“Why do you keep calling me honey? Wait,” she says, holding up a finger. “Let me guess, it’s because it’s the color of my eyes?” “No. That’s not why.” I loop my fingers through hers. “It’s because “Tupelo Honey” is the first song we ever two-stepped to. Now, would you make me the luckiest man in this bar and dance with me, honey?” And then she smiles, dimples and all. “Okay, summer boy. I’ll dance with you.”
