatically, earning cheers and applause from the bar. I laugh, the sound bubbling out of me before I can stop it, and when he pulls me back up, his grin is so wide it’s almost contagious.

“See? That wasn’t so bad,” he says, his hand lingering at my waist for just a beat longer than necessary. “We should do this more often.”

“Do what?” I ask, glancing up at him.

“Dance,” he says simply, his smile soft but genuine. “You’re kind of good at it.”

“Go home, Keigan.”

He chuckles, heading for the door. “Goodnight, Becky.”

“Goodnight,” I say, my voice softer than I intend.

But before I can blink, he’s closing the distance between us in a few easy strides, his eyes locked on mine.

“Keigan, what are you?—”

Whatever I was about to say disappears the moment he stops in front of me, his hand sliding gently to my waist as he leans in, his other hand brushing a stray wisp of hair from my face.

The kiss comes softly, like the whisper of an ocean breeze, and for a second, everything else fades.

His hand at my waist steadies me, grounding me in a way I didn’t realize I needed, while his other hand tilts my chin just enough to close the space between us.

The world narrows to this moment, this quiet, unspoken connection that feels as natural as breathing.

His lips press against mine with a tenderness that makes my heart trip over itself, and I can’t help but lean into him, my fingers brushing against the fabric of his shirt as if to anchor myself.

It’s not hurried or showy, but there’s a quiet intensity to it, like he’s speaking in a language made entirely of touch.

The faint scent of salt and the lingering warmth of the bar’s fairy lights wrap around us, and I hear the distant crash of waves outside, a soft rhythm that matches the steady thrum in my chest. His thumb moves in a slow, deliberate arc against my waist, and the simplicity of it sends a warmth cascading through me.

It’s not just a kiss. It’s a conversation, one that doesn’t need words but says everything anyway.

When he finally pulls back, it’s slow, reluctant, like he’s not quite ready to let the moment go. His forehead brushes against mine, and all I can do is stand there, my heart racing like it’s trying to catch up with the rest of me.

His voice, when it comes, is soft enough to feel like part of the night itself. “Consider that your invitation,” he says .

“Invitation to what?” I ask, breathless.

He steps back slightly, just enough to meet my gaze, his hand still lingering at my waist like it’s the most natural place in the world.

“To be mine,” he says, the sincerity in his tone cutting through the quiet like a steady heartbeat.

I look up at him, searching his face, and take a small step closer, my fingers brushing against the edge of his shirt, with a small smile. “You’re going to have to work for it.”

His grin spreads slowly, lighting up his face in that way that always makes my heart stumble. “Oh, I plan to.”

There’s a beat of quiet between us, the kind that feels comfortable and full of possibilities. And then, with one last glance, he presses a kiss to my forehead, soft and lingering, before finally stepping back and heading for the door.

“Goodnight, Becky,” he says, his voice carrying the kind of warmth that lingers long after he’s gone.

“Good night, Keigan,” I reply, my voice steady now, though there’s a smile tucked into the edges of it.

The door swings shut behind him, and I’m left standing, the faint hum of the jukebox and the twinkle of the fairy lights wrapping around me like a gentle hug.

I glance toward the window, catching a glimpse of him walking down the street, his hands in his pockets, his stride easy and unhurried. A small laugh escapes me as I shake my head, my heart feeling lighter than it has in a long time.

Turning back to the bar, I pick up the rag I’d abandoned earlier and start wiping down the counter, my smile refusing to fade as the locals keep the energy alive.

“Becky, you gonna stand there swooning all night, or are we getting refills?” Joe calls from his usual spot at the end of the bar, his grin wide enough to rival the crescent moon visible through the window.

“Oh, hush, Joe,” Mrs. Thompson chimes in from her table, where she’s knitting something suspiciously scarf-like for Winston. “Let the girl have her moment. I saw that kiss, and frankly, it’s about time.”

I feel the heat rush to my face, and I quickly duck my head, focusing on straightening the napkin holder.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, trying to sound casual, though the smile tugging at my lips probably gives me away.

“Sure you don’t,” Clara says, leaning on the bar with her signature smirk. “But just so you know, the whole bar saw it. You two weren’t exactly subtle.”

I groan, running a hand over my face.

“Sweetheart, when a handsome man like that kisses you, you don’t hide it,” Mrs. Thompson says firmly, her knitting needles clicking away. “You savor it. And you let everyone know he’s yours before some other woman tries to swoop in.”

The bar erupts into laughter and cheers of agreement, and I can’t help but join in, the sound bubbling up before I can stop it.

“Fine, fine,” I say, throwing my hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll savor it. But first, let me get Joe his refill before he starts a mutiny.”

“That’s more like it,” Joe says, sliding his glass toward me with a wink.

As I pour his drink, the lively buzz of the bar wraps around me like a favorite song, familiar and comforting. The regulars are laughing, the tourists are snapping pictures of the fairy lights, and for once, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.