“I fix things. I argue about football. I try new whiskey and pretend I can taste notes of oak and caramel.”
“You can’t?”
“Absolutely not.”
I laugh.
“And you?” he asks. “What does Kansas do for fun?”
“I organize things.”
“That sounds… thrilling.”
“It is,” I insist. “Spreadsheets are underrated.”
He groans dramatically.
“Don’t worry. I also dance.”
That gets his attention.
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah. Line dancing. Two-step. Country swing.”
He studies me.
“I’ve never line danced.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
I gasp theatrically.
“Jesse.”
“What?”
“You’re a biker bar owner who’s never line danced?”
“I contain multitudes.”
“That’s unacceptable.”
He laughs.
“Teach me, then.”
“You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
I feel a thrill that has nothing to do with motorcycles.
“Then I guess,” I say, stepping a little closer, “we’re not done yet.”
He holds my gaze.
