Page 249 of Banter & Blushes

“I need ten arms and a clone.”

“I can carry stuff.”

I glance down at his shirt. Buttoned wrong. Like he lost track halfway through and just committed. “You’d be a walking liability.”

“I’m skilled. I can walk and chew gum at the same time. That has to count for something,” he says. “Let me prove it.”

I shove a tray into his hands and point. “Table seven. Three lemonades and one iced tea. No ice in the tea. Don’t ask questions. And lose the sunglasses. I don’t need my customers thinking you're in witness protection, hiding out inmy bar. Confidence, not mystery, Romeo."

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, “and it’s Keigan, not Romeo.”

He marches off with the tray balanced like it holds state secrets.

I fully expect a disaster.

He makes it halfway there before the tea sloshes, the tray tilts, and he spills on someone’s flip-flop.

He turns around and gives me a little bow before completing his journey.

Keigan returns with the empty tray and a shameless shrug. As he’s returning the tray, a college-aged girl near the jukebox tilts her head.

“Wait,” she says, squinting. “Is that?—?”

“No,” Keigan says without missing a beat. “I just have one of those faces.”

The guy with her pulls out his phone. “Nah, I swear you look like the guy who was in that movie last year. The one with the aliens and the dramatic music?”

Keigan grabs a towel and heads for the other side of the bar like it’s the most urgent place to be on the planet.

My face tightens, but I’m too buried in orders to really care. By the time I get to the blender, someone’s asking for trivia night flyers and another person is trying to start a tab with an expired credit card.

Keigan returns with the towel tucked over his shoulder like he’s been working here forever. A woman at the bar leans toward him.

“Excuse me, sorry, but has anyone ever told you that you look just like?—”

“Once or twice,” Keigan cuts in smoothly. “He’s taller in real life.”

The woman blinks. “Oh. Okay.”

He turns back to me. “Where were we, Xena?”

I point toward the mop. “Go small.”

He nods and begins mopping the floor like it’s a noble quest. A customer asks him for a beer, and instead of touching the taps, he just points and says, “Ask the professional,” with a dramatic flourish toward me.

I try not to smile.

He doesn’t stop there. He takes coasters to tables. Delivers bowls of peanuts with the seriousness of a surgeon. Greets people like he’s auditioning for mayor. Every now and then, he turns to me with a new X-name.

“Xandra, they want two more mojitos.”

“Xavi, your daiquiris await.”

“Xochitl, you’re glowing under this fluorescent light.”

“Stop it,” I say, sliding a plate across the bar.

“Never,” he replies, like it’s a vow.

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