Page 1 of Nice to Meet Boo (Seasons of Sizzle #4)

ONE

STACEY

“What do you mean you aren’t coming?” I hiss the question into my phone while trying to ignore the curious stares from my fellow bar patrons. With my borrowed angel wings and halo, I look like I stepped out of a Christmas pageant.

Not that I’m the only one in costume. It is Halloween, after all, and this is our small mountain town’s annual “Spooky Scary Costume Party.”

But without my partners in crime—namely my big brother and his girlfriend—I look a little… lame. Or, if not lame than at least solo and single.

Very solo and single.

“I’m so sorry,” Heidi says, and I can hear the genuine frustration in her voice over the clatter of kitchen noise and a muffled voice in the background.

“We’re up a the cabin and we had a pipe burst under the sink.

Seth is in the shed rummaging for parts.

I’m trying to triage the leak and mop before it warps the wood floors.

By the time we get it fixed and find costumes—”

“You wouldn’t even make it before the costume contest,” I finish for her, and blow out a sigh that flutters the cheap feather fringe along my shoulder blade. “It’s okay. Are you sure you don’t need me to come over and help?”

“Nope. We’ve got it. We’ll owe you a rain check.” She lowers her voice. “I really wanted to meet you here. I told Cyrus we’d corral you into entering the contest, and I wanted to see your wings.”

As if on cue, the halo headband pricks my scalp. “They’re crooked,” I say. “And I’m about one more pity stare away from ripping this halo off my head and booking it home.”

“Don’t you dare,” Heidi warns, light but firm. “You promised yourself you’d get out more. Consider this your brave thing for the week.”

I roll my eyes at the neon pumpkin behind the bar. “Fine.”

“And hey, Cyrus said the prize money is bigger than ever this year. There’s a bunch of Saints it’s part of his brand. But you know he’s got a good heart.”

“I know,” I say, because it’s true. Cyrus is a marshmallow underneath the scowl.

A marshmallow that has been toasted with a blowtorch, but sweet all the same below the gruff exterior.

“We really are sorry,” Heidi says again. “Next time, I promise. We’ll even dress Seth up as a cherub.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Okay, but only if he wears a diaper.”

She laughs, then winces. “Gotta go. The bucket just slipped. Love you!”

“Love you, too.” I hang up and stare at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I’m just a girl in a simple white dress with floaty sleeves, a sparkly halo, and cardboard-feather wings that keep sneaking into my peripheral vision.

The overlay of twinkly string lights in the mirror makes me look like I’m glowing. Or maybe that’s just the dark pink from the Cosmo I’m nursing.

I lift the glass and take a sip.

“All right, Stacey,” I say. “It’s just a party. Stay for an hour. Socialize with one person. Then you can go home and eat candy corn in bed.”

“Don’t even think about it,” a familiar voice says from behind me.

I turn to find Cyrus leaning one elbow on the bar top. His dark hair is shaggy, and he’s wearing a t-shirt that says HELL YEAH in big Gothic font, because of course he is.

He looks like a lumberjack who got lost in a record store. And there’s more bark than bite behind his scowl.

“About what?” I ask, too innocent.

“About bailing.” He nods at the chalkboard sign hanging crookedly near the stage. SAINTS 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.”

“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.

“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.