Page 4 of Nice to Meet Boo
“Evening,” he says, voice low, a canyon carved out of smoke and gravel.
I swallow and muster a smile. “Hi.”
We stand there for a heartbeat, the music, the chatter, the crackle of it all holding steady around the bubble we’ve created. I can smell cedar and soap on him, clean and warm and a little sinful.
I lift my chin and go for it. “So,” I say, bright but not chirpy, “are you a sinner in need of a saint?”
One corner of his mouth lifts, in either confusion or amusement. “What?”
“The bar’s doing a Saints & Sinners thing,” I explain, gesturing with my glass so my halo tilts rakishly and my wings rustle. “Team competition. I’m down one devil.”
He studies me, not predatory but careful, like he’s measuring the line between two boards and deciding if they’ll fit. A beat passes. Then another. I feel my skin spark everywhere my dress touches.
“And what do I get if I team up with an angel?” he asks.
I lean in just enough to smell the cinnamon from my drink and the heat of his skin. “Five hundred dollars,” I say. “And the chance to make a complete fool of yourself in front of the entire town.”
“Tempting,” he says, but there’s something amused in it, like he’s talking to himself as much as me.
I lick my lips. “Come on. Saints and sinners. It’s practically fate.”
His gaze drops to my mouth for the barest second before returning to my eyes. A spark catches and holds. “You believe in that?” he asks.
“Tonight I do,” I say softly. “Besides—” I tip my head, smiling. “You might be the devil, but I think you’re the answer to my prayers.”
The words hang between us, warm and reckless. His jaw flexes, and for half a breath I think he’s going to smile for real, the kind of smile that breaks things and mends them in the same motion.
The emcee’s voice booms from the small stage: “Last call for sign-ups! Ten… nine…”
I lift my brows, a dare. He glances past me toward the table, then back at me like he’s making a decision he didn’t expect to make tonight.
“Name’s—” he starts.
“Save it for our meet-cute,” I interrupt, my pulse tripping over itself. “Come on, Devil. Let’s go be bad.”
I slip my hand into his—warm, callused, steady—and tug him toward the sign-up table as the countdown hits three.
He lets me.
And when his fingers tighten around mine—just once, like a promise—I know the rest of my night just tilted on its axis.
TWO
GRANT
The angel’s hand is small, warm, and soft in mine.
My gut twists, and I release it quickly. As if I was clutching a hot poker.
I don’t do hand-holding.
I don’t do parties.
Well normally not. Obviously, I’m here tonight. But the guy currently paying my salary told me I had to make an appearance at the town’s big Halloween party.
I build things, fix what’s broken, and avoid situations that come with countdowns and clipboards.
I was close—so close—to fulfilling my duty and getting the hell out of here. But there’s something about her. Something about this angel, that makes me follow her to the stage.
