energy.”
She pushes me, smirking. “I’m serious. A girl has to suffer through frilly decorations, spiked punch, and the guy trying to get in her pants afterward, and for what? A corsage, maybe some dinner, and two hours of dancing, which results in foot blisters.” She hops off the stool and grabs the push-broom. “I’m so glad I’ll never have to go to another one again. Homeschooling for the win.”
’Kay. So now I’m really glad I never asked her.
“See, I’m insulted,” I say, moving around the counter. “Guys don’t always try to get in your pants. And dances aren’t that bad.” Maybe a little bad, but not complete torture.
She starts sweeping, huffing a little. “So says Lewis Creek’s god of baseball. Of course dances are awesome for you.” She holds the broom to her chest, throwing her hand up to her forehead like she’s in Gone with the Wind or some crap. “Oh, Austin! I never knew there was a difference between fastballs and sliders, but whisper it in my ear while we dance all night in the bed of your truck.”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “And by ‘dance,’ you mean what, exactly?” She swats the broom at me. I hold up my hands in surrender. “All right, all right! But I will say that, after a few beers, truck dancin’ is a blast. You should try it.”
She rolls her eyes and resumes sweeping, turning her back to me. Okay, then. Challenge accepted. I dig my phone out of my pants pocket and scroll through the music app until I find a halfway decent slow song. You can never go wrong with some Luke Bryan. Girls eat that shit up.
As the opening notes of “Crash My Party” fill the room, Marisa stops. Her head pops up, and she whirls around, cocking an eyebrow. “Um, what do you think you’re doing?”
Grinning, I place the phone on the counter and hold out my hand. “I’m on a mission to prove that not all dance dates are evil. I’ll have you know, I’m a darn good date.”
Her gaze flickers from my outstretched hand to my face. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.” With the way my heart’s pounding, that’s entirely possible. Even though it sounds cheesy as hell, I think I finally know what girls mean when they talk about having butterflies in their gut, or stomach, or whatever. But even that’s not a good way to describe it. The butterflies feel like they’re all over the place.
And now I’m thinking about butterflies. Lord, help me.
She narrows her eyes. “You’ve been drinking moonshine again, haven’t you?”
Maybe the Luke Bryan song wasn’t as foolproof as I’d thought. “Please?”
She opens her mouth like she’s going to argue again, but instead she sighs and sets the broom against one of the coolers. “That’s not fair,” she says, crossing the distance between us. “No one in her right mind can resist that accent.”
When she slips her hand into mine, I pull her against me in one swift movement. She sucks in a breath, looking up at me with wide eyes.
“What?” I ask, resting my hands just above her hips. “Too close?”
She smiles. Looping her arms around my neck, she says, “I think it’s just right.”
Works for me.
We sway to the music, slow and steady. Those darn shoes of hers squeak against the floor, and she hangs her head and laughs right along with me.
“I’d be a great date, you know.” I pull her a little closer. “I’d wash my truck. Pick you up. Talk about guns with your dad. Even bring you flowers.”
Pressing her lips together, she nods. “Flowers?”
“I know a guy.”
Another song switches on, this one a little slower and a lot more appropriate for truck “dancing.” She doesn’t say anything, though. She keeps rocking side to side, keeps smiling, keeps looking up at me with those Lord-help-me gorgeous eyes.
“You know,” she says, “this experiment isn’t entirely accurate.”
“And why’s that?”
Her smile wavers. “You’re not like most guys, Austin.”
Her gaze drops to the floor. I’d pay anything under the sun to make that ache in her voice disappear. I think I was screwed from the get-go with this girl. Nobody’s ever made me fall this far, this fast. Nobody’s ever made me care so much so soon. And it’s scary. Exciting, but scary.
Instead of telling her that, though, I say, “Good. Because you’re not like most girls.”
She lets out a breathless laugh. “No, I’m not. Most girls don’t have the issues I do.”
I stop dancing, and she finally looks