Page 7 of Nice to Meet Boo
“Not yet.” I flick the matchbook open, strike. Flame licks up, painting gold on her cheekbone, her eyes, the gloss of her mouth. For half a second, I forget there’s air in this room that doesn’t smell like her.
I blow it out. Smoke curls sweet and sharp. She swallows.
“Important part complete,” she says, voice softer. “Do you always make tools look… romantic?”
“Tools are tools.” I don’t sound convincing and her smile says she knows it. She ties the red ribbon around the shot glass, the black around the feather, motions me toward the table. The emcee checks us off, cackles at the bleachers confession, stamps our sheet.
“Round two in ten!” he calls.
We step into a pocket of cool near the door. Her halo throws a faint glow across my cheek; her eyes meet mine like we’ve been doing this for years.
“Thanks for playing,” she says.
“Maybe I wanted to,” I answer, honest to a fault.
We hover there, pulled tight by something stupid and electric. It would take a half-inch lean to close the distance.
“Two minutes to round two!” the emcee bellows.
She laughs, breathy. “Bless him and curse him.”
“Mostly curse,” I say.
“Couples Trivia next,” she says, collecting herself. “Three fast facts. Go.”
“Grant,” I say. “Contractor. Black coffee.”
“Stacey. Recently back in town. I hoard notebooks.”
That piques my interest. “Do you write?”
“I make lists,” she says, then sheepishly admits, “and write. Not… professionally. Yet.” She shakes it off. “One more each.”
“I prefer mountains to beaches. I can live without TV. I won’t live without a good hammer.”
“Same on mountains, wrong on TV, and I once ate an entire sheet cake in three days,” she says, scandalized by herself. “Research. Day three is a no.”
I’m still laughing when the emcee starts the round. We shoulder in with the other teams.
Stacey turns suddenly and clocks me with a wing. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry.”
I steady the bent feather, and her hand lands on my chest, warm through my shirt. The room narrows again, like a camera pulling focus.
“Grant,” she says, and I’m about to answer with my mouth when?—
“Round three in five!” The emcee might as well blast a fire extinguisher.
She exhales, eyes bright. “The next game is a thirty-second meet-cute. Funny or hot?”
“Hot,” I hear myself say.
Color blooms high on her cheeks. She nods once. “Hot it is.”
She slides her fingers back through mine. “Ready, Devil?”
Ready is not usually in my vocabulary. “Lead on, Angel.”
THREE
