by Maria Luis
When faced with Mina’s enthusiasm and crazy sense of humor, I almost regret walking away from the calm that is Savannah Rose. Almost, but not quite.
Pushing off the wall, I bump Mina out of the way with a hip-check and jab the button for the closest floor. The elevator skids to a stop, and I’m half expecting hotel security to be waiting to cart the two of us away when the doors swing open.
Thankfully, the third floor is blessedly empty.
“Nick?” comes Mina’s inquisitive voice behind me. “Wedding is on the fifth floor.”
The sole of my shoe connects with the maroon carpet, and I swallow a sigh of relief to be back on solid ground. Glancing at my sister’s best friend over my shoulder, I meet her hopeful gaze. Don’t fall for it, man. She had her chance to talk. It’s not my problem if she wasted it by playing verbal volleyball. “I’m taking the stairs.”
Another step that leads me away from the only person I’ve ever met who can send my temper from zero to a hundred in the span of minutes. I never lose my cool. Never raise my voice or say things I’ll regret later on. But Mina . . . she’s the black to my white, the heavy rock to my classical, the bungee-jumping-crazy to my downward-dog-yoga.
She drives me fucking insane.
“But—”
“Foreplay’s over, Ermione.” Against my iron-clad will, my gaze sweeps lower than her cleavage. Her black dress hugs her curvy frame, its slinky material glittering under the soft lighting as she darts out a hand to keep the elevator from closing on her face. She’s not classically beautiful—her nose is just a little too big, her jaw a little too sharp, her eyes a little too luminous. But she wears confidence like a second skin, and there’s never been a man I’ve met in the last decade who can turn Mina down. “Find someone else to tango with.”
The elevator whines with its urge to get a move on, and Mina claps her right hand over her left, prolonging our staring contest.
“I actually do really need to talk to you,” she says, that always-there confidence of hers visibly waning. “I got carried away with trying to prove a point. I-I don’t even remember the point, though that’s always the way with us, don’t you think? We each always want the last word. It’s our thing—if we had a thing. Which we don’t.” She laughs awkwardly. “But I wasn’t kidding when I said that I’m having trouble, but . . . I, uh, I bought a place. A hair salon. I’d love to maybe know—if you have the time, obviously—if we could talk about a renovation contract. In private. Maybe. If you have the time.”
I’ve never heard Mina ramble before. Or, at least, not since our school-day years when she sat quietly in the back of the Greek school classroom and stammered whenever the teacher—Kyria Yiannoglou—called on her to answer a question or conjugate a verb.
Learning Greek came easily to me, probably because my parents spoke nothing else in our house while I was growing up. But Mina . . . she’d struggled, and the more she panicked, the more she rambled, and the more she rambled, the more she liked to tap her fingers.
My gaze cuts to her hands now, which are still locked over the elevator.
Her slender fingers curl in and stretch out, as though fighting the urge to tap away to their heart’s content.
My heart gives an erratic thump that might as well be synonymous for, Oh, c’mon, man. Let her squirm a little before you concede the battle. It’d be in my best interest to show that Mina can’t push me to react. For one, she will, and always will be, an annoying pain in my ass. And, second—
“Meet me at my office on Monday. 8 a.m. Don’t be late.”
I don’t wait around to see if she has a comeback.
I’m not a bad guy, but I’d be lying if I said that Mina doesn’t pluck at all my good-guy feathers and make me want to go rogue.
5
Mina
At seven-forty on Monday morning, I’m loitering outside Nick’s office and contemplating my life decisions.
Life decisions that will not be remedied with Tito’s, thank you very much.
Instead, I’ve opted for two cups of coffee—one for me and one for Nick—that I picked up from Dunkin’s on my train ride into Watertown. Only the little cardboard cutouts keep my palms from scorching as I pace the cracked sidewalk and crane my neck back to stare at the white-painted sign hanging over the front window.
Stamos Restoration and Co. is located in the heart of downtown Watertown, a suburb not even ten minutes outside of Boston. Unlike Agape, which takes up the first floor of a nineteenth-century brownstone, Nick’s office is located in a contemporary building with gray-stucco walls. He’s sandwiched between a dance studio and a hair salon, and it takes every bit of self-control not to peek into the salon’s windows and scope out their setup like a peeping Tom.
With the hum of cars rushing down the Massachusetts Turnpike behind me, I juggle the coffees into one hand and ring the doorbell.
Thanks to nerves and a bad habit of losing my mind around Nick, I missed my window of opportunity to talk to him about Agape at the wedding. I could blame my scatterbrain for my inability to close the deal with him—or initiate the deal in the first place, if we’re getting into the details—but I’m not one for pretense.
Nope, I straight up cornered that man in an elevator and proceeded to bust his balls like I was back in kindergarten—when kicking a guy you like in the nuts was the surefire way to announce the two of you were destined for marriage.
Yeah, not my brightest moment.
I’m hoping to make up for it today.
The door swings open a heartbeat later, and I open my mouth to greet Nick—only to realize that the person standing there isn’t Nick at all but rather a guy around my age. His blond hair is a rumpled mess, which is in no way outdone by his wrinkled clothing, the scruff on his jaw (though his upper lip is as smooth as a baby’s bottom), and half-tied shoelaces.
If I’m the Hot Mess Express, then this man is the conductor leading us all to our inevitable doom.
His eyes widen at the sight of the coffee. “You must be Ermionehh,” he says, greedy hands reaching for the Dunkin’s. He plucks one out of my grasp and brings the plastic lid to his nose, inhaling like an addict. “Damn, now that smells like heaven.”
Actually, it smells like my heaven.
I look from the cup now clutched in his big paws to the one still in my possession. This morning I’d hobbled out of bed, ignored my Keurig, and tumbled into the shower and then into clothes. I’m half-awake, in desperate need of caffeine and—
I’m not looking for a reason for Nick to throw me out on my rear end. Pissing off his employee won’t earn me any brownie points, so I offer the coffee thief a big ol’ grin, ignoring the screech of my heart that’s shouting give it to us! like Gollum himself has taken up residence in my chest, and mutter, “There’s milk and sugar in that one.”
Angling my body past him, I step inside Nick’s place of work for the very first time. Call me crazy but it feels like I’m about to see him in an all new light. I’ve known him for my entire life: as my best friend’s older brother, as my teenage crush, as the man who drives me up a wall with his sly wit and quiet reserve.
But I’ve never seen him in a professional setting, and something about that has me . . . eager.
With the sole coffee-left-standing pressed to my diaphragm, I take in the room before me. It looks more like an architectural exhibit at a museum than an office. Miniature wooden structures stand on short, ankle-high tables. I spot a Victorian mansion painted in eggshell blue and trimmed with lavender over to my right, and then, on the far side of the room, what looks to be a church with a half-built spire. More pieces are littered throughout the space, each as intricate and intriguing as the one before it.
Did Nick make these?
For a moment, I let that image settle in, visually projecting him sitting behind the incomplete church. His rough hands molding the wood, his face a mask of concentration as he toils away the daylight until the afternoon sun kisses his olive skin and he breathes out a sigh
of contentment. I can only imagine the hours needed to complete each structure, miniature or not. If patience is a virtue, then Nick is the most virtuous one of us all.
Feeling more rattled than I’d like to admit, I spin on my heel to face the coffee thief. “You can call me Mina, by the way. It’s easier.”
“Mina.” The guy’s face sags with relief. He takes a swig of coffee and doesn’t even flinch at the heat. “Thank God. You know how many times I practiced Ermionehh in the mirror this morning? Had to have the boss-man audio record it for me over the weekend ’cuz it was either that or, well, ya know.”
Compared to Nick’s fluent Greek tongue, this guy pronounces my name like his mouth has been stuffed with cotton. Each syllable is all wrong, but I give him a big smile anyway. “I appreciate the effort.”
“I’m all about the effort, Mina.”
He doesn’t wink, but I get the feeling he’s doing it in his head but trying to stick to whatever rulebook has been shoved up his butt from day one. Nick’s a stickler for certain things.
Like buying two bags of popcorn and never letting a woman notice that he’s checking out her cleavage.
“Anyway,” Coffee Thief goes on, “Boss-man’s just wrapping up a meeting, so I’ll bring you in there. As a head’s up, his office looks like my grandma’s after a Family Feud marathon.” At my side-eye, he shrugs, all nonchalant. “Steve Harvey really gets her worked up. Point is, Nick’s office is a disaster since he’s playing catch-up now that he’s back from that dating show or whatever.”
Hold up.
Pause.
Rewind.
My stride careens to a stop as I shoot a wild glance over at CT. “I’m sorry, did you say that Nick was on a dating show?” I refuse to believe it. Nick—my predictable, safe Nick—would rather walk into a room full of clowns than subject himself to TV. And reality television at that. “Was it The Bachelor?”
Oh. My. God.
Is Nick engaged? Married?
My head swirls with the endless possibilities and I’m suddenly grateful to CT for taking hold of at least one coffee because I’m seconds away from pulling a Tower of Pisa and going down, face-first. I talked about foreplay with him. Nick. And hand-tangoing! And I may or may not have prayed for his penis to be leaf-coverage tiny.
No wife deserves that sort of discovery, and I instantly regret the insult, even though it never left my head. And even though I know it’s not true.
I’m going to be sick.
“You okay, Ermiona?”
I don’t even bother to correct CT.
Though I hate black coffee, I bring Nick’s cup up to my mouth and take a hearty swig of the java. For self-preservation. Fortitude. And because I need to do something with my hands besides stand here with my mouth agape and my eyes the size of saucers. The coffee burns on the way down, like a bitter truth bomb that I’d rather not be forced to swallow.
My red lipstick stains the white-plastic lid.
Evidence of my freak-out. Just wonderful.
“Carl!” bellows a husky voice. “Any day now!”
CT—Carl—flashes me a conspiratorial wink, followed by a quick pull of the Dunkin’s blend. “He’s a new man these days. Probably all that sand and sun and sex—”
The door to my right flies open, and this time the body that greets me is all too familiar. Though I’ll admit that I’ve never quite seen Nick so . . . dressed down before. Jeans and T-shirts have been his go-to outfit of choice for years now.
Today, he’s decked out in clothes that look like they’ve been worn to the brink of extinction. A threadbare, black T-shirt clings to the flat planes of his big chest. The logo for Stamos Restoration and Co. is emblazoned in faded white over his left pectoral muscle, and maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear I can see the hard ridges of his abs through the thin fabric. Wishful thinking, maybe. The front of the T is stuffed haphazardly into a pair of paint-splattered cargo shorts. They hang low on his hips, suspended in place by an old leather belt that matches the same dark brown of his scuffed work boots.
The latter look heavy enough, and big enough, to send ants everywhere scurrying to the hills or risk being stomped into oblivion.
My stomach seesaws at the thought, and, by reflex alone, I draw another sip from the coffee as I meet Nick’s gaze. The stained portion of the lid faces him like an illuminated beacon of my mistakes, and I slowly lower the Dunkin’s.
I shift my weight from foot to foot. Lift my arm and carefully wiggle the Styrofoam cup. “Black, right?”
It’s a miracle I sound so calm and collected.
Married. Nick.
I should have grabbed the Tito’s before leaving my apartment.
My fingers dig into the sides of the coffee cup, and it releases that awful squeaking sound only Styrofoam can produce.
Nick’s gray eyes flit from the coffee to me to Carl and then back again. In a voice as smooth as velvet, he rumbles, “I can never say no to Dunkin’s.” Then, without another word, he takes the cup from my hand, lifts it to his mouth, and promptly drinks from the same, lipstick-stained spot that I boldly marked like a dog peeing on a hydrant.
With a defiant tilt to his chin, Nick’s attention remains fixed on my face.
It’s entirely unfair that a man so good-looking can be both the reason I want to learn how to pack a punch and the reason I once slipped my fingers under my panties at night.
As though he’s aware of the R-rated direction of my thoughts, a masculine groan reverberates in his chest.
The sound echoes in my ears, delicious and unforgettable. My gaze latches onto his Adam’s apple as it bobs down the length of his throat with each swallow.
When he pulls the cup away, he does so with purpose—and cuts the distance between us. He touches the coffee to the center of my chest, his fingers careful not to get all touchy-feely with my breasts, and then leans down. Full, pillow-soft lips to the shell of my ear. Pure gravel in his voice when he murmurs, “For future record, I take two spoonfuls of sugar in my coffee. A guy likes a little sugar when it’s being offered.”
Jerk.
Unwanted laughter at his unexpected arrogance threatens to escape, before I shove it back down into non-existence.
“Ah, you need me, boss?” Carl asks, reminding me that Nick and I aren’t alone. Over the years, we’ve rarely been alone. Except for my prom night and his wedding night, both of which ended not at all as my favorite romance books would have led me to believe.
Nick Stamos is a good guy. The best sort of guy, if you’re to believe all the Greek mamas here in Boston, but to me, Nick will always be an enigma I want nothing more to crack and dishevel.
He speaks to me like I’ll never understand even a fifth of what he says.
Watches me like he has a secret I’ll never know.
Judges me with his mercurial, pewter eyes and his perfectly perfect self.
Now, he steps back and gives me breathing room again. “You’re all good, Carl. Thanks for letting in Ermione.”
Ermione.
Not Ermionehh.
A shiver curls down my spine.
I do my best to curtail the urge to let my mind wander and think about the what-ifs.
The realities are this: I need Nick’s expertise for Agape. Nothing more.
That’s it.
As I enter his office behind him and hear the click of the door shut behind me, I remind myself that this is business. Only business. By the time I sit down at the desk across from my best friend’s brother, I do what I’ve done for the last decade and counting: shove any youthful hopes and dreams hung on the shoulders of one Nick Stamos back into the black abyss of Only-In-Your-Dreams.
6
Nick
I recline in my leather chair, hoping that Mina won’t notice the strain in my expression as I set my computer to sleep mode. My unease this morning has got nothing to do with her and everything to do with the phone call I just received from one of Put A Ring On It’s marketing people.
&nbs
p; Savannah Rose rejected Dominic DaSilva’s proposal.
Their breakup wouldn’t be an issue—it isn’t an issue, not for me—except that production is speeding up now, all thanks to someone on staff spilling the beans.
“Someone leaked footage of Savannah turning you down, man,” Taylor said over the phone, “and Dom’s already been outed too. I’m telling you right now, heads are gonna fucking roll over at the studio for this. Lucky for me, that’s not my problem—I’m in PR, so what I’m gonna need you to do is lay low until TMZ remembers you’re not as exciting as you look and stops replaying that botched proposal of yours.”
Six months ago, the thought of TMZ even knowing who I am would be laughable. Stamos Restoration and Co. has a wildly successful reputation in the Boston metro area. We did work for the Boston Public Library a few years back, and the company name landed on every newspaper in the state after I single-handedly won the bid at an auction for a house that once belonged to Nathaniel Hawthorne’s family. Yes, that Nathanial Hawthorne. Restoring the property earned the company recognition in ways I never fathomed, but those successes belong to Stamos Restoration and Co.
Not me, Nick Stamos.
I hate the public eye, hate even more the idea of being center stage. The only reason I went on the show in the first place is because I truly hoped it might be crazy enough to work.
That by the end of it all, I’d be crazy in love.
Dammit, why couldn’t Savannah see that Dom was her perfect match? If she had, the press wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about me. Wedding planning. Honeymoons. Speculation about future children. Every reporter in the goddamn country would be interested in them, not me. That’s the way this was supposed to go.
You need to keep your head in the game and focus on the matter at hand.
With stiff shoulders, I glance up and find Mina watching me with those luminous honey eyes of hers. She looks like the quintessential professional today, like she thought I might take her to task for her usual dark lipstick or showing off her cleavage or wearing her hair down in loose waves.
