Page 253 of Banter & Blushes

He rakes a hand through his hair. “I needed one place where no one looks at me like I’m a headline.”

The man beside him adjusts his sunglasses. “You vanished off the grid, Keigan. Your face is on three different tabloid covers this week. One says you’re in rehab. Another swears you’re dating a Norwegian pop star.”

“I don’t even know any Norwegian pop stars,” Keigan says, and I swear he almost laughs. “Tell them to run with that one. At least it sounds more fun than me pulling pints and sweeping up peanut shells.”

The man doesn’t laugh. He crosses his arms. “You’ve got investors wondering if you’re going to show up for the reshoots. The director’s calling me every two hours. What do I tell them?”

“Tell them I’m not dead. Just tired.”

My jaw goes slack. My brain is scrambling, doing somersaults, making strange leapfrog connections.

The man in the button-down shifts his weight and says, “You can’t vanish in the middle of a press cycle, Keigan.Ryan Killshotis already behind schedule. The international release depends on your interviews. You’re the lead. Your faceisthe movie. If you’re not visible, we lose momentum.”

Keigan’s laugh is dry, quick. “So what? Everyone forgets how to watch a movie unless I’m doing backflips on late night shows? I’ve done two months of promo already. They’ve got more footage of me talking about fake explosions and motorcycle stunts than actual scenes from the movie.”

I suck in a breath, too fast.

Because I heard that.

Keigan is a movie star.

Like… a real one. A big one, apparently. The kind that has press tours and investors and headlines accusing him of dating Scandinavian singers.

I feel my eyes bug out so far I could audition for a cartoon reboot.

Keigan turns slightly, just enough that I catch a glimpse of his profile. The sharp jawline, the messy-yet-perfect hair, the way he nods at Sunglasses Guy with the kind of authority that says he's used to making decisions on yachts or private islands or wherever it is that movie stars hang out when they're not pretending to be regular people in small beach towns.

I feel my stomach do a weird little flip. Not the fun, butterflies-in-the-stomach kind of flip, but the oh-no-l've-made-a-huge-mistake kind.

How did I not recognize him? How did I not see it? The sunglasses, the low hat, the quiet-but-confident way he carries himself-it all makes sense now. He's not just some guy who likes ginger ale and refuses to flirt with bartenders.

He's an actualmovie star.

Which just makes this whole thing worse.

Panic sets in. My brain starts screaming at me todo something.

Winston tugs at his leash, oblivious to the seismic shift in my perception. My legs forget what they’re supposed to do for a second, like they’re buffering. I blink once. Twice. Then, very slowly, I pivot.

It’s not a graceful turn. It’s a weird half-pirouette that ends with one foot planted too far in a dune and the other scrambling for dignity.

I freeze again.

If I move too quickly, they might notice me. If I move too slowly, I will seem suspicious. Not that I’m not suspicious already, standing here like a cactus with a pug.

Winston snorts.

I begin to walk.

Not a normal walk, of course. That would make sense.

No, I do the overly casual, definitely-wasn’t-listening-to-your-private-conversation kind of walk. The kind of walk that says, “Wow, look at me, just an ordinary woman out with her dog, paying absolutely no attention to your blockbuster movie-star secrets.”

I smile at the sea oats. Wave vaguely at the ocean. I hum. Loudly. It might be a made-up tune or possibly the jingle from a breakfast commercial. I can’t tell anymore. My ears are ringing from the rush of embarrassment still pouring down my spine.

Winston chooses this moment to sit down and scratch his ear with the enthusiasm of a jazz drummer. The leash goes slack. I stop mid-step, and bend quickly, scooping him up like the world’s chubbiest football. His little legs dangle as I whisper, “Abort mission. Go go go.”

I hustle back toward the boardwalk, heart pounding in my ears like a runaway marimba. Keigan doesn’t call after me. Maybe he didn’t see me after all. I don’t turn around to find out.

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