Page 2 of Nice to Meet Boo
“You’ll find a sinner,” he deadpans, then lifts his chin toward the crowd. “This town’s crawling with them.”
“You sound like an evangelical preacher,” I say.
“Not even a little.” He jerks his head at the stage. “New sound system. I’m not letting you waste my budget line item. You’re staying, you’re playing, you’re winning me the kind of Instagram reel that pays for speaker insurance.”
“You literally just said ‘Instagram reel.’”
“Yeah, well, I run a business. Don’t make me beg, Stace.”
He says my nickname like my brother does—like I’m still the kid who tagged along behind the older boys with two left feet and a backpack stuffed with markers.
But, don’t get excited. He might be my brother’s best friend, but there’s zero sexual tension between us. We might not be related by blood, but he’s as much a brother to me as Seth.
I soften, just a little, then groan. “You know this is technically coercion, right?”
“Consider it community service.”
“Community service is usually picking up trash on the highway.”
“Have you looked at the floor after a Saturday night?” He grabs a bar towel and strips the condensation off my glass. “What did Heidi say anyway?”
“They had a pipe burst up at the cabin. They’re not coming.”
“Figures.” His mouth turns down, but his eyes are kind. “They’ll make it up to you.”
“I know.” I wave a hand. “Anyway, I don’t even know what the games are.”
Cyrus ticks them off on his fingers. “Round one is Couples Trivia—stupid stuff like how well you know each other. But I stacked the deck with a few town questions, so if you get a local, you’re golden. Round two is the Saints & Sinners Scavenger—run around the bar and find six items: a feather, a matchbook, a shot glass, a red ribbon, a black ribbon, and someone’s confession.”
“Someone’s confession?”
“You write it on a napkin and get it signed. All anonymous. People love drama.” He smirks. “Round three is a dance-off. Don’t panic; you can sway and call it a waltz.”
“I was not panicking,” I lie.
“Final round is a showstopper—thirty-second performance of your epic meet-cute. Play it funny or play it hot; the crowd votes. Winners take the pot.”
“How much is the pot?”
“Five hundred.”
I choke on cinnamon. “For bar games?”
“Welcome to the Thunder Dome,” he says. “Plus, I got a sponsor.” He tips his head toward the neon sign for some local roofing company. “Apparently the devil needs a new roof.”
Across the room, the crowd thins enough for me to see a cluster of costumes gathering near the sign-up table: pirates, two black cats, a Jack-o’-lantern in a hoodie, a guy in a pinstripe suit with fake blood on his collar. I swallow.
Five hundred dollars would put a sizable dent in the minor mountain of unexpected expenses I’ve had this month.
My car inspection.
The vet visit for my cat.
The cat toy subscription box I forgot to cancel, even though my cat would rather play with the packaging instead of anything inside of it.
“It’s teams,” I remind him, and lift my bare hand. “No partner.”
Cyrus straightens. His eyes sweep the room like a hawk on a power line. “We’ll fix that.”
