“It’s timed?” Gunner laughs out incredulously, and the sound makes me feel so much more at ease knowing he’s already struggling like I am.

“This was your idea.” I point my paintbrush at him and smile.

“And in the theme of date night,” Mimi continues, “we’ll stop every five minutes for a random trivia question for you to answer about yourself to allow your date to get to know a little more about you.”

Both our eyes widen at one another and we snicker. Neither of us knew about this component of the event when we decided to attend.

“Could be interesting,” I say with a playful lift of my wine glass.

“Let’s not hope they don’t play truth or dare,” he says, “or I’m in a whole lotta trouble.”

“Are your truths that damning?”

He smirks and that has my insides firing awake—but it’s not as if they aren’t already. I mean, look at him.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, gentlemen and gentlemen, and ladies and ladies, your timer starts . . . now.”

“And the pressure is on,” I stand and stare at the blank canvas in front of me, a mini panic attack starting over what to paint. It doesn’t help that our easels are staggered so that every time I look at the edge of it, Gunner is in the background, his good looks distracting me.

And yet, I have to paint him or something that reminds me of him, when my painting abilities are subpar to my LEGO-building abilities.

“The first five minutes are up, so it’s time for a date detail. Tell your date the one pet peeve you have. Like the one thing they could do that would annoy you.”

“Ladies first,” Gunner says with narrowed eyes as he studies me.

“Seriously?” I ask, suddenly hating being put on the spot.

“I’ll go first next time,” he says and continues to work on what he’s painting of me. “We’ll switch.” He darts his eyes my way. “So what’s yours?”

“There are so many to choose from.” I laugh and realize so far Gunner hasn’t done any of them. “I’ll go with slurping soup or the milk when someone eats cereal. The sounds drive me absolutely batty.”

“Make note to self,” Gunner says, as he mock writes down a note.

“And yours? What’s your pet peeve?”

His eyes meet mine and amusement sparkles in them. “I get absolutely annoyed, furious, when someone cooks naked with just an apron and heels on.”

“What?” I laugh as I stare at his grin.

“I mean, it’s so unsanitary and most times the meal never ends up getting made because . . . well, for obvious reasons.”

“Obvious reasons?” I ask and am on the receiving end of a devilish smile for an answer. “And do you get annoyed with this behavior often?”