Page 65 of Blue Jeans in Low Beams

I smile, ready to answer his question with a kiss.

Until my phone rings.

I don’t even have to look at it to know. There is a part of me that wants to answer it with a snarky response about being second fiddle, but that would mean admitting to knowing that Milo ignored his call. Which probably isn’t the best idea.

I sigh, internally debating on answering it. Brandt doesn’t know that I’m not working this morning. It’d be easy enough to tell him I was and call him back later.

“Answer it. Tell him about the email you got,” Milo says, as if reading my mind. “I need to go open. I’ll see you tonight for movie night.”

I nod wordlessly, not knowing another way to respond. A quick, chaste kiss to the forehead, and I turn to go, answering the call to tell my brother all about the email I received about a potential job.

Meanwhile, all I can think of is one thing—movie night. With Milo.

19

MILO

I have no idea what the town is thinking.

To anyone else, living anywhere else, they probably wouldn’t think twice about it. Hell, I normally wouldn’t think twice about it.

Tonight, however, opening my truck door for Brenna and holding on to her hips as she slides out, that’s exactly where my mind goes. Well, that’s where it goes after I think about how much I like holding on to her.

“Town movie night got fancy,” she comments, looking around Newton Field, the community’s recreational area. We’re parked in the very last row, but can still see the massive movie screen on the other end of the field perfectly, despite the rows of cars, lawn chairs, and blankets in front of us.

Hickory Hills has hosted a town movie night for as long as I can remember. Probably longer than I’ve been alive. I’m sure there is some storied tale about how it was started to serve the town, since the closest theater is thirty minutes away and drive-ins are a thing of the past. All of which is true. More than that though, it’s a chance for the town gossips to get everyone in one place and fuel the rumor mill.

Hence why I’m suddenly all too aware that I don’t know what this town is thinking.

“Hayes donated a new projection system and big screen a couple of summers back after the last one got ruined by the Conrad boys,” I tell her, slipping my hand into hers.

It’s a natural move, one that I’ve been doing without thinking every time we’ve been out over the last couple of weeks. To anyone paying attention, it’s perfectly clear that something is brewing between Brenna and me. Dinner at Little Slice of Heaven, breakfast at Dolly’s, and a trip to the Farmers’ Market—on top of us being together at the Fourth of July picnic—doesn't require a lot of imagination to pick up what’s going on. Especially with all the hand holding. And the kiss I stole at the farmers’ market this morning. So much for keeping those private.

And yet, not a single comment. From anyone.

Not from my brothers. My sister. Either one of our mothers. Jack Keller, my father’s best friend who was standing right there as I stole that kiss. And especially not from Mrs. Chamberlain, the town math teacher, who always has to be in the know about everything.

Actually, I take that back. There is one person. Ken Noble, the town mechanic.

Shortly after Brenna walked away answering Brandt’s call, Ken’s head popped up from under the hood of a truck like one of the animatronic vermin in a whack-a-mole game. Smiling at me like I’d just given him the winning lottery numbers, he gave me a single nod, his deep southern drawl rivaling my father’s as he said, “Don’t worry, son, secret’s safe with me. You’re not the first guy to steal a kiss from a pretty girl in this parkin’ lot.”

And I believe him. On both counts.

Still, I would have thought one of the town’s most eligible bachelors—Mrs. Chamberlain’s words, not mine—so freely holding the hand of his best friend’s little sister, who is twelve years his junior, would register. Please don’t get me wrong; I have no complaint that it’s not. I’m simply also waiting on the other shoe to drop.

“They’re hellions, aren’t they?”

I chuckle, squeezing her hand. “That’s one word for them. If you see them walk into the drugstore, keep an eye on them.”

“They’d have to make it past Libby before I saw them, and I don’t know how much tolerance she’d have for that.”

“Good point.”

Laughter wafts over from some kids on the playground, filling the heavy summer air. A large crowd is already forming under the food tent, everyone trying to grab dinner before the movie starts. Guiding Brenna that way, I don’t bother to hide my smile.

Being with her like this is about as good as it gets. Not every date can be an event, and while our first two were fabulous, all the rest have been a lot more low-key, but just as magical. Maybe more. There is something about listening to her talk, laughing together, spending time together—just us, no expectations, no plans, no worries—that is good for the soul. Maybe it’s because we were able to skip all the “get to know you” questions—not having to ask each other about favorite colors and movies and books—and were able to slip into the more in-depth stuff that made it feel richer. Or maybe Brenna is that special.

We say some hellos to people as we grab a couple of slices of pizza, making the requisite small talk. Even that seems easier with Brenna by my side.