Page 61 of Blue Jeans in Low Beams

A third. A third date. Is he asking what I think he’s asking?

“You want to go on a third?”

“I do. And I hope you do too.”

“But—"

“But nothing,” he cuts me off. “Bren, I haven’t had as much fun as I did with you in a long time. And yes, there’s a whole bunch of reasons this might be a bad idea, but who cares. We can figure all that shit out later. Unless you don’t want to.”

“No, I do. I’d love to go out with you again.”

It sounds so formal, like I’m RSVP-ing to an event. But I’m too stunned to respond in any other way—other than maybe a shriek. But I keep my cool.

“Good. Then it’s a date.”

18

BRENNA

Things I think I could get used to—spending Saturday morning wandering through the Hickory Hills Farmers’ Market hand in hand with Milo.

There’s something about the way he laces his fingers through mine, our joined hands swaying gently back and forth as we stroll down the aisles in the field beside the library. A security and peace of mind that comes with knowing that he’s here next to me.

The same joy that has settled in me each time we’ve gone out since he said “fuck it” that night on the couch. I’ve lost count of what number date we’re on, our time together less about actual “dates” now and more about enjoying each other’s company. Having never been on a second date almost seems like a distant memory.

Almost.

The sights and sounds of the market weave around us, a myriad of stalls, booths, and tents with brightly colored goods crammed into the small field. Judging by the look of things, the market is going to outgrow this spot soon enough.

Something I can’t help but love.

It’s nice to see my hometown flourishing. It’s moments like this that make me realize how much I’ve missed it here, and that maybe taking Mr. Hovland up on his offer might be the way to go.

“Heads!”

I hear the warning with barely enough time to react, turning toward the recognizable voice. My brain spirals, trying to focus on the object hurtling at me, my reflexes kicking in, arms flying up to protect my face as I duck.

A loud whack fills the air, stealing my focus as I realize I’m not hit. And that Milo caught the offending object. A peach.

“Jackass…” he mutters.

I look up, dropping my arms and trying to resume a normal, relaxed position, as if I didn’t just try to stop, drop, and roll in the middle of a crowded farmers’ market. The devious snickering coming from the same direction as the peach clues me in on exactly who the offender is.

Anton.

“Nice reflexes, Brenna,” he comments.

“Thanks?”

My response is awkward, coming out as more of a question than anything else. But what exactly do you say when you’re complimented after being assaulted by flying fruit?

One hand on my hip, holding on tight, Milo looks me up and down, appraising me. His blue eyes feel good as they roam my body, leaving a trail of heat behind. Once he’s examined me, he loosens his grip slightly, but doesn’t let go, tucking a wisp of hair behind my ear with the hand still holding the offending fruit.

“You okay?” he whispers.

“Fine.”

“I’ll kick his ass if you want me to.”