Page 258 of Banter & Blushes

Like,likes melikes me?

But how is that possible?

He’s a literal movie star who probably has champagne fountains in his kitchen and a personal assistant named something fancy like Blaise or Cordelia. Meanwhile, I’m over here accidentally flinging napkins.

I need to say something. Anything.

But all I can think to do is laugh—an awkward, too-loud laugh that I immediately regret.

I pull my hand back.

“Well,” I say, my voice pitching up just slightly, “I’m glad my unapologetic awkwardness is working for someone.”

His smile falters for just a second, barely noticeable, but it’s enough to make my stomach twist. I didn’t mean to brush him off. Not really. But this is all happening so fast, and I don’t know what to do with it.

“I should, uh, get back to work,” I add, gesturing vaguely toward the crowded bar like it’s an emergency room and I’m the only doctor on duty. “You know how it is—peanuts to refill, drinks to shake, people to awkwardly apologize to after I bump into them.”

“Hey,” he says, his tone soft but insistent.

I freeze and force myself to meet his gaze. There’s something in his expression—something vulnerable and a little unsure—and it makes my chest hurt in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

“I’m not expecting anything,” he says quietly. “I just wanted you to know how I feel. No pressure.”

The words hit and I feel like I’m standing on the edge of something big and terrifying and wonderful all at once.

But instead of leaning into it, I take a step back.

“Thanks for telling me,” I say, offering him a small smile. “I… I appreciate it. Really.”

It’s not a lie. I do appreciate it. But I also have no idea what to do with it.

Keigan nods, his smile dimming, and leans back. “I’ll let you get back to it, then.”

“Yeah,” I say, a little too tightly. “I’ll, uh, check on you later. Let me know if you need anything.”

I turn and make my way back to greet some customers who just entered the bar, my heart still racing and my mind spinning in a dozen different directions. I can feel his gaze on me as I move through the crowd, but I don’t look back.

Not yet.

CHAPTER 8

The next few days unfold like a romcom montage, except instead of a perfectly edited sequence set to a catchy pop song, it’s a series of moments where I find myself trying very hard not to overanalyzeeverything.

Keigan, as it turns out, is absurdly good at finding ways to be useful—and at making me smile when I’m trying very hard not to.

He’s at the bar almost as much as I am, wiping down tables like he’s auditioning for a role in a cleaning product commercial, carrying trays with the kind of balance normally reserved for tightrope walkers, and—most impressively—fixing the perpetually squeaky hinge on the back door.

I’d been complaining about that hinge for months. Clara kept saying we should just embrace it as part of the bar’s charm, but every time it screeched, it felt less “rustic seaside vibes” and more “horror movie jump scare.”

But one afternoon, there he is, crouched by the door with a toolbox I didn’t even know we owned.

“What are you doing?” I ask, leaning against the doorway.

He glances up, grinning like this is a perfectly normal thing for a famous person to do. “Fixing the squeak. Unless, of course, you’re emotionally attached to it. In which case, I can leave it as is.”

“Oh no, please. By all means,” I say, gesturing dramatically, “save us all from the horrors of functional door hinges.”

He laughs, turning back to his work. A few minutes later, he swings the door open, and it’s silent.

---