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“Why wouldn’t I be going?”

“You’re not on that subcommittee,” she says, her brows furrowing.

“Maybe I just requested to join,” I say, flashing her a smile as I start the truck and turn the radio low.

“I didn’t get an email.”

“You aren’t the chair of that committee and the rules state that requests to join should be sent to the chair who will bring them to the subcommittee before the next meeting.”

Her mouth falls open. “You’re joining the movie night subcommittee?”

“Well, yeah, someone needs to help you bring movies into the mix that aren’t in black and white.”

That smile. There it is. My chest swells with pride knowing that I might have had something to do with it. And, let’s be honest, I joined so I could see her more.

“I could use a partner.” She blushes, like she said something wrong.

Before she can hide her face, I hold my hand out to shake hers and say, “Then you’ve got one.”

Her bracelets make a soft jingling sound when she places her hand in mine. It’s soft and fits perfectly. Her eyes take in our shake and then bounce to mine.

“Perfect.”

“I think we’ve chatted away most of our extra time if we don’t want to show up late,” I say, grimacing at the transition.

“Of course,” she says, looking at the building and pulling her hand away. “We wouldn’t want to keep anyone waiting.”

“We would’ve had a good excuse,” I say, giving her one more wink before putting my sunglasses back on. I leave my hat in the back seat so I have one less thing to fiddle with as I drive.

“Chatting in your car is considered a good excuse?” she asks. “Now I’m curious what a poor excuse would be.”

God, why is it sexy whenever she pulls out phrases that senior citizens use?

“Whippin’ shitties?” I venture.

She coughs, laughs, and then asks, “Pardon me?”

There’s that phrase again. Fuck, I love that she says pardon of all words. “You know, whippin’ shitties, or donuts?”

“I definitely do not know what that is,” she says emphatically.

“I suppose city folk have other forms of entertainment. But sometimes, those of us in small towns and in the country, we pass the time by driving in empty parking lots and whippin’ shitties. You drive fast, slam on the brakes, and crank the wheel to spin you in a tight circle,” I explain. “We also go mudding.”

“You do this?” One of her brows is raised in skepticism.

“I did. It’s a good way to make your tires go bald fast and you might tip your truck, which is a bone-headed thing to attempt.”

“Dare I ask about mudding?”

The way her nose crinkles has my heart jumping in my chest, but I try to play it cool and chuckle. “It’s literally taking your truck, SUV, or ATV, but not a sedan like yours, and driving into a muddy field.”

“Driving in the mud, truly?” she asks, concern and confusion on her face.

“Well, you’re not going five miles an hour. You’re messing around and getting mud everywhere.”

“Everywhere?”

“Everywhere,” I say, not thinking about my truck. And before I second-guess myself, I embrace Chuck’s advice and say, “We’ll have to go sometime.”