Page 255 of Banter & Blushes

My phone buzzes.

A text.

Clara: Is this day off less about me being late and more about the tension between you and Ginger Ale Guy? Because I know something is up.

I toss the phone on the couch and scream into a pillow.

It comes out more like a loud whimper, which feels on-brand.

The worst part? I’m not even mad at him. He didn’t lie. Not really. He just… didn’t say. Which, honestly, is his right..

But now I have to wonder, was it fun for him? Playing pretend bartender in a small town with the awkward girl who doesn’t know who he is? Was I just some cute little interlude before he returns to red carpets and Scandinavian starlets?

I open my laptop. The search engine stares back at me, smug and all-knowing.

I type.

Keigan + actor + press tour + Norwegian pop star

Then hit enter.

And there he is.

Dozens of hims, actually. Photo after photo. Movie premieres. Talk shows. Shirtless magazine covers that I will now never be able to unsee.

I click a headline.Hollywood’s Golden Boy Goes Off Grid: What’s Going On With Keigan Jordan?

Keigan Jordan.

I mean, he’s been in, like, ten movies I’ve watched. I just… never connected the dots. He’s one of those actors who looks different depending on his hair, his facial hair, his mood, his proximity to artisanal lighting.

I slam the laptop shut again and push it across the table like it might catch fire.

This is fine. It’s fine. I’m fine.

I pick up Winston, who is now snoring softly with his head wedged between two couch cushions like a very lazy explorer.

“You get to nap while I unravel?” I mutter.

He does not respond.

Because of course not. He’s a dog. Not the one thinking the famous person was just a vaguely charming drifter.

I fling myself backward onto the couch, muffin crumbs scattering, and stare at the ceiling.

CHAPTER 7

The next evening, the bar hums with its usual soundtrack featuring the smooth stylings of the clink of glasses, bursts of laughter, and the low murmur of conversations blending with the distant crash of waves. Fairy lights give a warm glow to the polished wooden surfaces, reflecting off the myriad bottles lining the shelves. The scent of salt air mingles with the citrus from freshly cut limes, creating an intoxicating aroma that defines our little seaside haven.

I weave through the crowd, tray in hand, attempting to deliver drinks without incident. My movements are usually fluid, a practiced dance honed over countless shifts. Tonight, however, each step feels offbeat, like I’m perpetually a half-second behind the music. The reason? A certain movie star who may or may not walk through the door at any moment.

Balancing a Problem Child, a beer, and a soda, I approach a table of regulars. As I set the drinks down, my eyes shift to the entrance for the umpteenth time.

Empty.

Relief and disappointment churns in my stomach, though I quickly shove the feelings aside.

“Everything okay, hon?” asks Mrs. Thompson, a sweet retiree who spends her evenings knitting at the corner table.

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