Page 30 of Blue Jeans in Low Beams

I smile back at her, letting my eyes dance up and down her body, helping her out of my truck. She’s adorable in her rose-colored sundress, that looks almost like it was modeled after a 1920s flapper dress. Which is more fitting than she knows right about now.

I lick my lips, drinking in her beauty as she moves. It’s the kind of dress that shows off just enough, leaving most of it to the imagination, stirring all those secret desires in you. Thanks to our little mishap—which neither of us has felt the need to bring up, thankfully—I don’t have to rely fully on my imagination. But I’m not going to admit that’s where my brain is going.

“They opened up a handful of years ago, and feature Hayes products regularly.”

“Peaches, peanuts, and pecans?” she jokes, eyes going wide, with a smile to match.

“All three, every season. Plus, they were one of the first places to have Southern Brothers on tap.”

“Does that mean I’m walking in on the arm of a celebrity tonight?”

The smirk she gives me makes me want to kiss it right off her. This isn’t that kind of date—despite how my chest tightened when I opened our front door to pick her up or how squishy my insides felt on the ride over—so I hold out my arm instead for her to loop hers through.

“Hardly. They deal with Rose for all that stuff, so unless she’s showed off our photos, they've never laid eyes on Brandt or me. No, that’s not true—we did eat here once. We wanted to see our name on the menu, so we came over for lunch. But that was years ago, so I highly doubt we’ll have the same waitress tonight, who, by the way, totally judged us for day drinking on a Thursday.”

Brenna shakes her head, that wide smile never wavering. I can tell she’s holding back from commenting that she wouldn’t judge us, so I nod a silent thank you. Being with her is easy, making this feel a lot less date-ish than normal. Not that it’s a real date, at least for me. But I want it to feel as real as possible for her.

I slip away from her for a second, just long enough to open the door to the restaurant, gesturing her inside. The door isn’t all the way closed behind us, the warm summer air still sneaking in the small gap while the air conditioning escapes, when Brenna gasps.

Grabbing my arm tight, her fingernails dig into my skin, the slight pain from them sending a rush through me.

“Milo…”

There’s excitement and hope in her voice, letting me know that I got this right. Phew!

Brenna looks at me, and then back to the large poster propped up on an easel at the bottom of the staircase that leads to the banquet room on the second level. I wait for her to say something, my eyes scanning the poster.

Death, Deception, and Disorder!

A roaring ’20s murder mystery night at The Rustic

“A murder mystery dinner? Are you serious?” Brenna asks, fingers still firmly in place.

I nod. “I know how much you love Sherlock Holmes and all those crime novels, so I figured this would be fun. I hope. Could be a total flop.”

Truth be told, I got lucky with the theme night. My original plan had simply been a nice dinner, and The Rustic was the first place I thought of. Simple, easy, good food. A place where we could relax and talk, not feel any pressure to make this something it’s not. But when the slide showed up on their website as I was going to make reservations, I knew it was too good to be true. Brenna has loved Sherlock Holmes and Nancy Drew since she was little and has never passed up a whodunit movie.

What kind of brother would I be if I passed on the chance for her to join in one? No, what kind of date would I be?

“No, it’s perfect.” A giggle escapes, her excitement palpable. Which ups mine in turn.

The host takes our name, verifying our reservation before leading us upstairs, leaving the din of the dining room behind us. At the top of the stairs, we’re greeted by a man in a tux, complete with white gloves, who is clearly the ringleader for the event. I have to hold back on making a Tim Curry butler joke.

“Welcome to Death, Deception, and Disorder. I’m Edgar Carillo, manager here at The Ditzy Raven,” he greets.

He’s already in character. Okay then…

“So, not a butler? You’re not going to buttle?” I joke, unable to hold it back. I can see Brenna roll her eyes next to me, but I know she secretly loves it. Here’s hoping this dude has a sense of humor.

The corner of his mouth twitches, and I can tell he wants to joke back. He doesn’t break character though.

“No, sir. Club manager.” Okay then. “Welcome to the Ditzy Raven. Inside you will find appetizers and champagne, but shhhh, we don’t want the authorities to know we’re serving.”

“We won’t tell,” Brenna whispers conspiratorially, already getting into the event.

“Thank you, madam. Now, before you continue on inside, I must ask, will you be participating tonight?”

My stomach flips. Oh boy. Yes, the event page said it was interactive, but I thought that meant they would ask us to shout out answers. Like on Whose Line. I didn’t realize that meant us actually participating.