Page 259 of Banter & Blushes

Silent!

I didn’t even know itcouldbe silent.

“You’re like a handyman superhero,” I say, genuinely impressed.

“Just trying to earn mykeep,” he replies, flashing me a smile that’s way too charming for someone covered in grease smudges.

At the bar, Keigan is a hit with everyone. Mrs. Thompson decides he deserves a scarf.

A scarf.

In the middle of summer.

“Look at this,” she says proudly, holding up her latest creation. It’s a deep navy with a stripe of white at the ends—simple but classy, like something out of a catalog.

“It’s perfect,” I tell her, because it is. “But don’t you think he’ll melt if he tries to wear it before October?”

She waves me off with a smile. “He’ll appreciate it. You can tell he’s the kind of man who values a handmade gift.”

And you know what?

She’s right.

When she hands it to him the next night, he wraps it around his neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world, despite the fact that it’s at least 80 degrees outside.

“Thank you, Mrs. Thompson,” he says, his voice warm and genuine. “This is amazing. I’ll think of you every time I wear it.”

She blushes, actuallyblushes, and I suddenly understand why all the regulars are eating out of his hand.

Even Joe, who once told me he considers smiling to be “a waste of valuable energy,” softens around Keigan. One night, when Keigan delivers his beer with his usual easy confidence, Joe mutters, “Not bad, kid.”

It’s the Joe equivalent of rolling out a red carpet.

And then, of course, there’s Winston. My pug is famously stingy with his affection—he tolerates Clara because she sneaks him bacon, but that’s about it.

Keigan, though? Keigan has him fully converted in less than 48 hours.

It’s a lazy, golden afternoon at the bar, the kind of day where the sunlight filters through the windows and makes everything look a little softer, a little dreamier. The regulars are scattered around, chatting in low voices, while Winston snoozes under the counter on his little bed.

I’m busy wiping down glasses when I hear the faint sound of his nails clicking on the floor. My head pops up, and I spot him trotting confidently out from behind the bar like he’s on some very important mission.

“Winston,” I call, setting the glass down and leaning out from the bar. “Where do you think you’re going, mister? You know the rules. Bar dogs staybehindthe bar.”

He pauses mid-strut, turning his head to glance at me with a look I can only describe as pure, pug-level indifference. It’s the canine equivalent of a teenager rolling their eyes.

“Don’t you dare,” I warn, but of course, he does. He resumes his triumphant march toward Keigan, who’s sitting at one of the window tables with a soda in hand, looking… well, looking very good. His hair is doing that perfectly messy thing that probably justhappenswithout any effort, and the sunlight streaming through the window catches on his jawline in a way that’s honestly a little unfair.

I immediately shake the thought out of my head. Nope. Absolutely not. We arenotnoticing things like jawlines today, Becky.

By the time I catch up to him, Winston has plopped himself right at Keigan’s feet, staring up at him with the kind of wide-eyed adoration usually reserved for treats or a particularly soft blanket.

“Well, hey there, buddy,” Keigan says, his voice warm as he leans down to scratch behind Winston’s ears.

Winston, being the shameless opportunist that he is, immediately flops onto his back, his little legs sticking straight up in the air.

“Oh, for the love of—Winston!” I throw my hands up, laughing despite myself. “He’s supposed to be working, you know.Yourjob is to stay behind the bar and look cute while keeping the floor free of crumbs. Not… auditioning for your attention.”

Keigan glances up at me, his grin spreading across his face in that easy, disarming way of his. “What can I say? I must’ve passed the vibe check.”

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