Page 17 of Nice to Meet Boo
He eyes me when I sit down. “You look like a man who either lost five hundred bucks or got laid and hated it.”
I grunt.
“Uh-huh.” He sets the glass down, leans on the bar with both hands. “So. My best friend’s sister, huh?”
I freeze. “You know?”
“Stacey’s not exactly subtle,” he says dryly. “Neither are you. She floated out of here last night like someone tied her to a balloon. Today she came in for coffee with eyes that said shedidn’t sleep. So either you two stayed up talking about Jesus, or…” He raises his brows.
“Or,” I admit.
He studies me, then nods once, like he already knew. “You like her.”
“I do.”
“Good. She’s a nice girl. She’d be good for any man.” He narrows his eyes. “Just as long as that man is good to her. Or there will be hell to pay.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It’s exactly that simple,” he says, grabbing another glass. “You like her. She likes you. The only thing complicated is that you’re scared of what happens if you let it keep going.”
My jaw tightens. “I’m not built for settling. I move. I work. I finish the job and I go.”
“Sounds exhausting,” Cyrus says.
“It…” I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “It really can be fucking exhausting.”
He pours me a beer without asking what I want and slides it over. “You ever think maybe the job isn’t just about the buildings? Maybe it’s about what happens inside them? Who you build with?”
I take a long pull, hoping the silence shuts him up. It doesn’t.
“My brother,” Cyrus goes on, “was a lot like you. Always on the move. Never wanted to get tied down. Then he met someone who didn’t let him run. Married now. Happiest idiot I know. Took him dropping his guard to figure out the thing he thought would trap him actually freed him.”
I stare at the foam. “Not everyone gets that lucky.”
“True.” Cyrus shrugs. “But you’ll never know if you keep using work as an excuse to bolt.” He levels me with a look, sharp and cutting. “You don’t have to plant roots in dirt, Grant. Sometimes it’s enough to plant them in a person.”
That hits harder than I want to admit.
I drain the glass, shove it back across the bar. My chest is tight, but not from the beer. From the memory of Stacey’s sleepy smile, her whisper—Not unless you count you.
I rub a hand over my beard, restless. “You think she’d let me try again?”
Cyrus smirks. “An angel like that? I’d bet she’s already waiting for you to show up.”
I stand, tossing a few bills on the bar. My boots feel heavier, but my chest feels lighter. For the first time in years, I’m not thinking about the next town or the next job.
I’m thinking about her.
SEVEN
STACEY
The prize envelope crinkles as I pull it from my purse.
“Check it out: five hundred dollars,” I announce, fanning the bills on the counter with a flourish. “I’m rich. Rich enough to… buy at least three tanks of gas.”
Seth chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Not bad for one night’s work. Or play.”
