That crooked smile used to make me crazy. Back when I had a crush on him.
Thank god I'm past that. And at least he's chuckling now, instead of looking at me in the slow, steady way that I find so unnerving.
“Actually, I'm not working tonight. Roxy is handling the bar tonight.”
“Oh.” Roxy is his assistant manager. Sassy, smart, and super outgoing, she is the perfect person to manage the bar when Keegan isn't there. But I'm still surprised he's not going in. “What's up?”
He shoves a hand through his dirty blond hair. “I've been summoned to brunch with the family.”
“Ah ...” I murmur noncommittally, because voicing my opinions about his family isn't particularly helpful.
My family is difficult too, so I know the unspoken rule of the shitty-family-support-network. You're allowed to complain about your own shitty-family, but you're not allowed to criticize anyone else's.
“I'm sorry,” I tell him.
He quirks his eyebrow at me. “You could always come with me as backup.”
“Um ... No way. Pretty sure your grandfather would have me tossed out by the management like the street urchin he undoubtedly imagines I am.”
“I don’t think he pictures you as a street urchin.”
“Well, maybe not. But that doesn’t mean he wants me swimming around in his pools of money either.”
“Do you think my grandfather is Scrooge McDuck?”
“Maybe,” I admit.
“He’s not that bad,” Keegan tells me, but I’m not sure if he’s saying it to reassure me or himself.
I feel my resolve wavering. “I can come with you if you need me to. It might take all my courage, but I will brave Scrooge McDuck.”
He laughs. “Nah. I got this.”
I know hehas this. I also know his dad is a dick and that tomorrow will be full of lectures about how he's not “living up to his potential” and should “stop messing around with that bar.”
Just thinking about his family gets me riled up. I'm torn between wanting to punch someone (his father, obviously) and wanting to just hug Keegan.
So, naturally, I fluff the pillow to release my excess energy.
I give the pillow a couple of shakes to fluff it, then carefully place it in the corner on the sofa before giving it a whack on top to artfully dent it.
When I straighten, I see Keegan barely concealing a grin behind his hand.
“What?” I ask.
“I think you killed it, Glasses.”
I look from him to the pillow and then back again. “What? I fluffed it.”
“You karate chopped it. You're like Miss Piggy.”
“No. I'm not. Besides, I'm pretty sure it's Ms. Piggy. And if it's not, then it should be, because Piggy is a feminist icon. I would be lucky to be Ms. Piggy.”
“What did that pillow ever do to you anyway?” he asked, shooting me a thoughtful look. “Or were you imagining the pillow was my father?”
“Maybe.” I make a show of walking away, then swing back dramatically to deliver a karate chop worth of the pig herself, yelling, “Hi-ya!” Then I straighten, nodding. “Yeah, that time I definitely imagined it was your father.”
“He’s not nearly as bad as you think,” Keegan says, even though he’s trying to repress his smile.
