Page 3 of Nice to Meet Boo
“I have standards,” I say.
“No, you don’t,” he says dryly, then lifts his chin in the universal bartender signal that means I’ll be right back and disappears down the bar to deal with a guy waving a credit card like a sword.
I twist on my stool and scan the crowd again. My nerves flutter like a flock of butterflies. I’m all alone in a sea of couples… it would almost be funny if it wasn’t pathetic.
Heidi would tell me to be brave and flirt with the next single man in my line of sight.
Seth would tell me to keep mace in my purse and a plan in my head.
I laugh under my breath. Typical.
A trio of girls brush past me in glittery devil horns, leaving a trail of perfume. The DJ drops a bass line that vibrates the bartop, and the mirrored wall throws back a thousand tiny versions of string lights that make the room look like it’s been dusted with stars.
I exhale, steadying, and that’s when I see him.
He’s standing near the far end of the bar, half-turned as he talks to one of the regulars, a guy in a cowboy hat who’s pantomiming something about a fishing trip. The stranger’s profile is a study in shadows and sharp lines: high cheekbones, straight nose, a strong jaw dusted with a short, neat beard.
The kind of beard you get when you’re too busy to shave, but disciplined enough you won’t find scraps of yesterday’s sandwich in it.
And he’s wearing devil horns.
Not the flimsy plastic kind the girls were wearing. These are matte, deep red, small and wicked, nestled in dark hair that looks like it grew out wild and he pushed it back with his fingers. He’s in a black button-up rolled to the elbows, forearms corded with muscle, and dark jeans that don’t even pretend not to admire the work his thighs do all day. There’s sawdust clinging to his shoulder like an afterthought, like he walked out of a job site and someone shoved horns on his head and dared him to be festive.
The DJ’s lights strobe through amber and gold, and for a second it feels like the crowd thins around him, like the universe is being very obvious and very kind.
Oh.
“Have you found you a sinner yet?”
Cyrus has reappeared at my elbow like a judgmental spirit.
I keep my eyes on the stranger and tilt my head. “Maybe.”
Cyrus follows my gaze, and for a heartbeat I swear I see surprise soften his mouth.
“Ah,” he says. “That one.”
“That one?” I ask, wary. “What does that mean?”
“It means he might be skittish. So don’t make him run. Start with hello.”
“I can do that,” I say, even though my palms are suddenly slick.
Cyrus leans in, conspiratorial.
“If it helps, he’s only in town a few weeks for a renovation. He’s a contractor. He keeps to himself.”
“A temporary devil,” I murmur.
Cyrus’s gaze flicks to my halo and then back to me. “Try not to convert him. Or do. I’m not your mom.”
“Your managerial style is inspiring,” I say, sliding off my stool. My wings bump a witch hat; I murmur an apology, then shake out my shoulders like I’m about to step onto a stage. Which, I guess… I am. My heart thuds against my ribs, equal parts nerves and something fizzy like hope.
I thread through the crowd as the emcee taps the mic and calls for last-minute signups. The stranger takes a sip of his beer, then sets it down on a coaster like he likes order more than chaos. His eyes are down when I reach him—long, dark lashes casting shadows I have absolutely no business noticing—and then he looks up slowly, as if he felt me arrive.
His gaze hits me like heat.
It’s hazel, I think—gold shot through brown—but the room is dim and I’m distracted by the way his mouth curves, unamused and intrigued at once. He gives me a head-to-toe glance,lingering exactly the beat you want a man to linger, and then those eyes flick to my halo and back.
