Page 8 of Nice to Meet Boo
STACEY
So here’s a fun discovery: the devil has laugh lines.
They crease at the corners of his eyes when he smiles—rare sightings, sure, but I’ve seen two already.
I’m collecting them like pressed leaves in one of my beloved notebooks.
As we wedge back into the bar for Couples Trivia, and it’s chaos in a festive way—pirates arguing with cats, a vampire couple in a slap-fight about favorite pizza toppings.
Grant stands close enough that my halo shadow touches his cheek. I tell myself it’s strategic—teams should be close—but I don’t move away.
“What’s your partner’s favorite drink?” the emcee calls.
“Black coffee,” I whisper, and Grant says it into the mic.
“I should have said whiskey to teach you not to cheat,” he whispers back at me.
I just shrug. “We’re here to win.”
“Favorite guilty-pleasure movie?” the emcee asks.
I lean up. “Anything with kissing in the rain.”
Grant grumbles under his breath before saying, “She’s right. I loveThe Notebook.”
I choke on a laugh.
We go on and on, doing pretty well for strangers.
Maybe we’re just good at guessing each other’s answers. Or maybe talking through a scavenger hunt on Main Street counts as speed-dating.
Either way, we once again land in the top three. I throw my arms up and—whap—wing to the face.
Again.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
I cradle his cheek like the wing could bruise, and he catches the bent feather, thumb sliding slow to smooth it back into line.
“I should get a permit to operate these things,” I say.
“Occupational hazard,” he says, eyes on mine.
My hand is still on his chest. His heartbeat is a steady knock under my palm, and the muscle there is… well, listen, if you build things for a living, you’re going to have a certain upper-body situation. Science.
“Next round in five,” the emcee blares.
I drop my hand, breathless and ridiculous. “Okay.” Focus, Stacey.
“Right,” I say too quickly, nerves ricocheting around my ribcage. I’ve done hot before. I’ve done flirty, and risky, and impulsive. What I haven’t done in a while is feel safe while I do it. With him? Weirdly… yes.
Cyrus materializes with two waters like some grumpy fairy godfather. “Hydrate.”
“Bossy,” I murmur, but I drink.
He eyes Grant over the rim of his glass with the look he saves for misbehaving keg lines and men he’s not sure about yet. Grant doesn’t flinch.
He just says, “Thanks” with a nod.
