Page 59 of Loaded

“Because he didn’t really write the song?”

“He’s just a better actor than a pop star.” She shrugs. “He really likes acting, and he’s great at it. I suppose you could say his life prepared him to be good at it.”

I’ll have to ask more about that one later. What kind of life prepares someone to be an actor? Was he a circus performer or something? “Are you curious where we’re going?”

“I assume that was your goal.” She hops in the car before I can decide whether to be cheesy and open her door.

I rush around and climb in my side to start the car. “It was, I guess, but only because I wanted you to spend today looking forward to our date.”

She’s staring out the window, so I have no idea what she’s thinking or whether she’s annoyed.

“Maybe that was the wrong plan. I could have simply started early and tried to monopolize your time all day.”

Her head whips toward me. “Oh, no, that would’ve been bad. I had to do all my laundry this morning.”

“Oh, darn. That was a missed chance,” I say. “I wonder what you look like when all your good clothes are dirty.” I eye her outfit. “You could have been wearing American flag pants and a kitten shirt.”

“Or an old Pink Floyd shirt and Sponge Bob boxers. You never know.”

At least we’re chatting just fine. In fact, the thirty-minute drive to City Slickers flies by, and as we pull up, Bea peers at the street signs. “Where are we?”

“I haven’t been here for a while,” I say. “I’m a little worried I’ll make a fool of myself. But. . .” I cut the engine and climb out.

She looks at me over the hood of the car. “City Slickers?”

I point to the line below it. “Dance hall.”

“Dance?” Her eyebrows rise and her lip twists. “As in. . .we’re dancing?”

“Not a fan?”

She shrugs. “I mean, I’m notnota fan, but I’ve never been before.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “Most of the heavy lifting falls on me, I swear.”

“And you know how to dance?” She lifts both eyebrows. “Because that surprises me, to be honest.”

I laugh. “It was my favorite class one semester.”

She stares.

“Okay, fine. Two.” I start for the door, and she catches up. I think about going for her hand, but it’s too early. She’s too skittish.

And I’ll be holding it alotin a few minutes if things go as planned.

“They also have amazing tacos,” I say. “The proprietor started this as a Tex Mex place, but they decided to add some things to bring more people in, and. . .” I gesture for her to go ahead of me.

It’s usually hard to get a table, especially on Sunday nights. They don’t do country dancing every night, but they do Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I called ahead, however, and with a littlepersuasion, they agreed to hold us a spot.

“Mr. Moorland,” the host says, waving us through.

As we eat our tacos, Bea watches the dancers. Her tapping foot is a dead giveaway that she’s musical. She may not know how to dance, but she knows rhythm. Unfortunately, she also appears to be getting more and more nervous about the dancing part.

“I’ve already had a lot of fun,” she says when I finish my second taco. “I’m not sure?—”

I stand up and hold out my hand.

“But my purse.”

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