Page 7 of Nice to Meet Boo (Seasons of Sizzle #4)
SEVEN
STACEY
The prize envelope crinkles as I pull it from my purse.
“Check it out: five hundred dollars,” I announce, fanning the bills on the counter with a flourish. “I’m rich. Rich enough to… buy at least three tanks of gas.”
Seth chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Not bad for one night’s work. Or play.”
Heidi smirks from behind the bar. She’s in full work mode, hair swept up, apron dusted with flour, but her eyes are sharp. “Or one night’s kissing contests.”
Heat creeps up my neck. I try to laugh it off. “It was a game. Saints and Sinners. The crowd loved it. We won.”
“Uh-huh.” She polishes a glass with more vigor than necessary. “And yet, you’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The look of someone who had more fun than she planned and is now trying to pretend it didn’t matter.” Heidi sets the glass down with a thunk. “You forget I’m fluent in bar faces, Stace.”
I stuff the money back in the envelope and shrug. “It’s nothing. Just… fun.”
“Sure,” she says, voice warm but knowing.
Seth stands, brushing off his jeans. “Gonna hit the restroom. You two… behave.”
“Always,” Heidi says, and once he’s gone she slides into full bartender mode—elbows braced on the counter, eyes narrowing like she’s lining up a shot. “Talk.”
I laugh, nervous. “There’s nothing to—”
“Stacey.” She says my name gently but firmly, the way my brother does when he knows I’m holding back. “You like him. And I don’t mean as just a crush.”
“I do.” I swallow hard. “But it doesn’t matter.”
“Of course, it does.” Her eyes narrow. “What happened?”
The words spill before I can stop them.
“We… stayed up most of the night. Together.” My cheeks flame. “And it was—God, it was good. Better than I expected, and I expected a lot after that kiss on stage.”
Heidi grins, then sobers when she sees my expression. “But?”
“But this morning, he pulled away. He said he had work.” I twist the envelope in my hands until the paper threatens to rip. “And I believed him, but I also… know the truth. He was pulling back. Guarding himself. And I’m terrified I’ll never see him again.”
My voice wobbles on the last word. Heidi reaches across and stills my fidgeting hands.
“Sweetheart. Men like him—gruff, grumpy, carrying whatever past they won’t talk about—sometimes they need a minute to catch up with what’s right in front of them. Doesn’t mean it’s over.”
I nod, though my chest is tight.
“Heidi, I don’t want it to be just one night.”
“Then don’t let it be.”
The bell over the door jingles. I turn, heart leaping into my throat, and there he is—Grant, in jeans and a dark flannel, hair damp from a shower, devil horns nowhere in sight.
He stops short when he sees me. For a second, his face is unreadable. Then he clears his throat and walks over. In his hand is a small brown paper bag.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.” My voice is thin. “What’s that?”
He sets the bag on the counter, sliding it toward me. “You left something. Figured you might want it back.”
I open it, fingers trembling, and pull out… my halo headband. Bent slightly from being shoved in my purse, but still glittering.
My throat tightens. “Oh. Thanks.”
“I just got a call from Cyrus. You’ll never guess what he said.” Seth reappears, drying his hands on a paper towel. He takes one look between us and raises a brow. He clears his throat. “Actually, Heidi, this is something I should tell you. At home.”
Heidi loops her arm through his and steers him toward the door. “Great idea, babe. You two… talk.”
Before they leave, Seth gives Grant a look so stern, it almost makes me laugh.
The door swings shut, leaving us in the hum of low light and clinking glassware. Grant shifts, heavy boots scuffing the floor.
“I owe you an apology,” he says.
“For what?”
“For this morning. For… shutting you out.” He meets my gaze, steady but vulnerable.
“The truth is, I’ve been wearing a mask.
Not just a costume last night. For a long time.
It’s easier to be the guy who works, who keeps moving, who never stays long enough for anyone to really know him.
Easier to hide behind that than risk being left again. ”
I swallow hard. “Left?”
He nods once. “Fiancée. Years ago. Told me I was too much trouble to love. Since then, it’s been… safer not to try.”
He drags a hand through his hair. “But then you show up in angel wings, boss me around on Main Street, make me laugh when I haven’t in months—and suddenly safe doesn’t feel worth it anymore.”
Tears prick my eyes, stupid and soft. “Grant…”
“You’re the first person who’s made me want to be seen. Really seen. And I don’t want our night to be just one night.” His voice roughens. “If you’ll have me.”
I press the halo to my chest, breathing past the lump in my throat. “You’re the first person I’ve wanted to really know in a long time.”
The air shifts, warm and hopeful. He steps closer, close enough that I feel the heat from his body, but not touching until I nod. Then his hand slides over mine, grounding.
“Let’s start then,” I say, voice shaking but sure. “Rapid fire. Getting to know you.”
He smirks, the kind of smile that makes my stomach flip. “Hit me.”
“Favorite color?”
“Green.”
“Favorite food?”
“Steak. You?”
“Pasta. Specifically mac and cheese.”
“Movie that makes you cry?”
His mouth twitches. “Not telling.”
I poke him in the chest. “That’s against the rules.”
“Fine. It’s Field of Dreams. Don’t repeat it.”
My heart squeezes. “Mine’s You’ve Got Mail. Always and forever.”
He nods, thoughtful. “Dream vacation?”
“Florence. Pasta, art, wine. You?”
“Cabin in the Rockies. No people, just quiet.” He hesitates, then adds, “Unless you came too.”
I smile so wide it hurts. “Okay. Last one. What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
He goes still, studying me. Then, softly: “Hopefully eating too much pie. With you.”
The words hang between us like a promise. My eyes sting. I laugh, shaky. “You better bring whipped cream.”
“I’ll bring two cans,” he says, voice low.
Then his mouth is on mine.
This kiss isn’t for a contest. It isn’t for a crowd. It’s ours.
And when we finally break apart, foreheads pressed together, I know without doubt: the saint and the sinner found exactly what they didn’t know they needed.