Page 88 of Blue Jeans in Low Beams

Giving her a wink, I let her go, then head back to the truck to grab the large, insulated transport bag I commandeered from the brew house. While not traditionally used for food—unless you consider beer a food—I figured repurposing it for an evening wouldn’t do any harm, and that the insulation would work in keeping items warm just as well as it does keeping the beer cold. Here’s hoping that worked.

Brenna watches me intently for a moment as I unload everything, but then turns back to the truck. I don’t think anything of it, until I hear the engine turn over and the radio comes on. An old Garth Brooks song blares through the speakers, the familiar melody and fast-paced lyrics about a redhead sneaking out to join her boyfriend at a honky-tonk filling the air.

I park myself on the blanket, the small meal I prepared set up on one edge, a forty of the still nameless brew cracked open next to me. Legs stretched out, I settle in, watching the most beautiful brunette I’ve ever seen dance to a classic country song. Each time she moves, weaving in and out of the low beams of my truck, I think I fall a little more for her.

Watching her like this, all the reasons I told myself she was a bad idea earlier this summer fall away. The age gap, the fact that her older brother is my best friend, her potentially leaving. None of it matters. All that matters is the way she’s hypnotizing me. Weaving her way into my very soul.

Because watching her like this, you’d think I’d never seen a pair of blue jeans before.

I take a long sip of the beer, the light, sweet taste lingering on my tongue. And it finally hits me. That’s what this tastes like. Like falling in love.

With a pair of blue jeans in the low beams…

“What’s that shit-eating grin for?”

Brenna stops midbeat, planting her hands on her hips—those fucking glorious hips—leveling me with a come-hither stare that I swear to God is a challenge.

A challenge I’m more than willing to rise to.

“I have no idea what you’re talkin’ about, Miss Rawlins.”

“Sure you don’t…” Sauntering over to me, she gives me a look back that I know mirrors mine. “Then you won’t mind telling me what you’re thinking about.”

“Blue jeans in low beams.”

“Blue jeans in low beams?”

I nod. “Yup. Might be a little long for a beer name, but I think we can make it work. Bronwyn and Rose can probably spruce it up somehow.”

Brenna gasps, hands flying to cover her mouth, eyes as wide as the paper plates I brought. “You did it! You figured it out! Milo!”

Her arms are around my neck in a flash, tackling me to the ground. No complaints from me though. In fact, if I could find a way to hold her like this for the rest of the night, under these stars, I would.

“Blue jeans in low beams…” she says again, pushing up. “I like it. But, what does it represent? Every Southern Brothers beer has a story. A meaning.”

A love story…

“Summer in the country,” I lie.

I might be ready to admit it to myself, but out loud? Naw. Not yet. I’m not sure she has any kind of feeling for me past the I enjoy fucking you kind. Much less the big four-letter kind. I don’t need to be that guy either.

“It’s perfect.”

Much like you, Brenna Rawlins…

“Hungry?” I ask, changing the subject before I say something I can’t take back.

“Very.”

“Good. Because I have what I think is a very exciting surprise.”

I grab the glass baking dish, peeling back the tin foil covering it, as I show it off to Brenna. She inhales deeply, instantly recognizing the smell, mouth falling open in shock.

“Is that…OMG, it is…”

“I spent some time with Miss Harriett this afternoon, making sure I didn’t burn anything.”

“I would have paid money to watch Miss Harriett teach you to fry chicken.”