My brows raise as my heart starts pounding again. “Dane?”
“I want to thank you for coming out with me tonight,” he says. “It’s an honor.”
I press my lips together to keep from smiling, but it’s impossible.
“Thank you for asking me,” I say.
We share a moment just standing there, looking at each other. And all of the anxiety that I had about tonight melts away.
Maybe something will come out of this, and maybe it won’t. But how will I know if I don’t try?
Seven
Kaylee
“What is this place?” I ask.
I take in the sight before me.
A little building nestled in a grove of trees, The Tipsy Cow looks like the bar version of a lady in the streets but a freak in the sheets. It’s quaint and unassuming with its cozy exterior, patrons playing cornhole outside, and the string lights dangling off the trees surrounding the building. Live music seems to be preparing to kick off in the back.
It’s sweet—total low-key fun at first glance.
It’s the second look that gets me.
There’s a sign that says Line Dancing Underway that’s nailed just above the front door. It hangs slightly askew. A giant beer pong table is poised for use just beyond the cornhole boards, and I think there’s a tournament board hung on a tree. And the sheer number of cowboy boots? That screams that this night could get wild.
“This is The Tipsy Cow.” Dane smiles at me. “It’s the hidden gem of Rosewood Ranch Lands.”
Gravel crunches under our shoes as we weave through the cars and mostly trucks in the parking lot.
This isn’t necessarily the kind of place I’d think Dane frequents, but what do I really know about him? I glance at him over my shoulder. I don’t know much. But I’d like to know more.
He’s so easy to be around. Our conversation on the way here was effortless. We slipped in and out of topics, covering everything from our third-grade teachers to his fear of needles and my love of a well-brined turkey. And now that we’re here, I’m glad for the drive. It served as a shot of liquor to ease my nerves.
“Do you come here often?” I ask.
“Me? Nah. I don’t go anywhere often.”
“So, you’re a hermit then. That’s nice.”
He laughs. The sound is warm and full and makes me smile.
“I wouldn’t say I’m a hermit. I just don’t like pretending to like people in social settings,” he says as we make our way up the wooden steps of The Tipsy Cow.
“But you pretend to like them otherwise?” I lift a brow, teasing him, as he holds the door open for me.
He leans forward as I pass. “Yes.”
“Interesting,” I say, making a face as I walk by. I ignore the heat of his breath on my cheek and the flurry of goose bumps that the almost-contact causes.
The inside of The Tipsy Cow is shockingly awesome. Large, heavy beams line the ceiling, and the bar itself is made of rough-hewn wood. Tables are strewn around the perimeter, leaving a large, open dance space in the center.
“This is so cool,” I say, taking in the place. “How have I never been here before?”
“Guess you don’t get out much either.”
I laugh. “That I do not. I had to beg someone—well, Anna begged someone on my behalf—to cover for me at Cherry Pie Pizza tonight.”
“I’m glad you went to all that trouble for me.”
Our eyes connect—snapping together like magnets—and a warm, fuzzy feeling swallows me whole.
Dane smiles. “You hungry? Want a drink first?”
“I don’t know. Let’s see what they have.”
“Sounds good to me.”
He places a hand gently on the small of my back as we turn toward the bar. The weight barely presses against the knit of my cardigan, but I feel every flex of his fingers.
My heart leaps in my chest, sending a rush of blood through my veins. The influx of adrenaline pinks my cheeks as we reach the end of the bar labeled Order Here.
“Care to recommend anything?” I ask, reading the menu written on a giant chalkboard behind the counter.
“I’ve had the brisket sandwich,” he says. “It was excellent.”
“That smoked turkey sounds delicious.”
He laughs. “Should we ask if it’s brined?”
I laugh too. He remembered.
A man takes our order. We wait for a few moments for our drinks and then move away from the area to allow for the newly formed line behind us to make their choices.
“We’re number two-seven-two,” he says, looking at the receipt. “Sounds like it might take a minute.”
“Should we go outside and see what’s happening out there?”
He grins. “Sure.”
I sip my lemon drop martini as we mosey our way to the back exit. The crowd on this side of the room is thicker, and it takes more effort to stay together. I follow Dane for ease, using him as a blocker through the throngs of people. I can’t help but notice how he catches the eye of every woman we pass.