Page 250 of Banter & Blushes

Clara bursts through the door, cheeks flushed and hair caught in a ponytail that’s only half committed to staying up. She surveys the scene. Drinks. Noise. Keigan wiping down a table while explaining the correct way to pronounce ‘jalapeño.’

“What did I miss?” she asks, swinging around the bar and bumping my shoulder. Her eyes flick to Keigan. “Heworks here now?”

“Apparently. He spilled iced tea on someone’s foot.”

“Hot and clumsy. My type. I brought muffins.”

“You’re forgiven.”

She glances at Keigan again, then at me. “He keeps looking at you.”

I glance over. I catch him looking at me—not at the customer, not at the table, butme. The corner of my mouth lifts before I can stop it. “He looks at everything. He’s trying not to spill again.”

“No, I mean like he’s really looking.”

I wave her off. “He’s probably married. With three kids. And a houseboat named Serenity.”

“You asked him?”

“Of course not. That would require emotional vulnerability.”

Clara laughs, shaking her head. “You’re something else.”

Keigan returns to the bar just then, offering me a glass of water with the enthusiasm of someone presenting an engagement ring.

“For you, Xaviera,” he says, placing it directly in front of me.

I take it. “You’re relentless.”

“You’re stressed. I’m trying to balance the universe.”

“And you’re starting to like this, aren’t you?” I say, giving him a small, knowing smile.

“Helping? Yes.”

“Please. You’re enjoying being mistaken for someone famous. You’re an almost movie star.”

He leans in a little and grins. “No, that guy is overrated.”

Clara mouths behind him,Oh yeah. He’s totally into you.

I sip the water and let it be the end of the conversation.

Only it’s not. Because Keigan doesn’t leave. He lingers. Helps close down. Doesn’t even flinch when he’s asked to sweep under the pool table.

And somehow, even though the day started with spilled tea and a pug who snores like a kazoo, I find myself not hating that he showed up.

Which is probably a very bad idea.

Clara hums to herself as she tallies out the register. She’s got one of those sneaky little smiles on, like she’s been quietly plotting something all night and is finally ready to spring it. Keigan’s wiping down the last table, still managing to look like he belongs here even with a wet rag and the worst towel-folding technique I’ve ever seen.

I collect the garnish bins and slide them into the cooler, one by one. It’s past closing, and the place is finally quiet again, the kind of quiet that only comes when everyone else has gone home and the floors still smell faintly of limes and mop water.

Clara waits until Keigan disappears into the back room, supposedly to find the broom again though I suspect he’s just stalling. She watches him go with one eyebrow raised, then glances at me.

“You should thank me,” she says, stuffing receipts into the drawer.

“For what?”

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