“Okay,” she declares. “That’s the one.”
“What about you?”
She shrugs out of her jacket, revealing a fitted top that hugs every curve I’ve been trying very hard not to stare at all night. My throat goes dry.
“Your turn,” she says.
I reach for a hat without thinking—white this time. She plops it on her head and strikes a pose.
“Well?”
I pretend to consider. “You look like you’re about to headline your own country tour.”
She beams.
“Try this one,” I say, swapping it for a deep chocolate brown.
She looks up at me through her lashes as I adjust it gently. My fingers brush her hairline.
“That’s the one,” I say, softer than I intended.
She twirls.
“You approve?”
“Very much.”
For a moment we just look at each other. Something unspoken building between us.
Then the music kicks up.
Her eyes light.
“Ready?”
I swallow. “Define ready.”
She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the dance floor.
I have faced down bar fights.
I have negotiated supplier contracts.
I have rebuilt a carburetor with nothing but a YouTube tutorial and stubbornness.
I am not prepared for line dancing.
Mindy turns to face me in the middle of the floor, hands on her hips.
“Okay,” she says. “Basic step first.”
“Be gentle.”
“No promises.”
She positions my feet.
“Right foot forward. Left together. Right back.”
