Bring Down the Stars (Beautiful Hearts Duet #1)(18)

“Do you want a game?” I asked. “Are you a secret dart pro, too?”

“Oh no,” she said and raised her glass. “This is my third. Or fourth? I can’t be trusted with sharp, pointy objects.”

“You seem to do alright wielding a long stick.” I glanced at her sideways then shot another dart. Eighteen. “So…taking a break from pool?”

And from my best friend?

Her hair glinted red and gold under the lamp as she nodded. “I had to quit while I was ahead. Before I started shooting badly and ruined my mystique.”

“Your Nebraska pool shark mystique.”

“It’s a little more exciting than my Nebraska farm girl mystique.”

“You grew up on a farm?”

“Born and raised. My father grows corn and wheat.”

My stupid mind conjured her standing in a field of wheat, her fingertips brushing the stalks, her coppery red hair glinting in the sun. A simple dress billowed around her knees in a breeze that made the wheat bend and sway around her like a sea of shallow waters…

“How was that?” I asked. “I mean, what was it like?”

“I loved it,” she said, her hazel eyes liquid. “I love the land. Love watching my father work to make things grow.”

She was tipsy with booze and it softened her further. Her speech slowed down and her Midwestern drawl crept back in.

“But it wasn’t enough for me. I always did really well in school and had always planned on getting out to do something important. I was voted ‘Most Likely to Save the World’.” She smiled shyly. “A slight exaggeration…”

I shrugged. “Better than Miss Congeniality.”

“What were you voted in high school?”

“Mr. Congeniality.”

She laughed. “Liar.”

“I wasn’t voted anything.”

She cocked her head. “No? Shame. I would have nominated you for Best Eyes.”

I flinched mid-throw and the dart careened off the metal edge of the board.

Autumn covered her mouth with her hand. “See, alcohol is like a truth serum for me.” She frowned suddenly, thinking. “What’s that song… ‘Ocean Eyes’?”

I picked up my fallen dart and gathered the rest from the board. “Haven’t heard it.”

She hummed a few notes. “Ocean eyes and diamond mind. It’s a great song. More than just one verse and chorus a hundred times over. Her lyrics are like poetry. You know? They have something real to say.”

“You like poetry?”

Please say no.

“I love it.” She pressed her hands into the stool she sat on, her legs swinging a little. “I love Dickinson and Keats, and e e cummings. I love how a few words, carefully chosen, can elicit deep reactions. Or evoke a certain mood, or make you feel something real, you know?”

Yes, I know. I know, exactly, Autumn.

She gave her head a shake. “Sorry, I wandered into the stars there for a moment. What were we talking about before? Oh, right. Why I left the farm.”

“You’re going to save the world.” I tossed a dart. Nineteen.

“Right,” she said. “I wanted to get out of Nebraska and take whatever aptitude I had and apply it toward something big.”

“So many causes need attention, and you only know you want to help.”

Her delicate brows came together. “How did you…?”

“You told me in the library.”

She laughed and raised her glass. “Booze. Eraser of filters and memory.”

I let my eyes rake her up and down while she was occupied with her pint. She was so slender; small, delicate. Her body was lithe as a dancer’s and I knew it would take nothing to lift her, pin her against the wall while I kissed the pear-flavored tinge on her lips and tongue…

Then write you a poem about how you felt against me, and how sweet you tasted…

“…Boston?”

I jerked my mind out of the fantasy. “What?”

“I asked if you were a Massachusetts native. Your accent sounds like Boston.”

“Yeah.” I flung a dart, hard. Ten. “I was raised in Woburn, just outside Boston. My mom moved us to Southie when I was seven.”

“Just your mom?”

I glanced behind us, to where Connor, Ruby, and some people were talking and laughing.

“I’m sorry,” Autumn said. “That’s a little personal—”

“Yeah, just my mom.”

The question of my dad dangled in the air. The answer hesitated on the tip of my tongue. I wanted to tell her. But Saturday night at Yancy’s didn’t feel like the time or place to tell the sad, pitiful tale of Sock Boy.

“Is my accent that obvious?” I said.

“Ummmm…” She looked away, chewing on a corner of a sheepish grin. “Scale of one to Matt Damon-in—Good Will Hunting?”

I laughed. “Sure.”

“I’d say eight. Not quite Matt Damon. But keep working on it.”

“Hell no, I’d rather ditch it.”

“Don’t you dare,” she said. “It’s cute.”

My accent is cute and she likes my eyes.

I wished we were alone. And sober. Not that half-in-the-bag Autumn wasn’t enjoyable, but I wanted to talk to the girl I’d met in the library, the one who was having a hard time choosing which broken piece of the world to fix first.