Page 44 of Blue Jeans in Low Beams

“Pretty sure I had it right the first time.”

14

MILO

“I swear, I didn’t realize the eggs were raw,” I say, trying to hold back my laughter, arm outstretched to help Brenna onto Fishy Business.

She gives me this look like she is trying desperately not to roll her eyes, not believing me for a single second. It’s the same look she’s given me every time I’ve tried to apologize over the last couple of hours. Problem is, she’s so cute—even with her raw egg-soaked hair—that I can’t help but smile when she does it.

“It's not that I don’t believe you, but…just what did you think you were going to accomplish cracking a cooked egg?” she returns. She gives me a playful shove, both of us wobbling with the sway of the boat in the water.

And that’s a damn good question…

Truthfully, there wasn’t a whole lot of thought behind the move. I was so caught up in the moment, so focused on her laughter reverberating through me as we passed the egg back and forth, that my only thought was how to make it continue.

Her laughter had been the soundtrack of our entire afternoon. From getting kicked out of the water balloon toss when I tried to start a battle, to us tripping and landing on each other during the three-legged race, it was one of the best days of my life. Even if holding back from kissing her when she landed on me was one of the toughest things I’ve ever done. Especially after having watched her beautiful breasts bounce up and down during the sack race.

I was unaware I had such strength.

Looking at her now, the summer sun setting, dusk weaving its way in between us, Brenna is glowing. And that glow is lighting me up inside too.

Because being with Brenna is easy and natural. Kind of like breathing—something that you don’t even realize you’re doing, but is still essential to life. That if you stop, you die.

“Hmmmm?” she presses, still waiting for an answer.

“I assumed it was boiled and that it would just…crumble.”

I shrug, giving her a smirk. Brenna shakes her head, and this time I get the eye roll. I also have to dodge another one of her shoves. Easy enough, since I need to get us moving. I want us to claim our spot sooner than later so that we have the perfect view of the fireworks.

Ten minutes later, I kill the engine and lower the anchor, the ultimate spot acquired. We’re far enough away from the dock and the crowds to have our own space, but not so far that the fireworks will be too small in the sky to enjoy. Not that Silver Lake is all that big, but still. I want everything to be perfect.

A girl only gets one first second date, right?

Brenna lets out a long, heavy breath and I pause, unsure if that’s a happy noise or not. She looks happy, sitting on the bench seat that runs along the backside of the boat, her tan legs stretched out along the pleather, head resting in her hand. Or maybe she’s plotting ways to kill me in my sleep over the egg thing. Could go either way.

“Can I ask you something?” she says, not bothering to look away from her far-off focal point.

“Always.”

I make my way over to her, the short distance from the driver’s seat to the back bench feeling like ten miles rather than ten feet. Lifting her legs, I sit, laying them back across my lap. Brenna’s gaze meets mine, her soft smile brightening.

“The whole town was shocked to see you at the picnic.”

“That’s not a question…”

Brenna huffs, trying to kick me, forgetting that I’m holding on to her legs.

“You didn’t let me finish!” she whines. I lift one shoulder, trying to be nonchalant, but it’s tougher than I put on. Because the only thing I can think about is just how kissable her lips look right now. I need a distraction. Wiggling my fingers along the bottom of Brenna’s foot, I tickle her, waiting for the inevitable. Sure enough, a giggle explodes from her, and she squirms, trying to get out of my grasp. “Not fair!”

“All’s fair…”

“Seriously. When was the last time you attended the picnic?”

Damn, Brenna with the hard hitters tonight. I pull my lips into my mouth, thinking hard. Harder than one really should have to think about such a subject. Because, honestly, I have no fucking idea.

“Ummm, I think I was thirteen, maybe?”

“Thirteen?! You haven’t been to the Fourth of July picnic in twenty-five years?”