Page 16 of Nice to Meet Boo
Stacey’s hair is a spill of dark silk across my chest. Her hand is splayed over my stomach like she claimed the space while I slept. My arm is still wrapped around her like my body knew better than my brain not to let go.
She stirs, lashes fluttering, and then she smiles up at me—soft, sleepy, devastating.
“Morning, Devil.”
My chest does something it hasn’t done in a long time. It aches.
“Morning, Angel.” My voice is rough. I clear my throat, try for casual. “Sleep okay?”
“Best I have in a while,” she admits. She slides higher, pressing a kiss just below my collarbone. Her lips linger, warm and teasing. “Though I don’t mind being woken up like this, either.”
She trails her mouth down to my chest, featherlight kisses turning sharper when her teeth graze my skin. My body responds instantly. I groan, hand fisting in the blanket, trying not to grab her and roll her under me all over again.
“Stacey,” I warn.
“Mmh?” She kisses lower, mischievous. “Problem?”
“Yes.” I catch her chin gently, forcing her eyes back to mine. The blue in them is wicked and sweet all at once. “The problem is I don’t want this to stop. And that scares the hell out of me.”
Her smile softens, loses some of the tease. “Maybe you don’t have to stop. Maybe you just… let it keep going.”
Easy for her to say.
She doesn’t know what it’s like to have someone look you dead in the eye, hand you back a ring, and tell you you’re too much work to love.
She doesn’t know what it’s like to pick up and start over in another town because staying meant drowning in memories.
I slide out from under her, sitting on the edge of the bed. The cold air bites my toes.
“I gotta get to the job site and you… You probably have… plans.”
She pushes up on one elbow, halo of morning light turning her into exactly what she dressed as. Only this time it isn’t a costume. It’s her.
“I don’t have plans,” she says softly. “Not unless you count you.”
God. That nearly wrecks me. I can’t look at her when I say,
“Tempting, but like I said, I’ve got work. We’ve gotta get this project done before winter settles in even more.”
She recoils as if the words hit her. I want to apologize. I want to tell her I didn’t mean it.
But I also don’t want to end up a broken man.
And it would be way too easy for Stacey to break my heart.
Silence stretches. Finally, she whispers, “Right. Work.”
I hear the rustle of sheets, the soft pad of her feet on the floor. She gathers her dress, her wings, her halo. I want to stop her. My body screams for me to stop her. But my mouth won’t form the words.
The door clicks shut behind her, and I sit there staring at my hands, wondering why winning feels like losing.
After a day of driving the crew nuts, I finally tell everyone they can head home for the night.
Faced with the option of sitting alone in my camper—which no doubt still smells like a certain angel—I find myself headed back to the bar.
By the time I drag myself in, it’s mostly empty. There are a few regulars nursing pints. The jukebox plays an old country tune over the speakers. The smell of lemon lingers on the freshly mopped floors.
Cyrus is behind the bar, polishing a glass like bartenders in every cliché story. Only with his bushy beard, he looks more like a lumberjack who got tricked into customer service.
