Page 268 of Banter & Blushes

CHAPTER 12

“Becky, I need you to look me in the eye and tell me I don’t look like a human disco ball,”Clara says, tugging at the hem of her glittery gold top as she sidesteps around me to grab a stack of napkins from the bar.

I barely glance up from the cocktail shaker I’m furiously working. “You look fine.”

“Fine? Fine?” Clara gasps like I’ve just insulted her entire lineage. “This is sequined, Becky. Sequined. I look like I’m auditioning for a Vegas show.”

“You look festive,” I say, shaking the cocktail harder for emphasis. “And if anyone can pull off festive, it’s you.”

Clara narrows her eyes at me, clearly unconvinced. “Festive or not, if I catch one tourist taking a picture of me like I’m part of the décor, I’m dumping an entire tray of shrimp cocktail in their lap.”

“Noted,” I say, pouring the drink into a glass and sliding it onto the tray beside me. “But if you’re going to stage a seafood protest, wait until after the raffle. We’re trying to raise money here, remember?”

“Fine,” she grumbles, grabbing the napkins and stalking off toward the other end of the bar, her sequins catching the light with every step.

As I finish arranging the drinks on the tray, I feel someone slide into the space beside me, the air shifting slightly as Keigan leans against the bar. He’s got that effortless, movie-star ease about him, like he’s done this a thousand times before—which, knowing him, he probably has.

“You’re doing it again,” Keigan says, his voice smooth and low, just loud enough for me to hear over the hum of the crowd.

I glance at him, raising an eyebrow as I balance a tray of drinks on my shoulder. “Doing what?”

“Distracting me,” he says, his eyes glinting with that mischievous sparkle. “How am I supposed to focus on charming the entire room when you’re over here looking like that?”

The tray wobbles slightly as my brain short-circuits, and I tighten my grip on it like it’s a lifeline. “Looking like what?” I manage, my voice coming out higher than I’d like.

He leans in just a fraction. “Like you belong here. Like you’re the center of everything in this room, and the rest of us are just trying to keep up.”

My face burns, the heat creeping all the way to my ears, and I immediately look away, busying myself with adjusting a glass on the tray.

"You should save those lines for someone who might actually fall for them," I mutter, keeping my eyes on the tray in my hands, though my face feels like it’s seconds away from melting.

“Who says I’m using lines?” Keigan counters, stepping aside but staying close enough that his presence feels like a gravitational pull. “Maybe I’m just speaking the truth. You’re the one lighting this place up tonight, Becky.”

I let out a breathy laugh, shaking my head as I maneuver around a cluster of tourists taking selfies by the raffle table. “Lighting it up? Really? You need to work on your metaphors, Hollywood. I’m holding a tray of drinks, not a spotlight.”

“Exactly,” he says, falling into step beside me like he’s got nowhere else to be. “You’re doing a hundred things at once, somehow keeping everything running smoothly, and you still look like you’ve got it all under control. It’s impressive.”

“Impressive?” I shoot him a skeptical glance, though I can feel the blush creeping up my neck again. “I’m just trying to make sure no one spills red wine on the regulars or trips over the fairy lights. That’s not exactly impressive—it’s survival.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” he says, flashing that movie-star grin that’s both infuriating and disarming. “Because while the rest of us are running around like headless chickens, you’re over here making it look easy. Like magic.”

I stop short, turning to look at him, partly because I’m not sure my legs can handle the combination of carrying this tray and processing what he just said. “Magic?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow. “Now Iknowyou’re laying it on thick.”

Keigan holds up his hands, the picture of mock innocence. “Scout’s honor. No ulterior motives, no lines. Just calling it like I see it.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be? Like, I don’t know, schmoozing with the press or auctioning off another one of Joe’s birdhouses?”

“You’re right,” he says, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I do have somewhere to be. On stage, actually.”

“Wait, what?” I ask, blinking at him as he steps back, already heading toward the small makeshift stage we set up in the corner of the room. “Keigan—what are you doing?”

He turns over his shoulder, walking backward with that confident swagger that makes it impossible to look away. “Just trust me,Becky. You’re going to like this.”

Oh, no. Those are famous last words if I’ve ever heard them. I watch, frozen in place, as he effortlessly climbs the stage steps, taking the microphone from the MC, who looks equally confused but doesn’t argue with him. Of course she doesn’t. No one argues with Keigan Jordan when he turns on the charm.

The room quiets as he taps the mic, flashing a practiced smile at the crowd.

“Good evening, everyone,” he begins, his voice smooth and resonant, carrying easily over the chatter that’s quickly dying down. “First of all, I want to thank you all for coming out tonight to support such an incredible cause. It’s not every day I get to be part of something this special, and I have to say, it’s been a privilege to spend the evening here with all of you. And to eat what I’m pretty sure is the best shrimp cocktail in the state.”

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