by Maria Luis
“I’m scrappy,” I say to Toula now, refusing to let my voice quiver with nerves. “I’ll figure it out. And then my old boss can eat her damn words when Agape becomes the go-to hair salon in the Boston-metro area.”
“Is your construction guy back from vacation yet?”
My smile freezes like I’m the one caught squatting, naked, over the toilet.
Don’t panic. Don’t cry. And, no matter what you do, don’t laugh hysterically because you can’t handle the stress.
“We’re right on schedule,” I lie through a tight smile.
If by schedule I mean “we’re on track for the biggest shit show this city has ever witnessed,” then there’s never been a truer statement uttered in my life. Aside from Effie, who was with me when I first realized Jake took off with the money, no one else knows my ass isn’t just heated by the fire, it’s roasting in it. I can only imagine what my father might say—and all that he wouldn’t say.
“Your place is in the home with a husband, Ermione,” he’d rumble, crushing me with the disapproval in his voice, “not owning a business.”
Embarrassment for being so naïve and trusting has kept my mouth shut thus far, but dogged determination to prove them all wrong is what drives me. What’s always driven me.
When Toula eyes me skeptically, I wave away her concern. “I’m good, I promise. And enough about me—your husband is waiting for you.”
It’s the perfect distraction.
With a shimmy and a grin, Toula twiddles her fingers at me and throws the bathroom door wide open with enough force that it thwacks the wall with a dull thud. “Oh, husband!” she calls out, and I wince even as I laugh because Toula is just Toula. Crazy, outgoing, and so insanely kind.
Hooking my hand through the purse I abandoned on the bathroom counter during #PeeGate, I hold the door open with the heel of my stiletto and then head for the elevator that’ll take me up to the fifth floor of the Omni Parker House Hotel, where the wedding reception is being held.
The hotel itself is beyond exquisite. Oak-paneled walls. Gold-leaf accents. Bellmen dressed in smart, navy-blue suits. Men in tuxedos wander along the halls, crystal tumblers in one hand and fawning women tucked in close with the other. Their smug, masculine smirks are shadowed by the flickering of old-fashioned lamps, which offer an ethereal glow that even has my unromantic heart sighing.
Figures that the lamps would get to me while the men don’t inspire so much as a quickening of my breath. I prefer to keep my relationships simple, uncomplicated, and out of sight and out of mind. Agape is where my head’s at, and where it has to remain if I want to drag myself out of my current hellhole.
With a ping! the elevator doors open and I step in.
I knuckle the fifth-floor button, then lean against the outer wall of the elevator.
“You’re fine,” I mutter to myself, the base of my skull connecting with gold-embossed wallpaper as I release a heavy breath. “If anyone else asks about the salon, just—”
Just, what?
Lie and then lie some more? How long can I really expect to get away with the lying game? My mother watches us kids like a hawk, no matter the fact that we’re all grown and adulting to our very best abilities. My dad . . . Well, after the Nick-Brynn wedding incident from a few years back, I’ve managed to stay off his radar for the most part. When it comes to money and business, however, nothing escapes his notice—and I have no doubt he’s already standing by and waiting to announce each and every mistake I make.
No doubt about it, I’m fuc—
A masculine hand sticks through the closing elevator doors, cutting off my train of thought as I lurch forward to jab the KEEP OPEN button. I smack it once with a heavy, don’t-fail-me-now finger, then again, my gaze flitting to the doors that are inching closed like the gates of Mordor.
That hand balls into a fist and then a suit-encased forearm appears, followed by a long leg and a brown, leather dress shoe. The leather is so soft, so visibly supple, I wouldn’t doubt that they cost more than my mortgage.
“Gamóto.”
At the Greek curse, and the more than familiar gravel-pitched voice, my back snaps straight, and I yank my gaze up. Up past the lean waist not even a suit jacket can hide. Up past the barrel chest and the bulging, I-swing-hammers-for-a-living arms. Up to a face that’s as unforgiving in its aristocratic, angular bone structure as his hair is a wild, dark mop on his head.
Only that curly hair and a pair of full, pillow-soft lips—not that I’ve ever tasted them, of course—make him seem more human than rigid statue.
Bingo.
Has there ever been more appropriate timing? I don’t think so.
She who asketh shall receive—or however the saying goes.
For possibly the first time in six years, I smile at the man standing just inches away.
Nick Stamos stares down at me, his pewter eyes hard and narrowed with suspicion. “Trying to amputate my arm, Ermione?”
My smile slips, hackles twitching like a cat’s fur standing on end when stalked by a predator. Er-me-o-ne. His tongue rolls over the R in my given name, his Greek accent perfect and sultry despite the condescension dripping heavy and thick with every purred syllable.
Don’t let him get to you.
Only, he’s gotten to me for years now.
“If by amputate you mean save,” I murmur with practiced flippancy, “then sure. It’s not my fault if technology doesn’t want to work for you.”
Those slate-gray eyes, unlike any pair I’ve ever seen, drop to where I’m still pressing the KEEP OPEN button. When his dark brows rise, taunting me with their perfect arches, I follow his lead and glance down at the illuminated button.
CLOSE DOORS.
Oh. Oh.
Air puffs up my chest indignantly as I inhale swiftly. “You didn’t really need that arm, did you?”
Nick snorts derisively. Without sparing me another look, his big hand circles my wrist. His touch is bold, his skin hot. A shiver of something—revulsion, I hope—rolls down my spine, unwinding and unfurling until even my gold-painted toes curl in my heels. And, as though he fears I’m completely incompetent, he angles my still-pointed finger at the button to close the doors.
Pushes down and lingers, as though to taunt, see? This is how a contraption called an elevator works. Welcome to the twenty-first century, Ermione.
Ermione. Even in my head I can hear him slinging around the name I inherited from my maternal grandmother, knowing that it makes my mouth pinch and my hands clench.
My smile has, as it always does around him, completely evaporated.
The elevator pings shut.
Locking me in with Satan’s mortal sidekick, my best friend’s older brother.
4
Nick
Ermione “Mina” Pappas looks exactly the same.
Releasing her wrist, I shove my hands into the pockets of my slacks and lean back, shoulders to the wall, and ease my gaze over her familiar features. Thanks to my stint on Put A Ring On It, and life before that, it’s been a solid seven or eight months since I’ve seen her last.
But Mina is nothing if not predictable in her unpredictability.
She’s been Effie’s best friend since the two of them were in grade school and amputating their Barbies instead of dressing them up. I’ve had twenty-four years with Mina existing in the periphery of my life, darting in and out whenever the occasion called for it.
Like on the night of my almost-wedding to Brynn Whitehead, my college sweetheart.
My heart barely gives an extra thump in grievance for what could have been, all those hopes and dreams that were once tied up with Brynn now unmoored and wasting away in the waters of Never-Gonna-Happen-Again.
For a moment, Mina does nothing but stare openly at me. Her honey eyes, rimmed with the warmest amber I’ve ever seen, dodge downward and skate over my frame. They stop momentarily along the way, like she’s yielding at a four-way intersection, pausing at my shoulders and my stomach and my hip
s and my feet.
Her unconcealed perusal is an instant reminder that Mina, although I’ve known her since I was eight years old, has a reputation for flaying men alive with her tart tongue, even as she lures him into bed with her curves.
I’ve never been lured, and have no plans to be, thanks to her status as Effie’s best friend, and so I end her little intimidation tactic with a cough into my fist and a dismissive murmur that I know will goad her into the Ermione I’ve preferred for years: awkward and just a little off-kilter.
It’s the unofficial, dog-eat-dog game we always play: who can outwit the other?
I’ve worn the victor’s hat more often than not. Mina’s unpredictable, reckless, even, but she shows her cards before she plays them. Those amber-rimmed eyes of hers hold no secrets. At least, they never did when we were younger.
And I can’t deny that I’ve always enjoyed watching her scramble for things to say that might, finally, shock me.
Settling in, I cock my head and steadily meet her gaze. Round one, here we go. “What’re my chances that my yiayia is gonna take one look at you tonight and declare you as the next bride-to-be?”
She visibly stumbles on nothing but air, her hand going to the metal balustrade that lines the walls of the elevator. “She’s out of luck.” Mina’s voice comes out raspy, like she’s swallowed a bundle of surprised nerves. “I’m already taken.”
I might as well be ass-over-head, landing right into a pile of sawdust at a jobsite. Disbelief suctions my feet to the ground like magnets to a refrigerator. No way. Hell would actually freeze over if Mina did anything more than casually see a guy.
Like I said, she’s been on my periphery since forever. I spent most of my junior and senior years of high school watching out for her, at my sister’s urging. “She gets bullied a lot, Nick. Just make sure everything is gravy, would you?”
Even if things aren’t gravy, Mina never lets down her walls.
Except that one time on the night of her prom—which, even then, lasted no more than the seconds required to shore up my reserve and step away from the danger zone. Crossing that forbidden boundary with my sister’s best friend just isn’t gonna happen.
I squint down at her and try to read her expression. For once, her honey eyes tell me nothing, leaving me to stand out in the cold. Well, damn. Is she . . . bluffing me? “Effie didn’t mention you were seeing anyone.”
Mina’s vampy, dark-painted lips twitch into a dreamy smile as she sways back and links her arms over her chest. “He’s amazing. So giving.”
I cock a brow and opt to wait out whatever ace she thinks she’s got up her sleeve.
I’ll give her that. Mina’s always been particularly good at planting the seed and letting the tangled web she weaves give her the upper hand. Trouble, my grandmother always said, That one is trouble. Most of the Greek community here in Boston agrees, for one reason or another. It’s not an opinion that I share. She may be reckless, but Mina is also one of the most selfless people I’ve ever met.
Not that I’d give her any ammunition by telling her that.
“Austere, really,” she goes on, her tone light as a feather and with her eyes still fluttered shut. Her makeup today is smoky, bronze highlighted with gold, and it’s in that moment when I realize her crazy pink hair is long gone. Strands as black as a cloudy night sky curl over her collarbones, the tips brushing the upper swells of her breasts.
I jerk my gaze up, just in time to hear her add, “He’s so cold, but sometimes, in the early mornings when the light filters in through the windows, I can tell he’ll be something a little more one day. Not just a money-hogging jerk that’s like a noose around my neck.”
Like a noose around—
Game over.
My lips compress into a flat line. “Ermione”—her name rips from my chest in warning—“if he so much as touches you, I’ll—”
Her honey eyes pop open, and the flare of humor that I see there has my chest deflating with relief. The relief is short-lived. She’s busting my balls. Again. Round two goes to you—bravo.
“You’ll what?” she pushes, as the elevator dings our arrival on the fifth floor. The doors crack open, but before I can even think to escape, Mina hops around me and smacks one of the buttons.
The elevator hiccups, doors jerking back shut, and the pressure beneath my feet increases as we ascend to the next floor.
“Ermione.”
With her back to the row of buttons, she kicks one foot up on the wall behind her, the heel of her shoe clinking as it meets metal. “Oops.” Her mouth purses as her brows go hairline high. “Wrong button.”
I’m going to kill her.
I haven’t even been back in Massachusetts for more than two weeks and already I’m going to find myself trading in my work boots for an orange jumpsuit and a cell mate named Bend Over.
My voice sounds like gravel-infused-with-nails when I finally find the words past the sudden frustration swirling in my brain. The idea of her dating a man who might put his hands on her—Jesus. I scrub a hand over my jaw, then shoot her a pointed glare. “No more games.”
“Not a game,” she replies, all honeyed, cajoling tone, “I need to talk with you . . . in private.” She gestures toward the elevator like she’s found us the perfect location for a little rendezvous.
The last time we “talked” we ended up sharing a hotel bed for the night, drunk off our asses, while my grandmother busted in the door and promptly told the entire family that Ermione Pappas had seduced me.
There’d been no seduction of any kind.
Only too much booze, hours’ worth of I Love Lucy re-runs, and—on my part—a reluctance to face the music: that I was dumped at the altar. I slept in my tux, fully clothed, with my bow tie still locked around my throat like a noose.
Like a noose.
Dammit.
I rub the back of my neck, then try to smother the urge to demand answers. She is not my business, I remind myself. But the damn words worm their way out anyway when I blurt, “Are you seeing anyone whose ass I need to beat down for treating you wrong?”
Her nostrils flare, a little tell that infuses curiosity through my veins, before she’s shaking her head. “It’s sweet that you care, but no. It was just a joke, a stupid metaphor for my professional life. I’m not seeing anyone—” Ping. She reaches behind her and presses another button without looking to see which one.
Impulsive.
If someone were to ask me one word to describe my sister’s best friend, it would be that: impulsive. Her spontaneous nature would be admirable if it also weren’t so ridiculously frustrating.
“You want to talk?” I wave one hand toward her. “Then talk.”
She sniffs at my command, dimpled chin tipping up in defiance. “Being polite wouldn’t kill you, you know. A girl likes a bit of sugar when she’s spoken to.” Honey eyes narrow pointedly, and I already know her brain is spinning, chugging round and round like a hamster on a wheel. “Then again, sugar isn’t exactly your . . . speed.”
I’m going to regret asking what she means.
Hell, I tend to regret a lot of things when it comes to Mina—the woman gets under my skin like no one else, needling me, endlessly frustrating me—but this . . . I already know I’m not going to like her answer.
“What exactly is my speed?”
She nibbles on her bottom lip, her white teeth a sharp contrast to the plum-colored lipstick. Ping! Her fingers find another button, giving us more time for our private “talk,” and my heart feels suspended in mid-air as we change directions and zoom down, down, down.
“Romantic strolls on the beach.”
Guilty as charged, thanks to a week spent visiting the Australian coast for Put A Ring On It. In my pocket, I crack my knuckles, one by one, buying myself time to think out the best way to answer.
I’m not given the opportunity.
“Getting individual bags of popcorn for a date at the theater,” Mina throws out a heartbeat later, like the pro
spect alone is offensive and a complete turn-off.
My jaw clenches. “There’s nothing wrong with two bags of popcorn. It’s easier that way.”
“It’s safe. And predictable, like the romantic strolls, which means both options feel very you. Plus, the point of sharing a bag is to battle it out for the last kernel and let your fingers brush and your hands tango it up.”
I shift my weight, sneaking one hand up to tug at my tie. Unless she cornered me in this elevator to list out all my faults, in which we’ll be here all night until security kicks us out, I’ve got a feeling she’s deflecting. Even knowing Mina as I do, and knowing that she’s scrambling to keep a hold on whatever nerves are eating her alive, I can’t help but think back to Savannah Rose.
We were too similar to work.
Too set in our ways.
Predictable. Safe. Rigid. All things the woman in front of me snubs her nose at, preferring adventure and new experiences to stability and the familiar. Mina has me all riled up, so much so that I’m aware of the short rise and fall of my chest, and the low ringing in my ears. Maybe it’s because she’s telling you the truth—you’re uninteresting.
Instead of doing the smart thing, the mature thing, and calling her out for procrastinating with this private talk of hers, I cave. Hard.
“I don’t like to dance,” I mutter, hands back in my pockets.
Mina leans forward, her dark hair falling forward in big ringlets, caressing the tops of her breasts again, and taps me on the chest. “It’s called foreplay, Nick. Not all women are in it for the pump-once-and-quit-it bedtime activities.”
Gamóto, I feel like I’m choking.
Does she think . . . There’s no way she could possibly think that I . . .
“I pump more than—”
I cut off the second Mina folds over at the waist, laughter creasing her cheeks and screwing her eyes shut. “Oh, Nick,” she whispers out between gusts of laughter, “your face when you . . . oh, my God, I can’t. I’m dying.”
Heat warms my cheeks and the tops of my ears.
