by Maria Luis
My hand closes over the doorknob just as Nick emits a growl of warning. “It’s called shrinkage. I can promise that—”
“No promises required.” I look back over my shoulder. “I’ll email you all the details for the renovation.”
The last thing I hear is Nick shouting my name.
And I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t put a smile on my face for the rest of the day.
8
To: Nick Stamos
From: Mina Pappas
Subject Line: Renovation Details + Your Dating Show
Hey! You know, in all these years I don’t think I’ve ever emailed you? Not that email is a thing anymore but (confession: please scope out my email addy. How cool, right!?) you’re officially the FIRST person whose ever recieved an email from me. Count yourself as blessed.
Also, excuse all typos. Sending this while I’m on the way into the salon on the T. Trains + keyboard typing are not a match-made in heaven.
Speaking of match-making in heaven . . . I saw you’re face on TV last night. You looked—well, I’m hoping that you smiled at least ONCE when you were trying to woo the bachelorette? (Say yes). Am I not supposed to call her the bachelorette if it’s a different show? Did you get roses? Those delicious candy ring-pops from the vending machines? **GASPS** Chastity belts in case someone was feeling frisky while you traveled the world? (I’m a little jealous of the last one. I haven’t left the country since the last time we went to Greece together. Oh, what a trip.)
I’ve attached all the materials that were chosen for Agape to this email. Can we set up a time for you to come by so we can look at the space together? Decide on how much I need of everything before I buy it and cry into my empty bank account?
Not-a-hug,
Mina
P.S., I know how much hugs don’t do it for you. Hope this works instead.
To: Mina Pappas
From: Nick Stamos
Re: Subject Line: Renovations Details + Your Dating Show
First email recipient ever, huh? I’m not sure if I’d count myself as blessed but I’ve tagged this message so it’ll always be remembered. When you’re old and graying and thinking about your youth, feel free to let me know and I’ll pull this baby right out for you, typos and all.
Please don’t tell me you’re a secret The Bachelor fangirl. I thought so highly of you, Ermione, and you’re crushing all my expectations. No, we didn’t get roses. And hell no to the chastity belts. There was one virgin on the show though. Man’s gonna have a field day when the episodes start airing.
How about I come by tomorrow? Got a meeting early in the morning, but I’m free around noon. Let me know if that works for your schedule—and hold off on the tears until I get a look at the space. I’ll bring tissues in case you start leaking.
P.S., What gave you the impression that I don’t like hugs?
P.P.S., For the record, not all Greek men are tiny down under.
P.P.P.S., Care to cut my hair tomorrow while we’re at it? Pro bono, and all.
To: Nick Stamos
From: Mina Pappas
Re: Re: Subject Line: Renovation Details + Your Dating Show
OMG, you are just so kind. Not that I’m trying to inflate your ego or anything because let’s face it, it’s already rivaling Mercury, at least, in terms of girth. *rolls eyes* Old and gray. You really know how to throw that sugar around, Saint Nick. I’m tasting the sweetness through every period and comma you’re throwing at me.
ANYWAY, I’ll admit to nothing. Pleading the fifth. Although I’m very curious about this virgin. Was their a sacrifice? A de-virgining ceremony with whips and chains and at least one condom? If not, my expectations are clearly not low enough.
Noon works for me.
P.S., In over twenty years, you’ve hugged me exactly two times. I suppose I’ll have to wait till the end of my thirties to earn another. Although I remember them being rather . . . limp. I’m sure they’ve improved since then . . .
P.P.S., If you say so.
P.P.P.S., YES. How do you feel about going bald? Wanna pull off the Vin Diesel look? You could rock it.
To: Mina Pappas
From: Nick Stamos
Re: Re: Re: Subject Line: Renovation Details + Your Dating Show
I swear you get mouthier with every year.
P.S., Girth. De-virgining (de-virginizing?). Limp. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were sending subliminal messages about my dick.
P.P.S., For the record, I’ve had no cause for complaint where the latter’s concerned.
P.P.P.S., Shave my head and I’ll put in the worst glitter wallpaper you’ve ever seen in your life. That’s a promise.
To: Nick Stamos
From: Mina Pappas
Re: Re: Re: Re: Subject Line: Renovation Details + Your Dating Show
Glitter wallpaper? Now you’re talking the stuff of fantasies.
Bring it on.
P.S., I know there’s a secret part of you that loves my mouth.
9
Mina
I know there’s a secret part of you that loves my mouth.
Sweet Baby Jesus, has there ever been a more awkward moment in the history of awkward moments? I don’t think so—particularly since Nick never answered.
Not even that time when my bathing suit top came undone can trump this.
Okay, maybe it can.
At fifteen, my breasts were flat and practically non-existent but my nipples—God, my nipples—met the salty ocean breeze, the heat from the sun, and Nick’s wide-eyed stare as a wave crashed down on his head and took him under the water in one clean pull.
Good news: he survived, and my bikini top was recovered by an elderly woman with skin that could rival the world’s finest leather. Bad news: the ocean didn’t take pity and swallow me whole.
My breasts might be cupped and propped up now by a pretty nude bra, but I feel just as vulnerable and exposed as my younger self.
A groan rumbles to life in my chest as I thumb off my cell phone and toss it on the pleather loveseat. It bounces once, then falls flat in acceptance. Yup, totally not re-reading that email thread for yet another time in the last twenty-four hours. Once was acceptable. Twice could be forgiven. But thirty times is obsessive, and I’m dangerously closing in.
Silent steps on my Craigslist-find rug bring me to the floor-length mirror that’s propped up beside the front door. Digging into the nearby bowl of makeup, I pluck out my favorite red lipstick and swipe it on.
I know there’s a secret part of you that loves my mouth.
“You are not dolling up for Nick Stamos,” I warn my reflection. I suck my thumb between my lips and let it out with a pop! Red stains my thumb, and I smile at the mirror for a teeth check. All clear. “Professional. You’re a businesswoman and he’s, well, he’s him. Agape comes first.”
I drop the lipstick back in the bowl, take one last glance at my simple boyfriend jeans and cable-knit, white sweater, and head downstairs to wait for my new handyman to arrive. It’s quarter to noon, and knowing Nick, he’ll be early.
Sure enough, by the time I’m entering the empty salon less than a minute later, he’s standing outside the large windows and peering in, one hand level at his brow. Even from my vantage point, there’s no missing the way his work clothes fit him to perfection. Jeans encase his long, lean legs, and instead of a T-shirt, he’s decked out in a navy, Boston Blades sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
He looks rugged and masculine and even a little dangerous, which is insane to think about because Nick earned his nickname the old-fashioned way: by being so nice, so kind, to everyone he meets.
It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he brings his bed-partners tea after sex,
but not until after he’s gathered a warm washcloth like some Victorian-era gentleman and gently cleaned her up.
I bet he doesn’t even make a sound when he comes.
Catching sight of me, Nick knocks on the glass window and mouths something I can’t make out.
Deep breath, girl. You can do this.
My lungs contract, and I catch the scent of dreams and must and dead flowers.
It’s official, the potted plants have to go.
Crossing the distance to the front door, I unlatch the key and slip the door open wide, poking my head out. “Did you bring the tissues?”
His full lips tug upward. “Something better, actually.”
My focus changes trajectory and darts down the length of him, to the plastic Walgreens bag he’s gripping in his left hand. “Forewarning, if you kill me and try to dispose of my body, I will never forget that you failed to uphold your end of the bargain.” I step back as he turns his big body to edge past me. His jean-clad ass grazes my stomach—our heights are so varied, and I suck in my belly to eliminate contact.
Damn all those cookies I ate last night, waiting for him to hit REPLY and make me feel less pathetic.
“I’m not going to kill you,” Nick says, coming to a stop as he hits the center of the room. The plastic bag hangs at his side, its contents hidden by the red logo, as he plants his free hand on his hip and slowly spins on his heel to survey the space. “Those plants look mutilated.”
I look to the pots in question. Remorse stings my throat as I cringe. “I tried to keep them alive.”
Nick’s throaty chuckle curls my toes in my shoes. “With what?” he deadpans without looking in my direction. “Bleach?”
“Water,” I mutter quickly, half under my breath. He’s not wrong. The poor plants look like they’ve attempted to mosey on through the Sahara Desert and haven’t come out the other side to tell the tale. “I hope you realize I’m not paying you for the chit chat.” The words are matter-of-fact, my tone teasing.
It catches his attention, and he swings around to look at me. “Keep talking about payment, and I’ll start collecting.” He winks—winks—and then stalks over to the old sinks that line the far back wall and sit cattycorner to the hallway leading to a few back rooms.
“What were you thinking for this area?” he calls out. Light invades the space when he flicks a switch, and I scramble to hurry over and meet him. “A bathroom? Maybe a separate room to wash hair instead of having it all out in the open? The salon next door to me, they’ve done a great job utilizing the square footage they’ve got.” Nick knocks a balled fist on the wall to his left. “We can do the same thing here. Play with the room size, the layouts.”
I think back to the initial sketches Jake the IOU Man himself drew up. Sketches that I feel do the job, even if they aren’t incredibly unique. “Did you get the plans I sent you? The ones attached to the email?”
Nick spares me a quick glance. “I trashed them.”
My mouth falls open. “I’m sorry, I thought you just said that you trashed our entire email thread?”
He sets the Walgreens bag down by his feet. Then, from the back pocket of his jeans, he pulls out his phone and swipes it open with a flick of his thumb across the screen. One tap, two taps, and then he’s turning the phone toward me and I’m staring at the layout of the salon Jake created before bailing with my money.
“This,” Nick murmurs, wiggling the phone in my face, “is the work of a man who doesn’t give a shit. He’s got a bathroom next to the kitchenette, and nobody, Mina, wants to shit where they eat.”
“I thought the saying was ‘shit where they sleep’?”
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Head cocking to the side and lips curving in a sly grin, he pockets his cell phone. “I told my mom once that I wanted to write a book with all the sayings I get wrong because she never understood them in the first place.” With a low chuckle, he teases, “First-generation problems, am I right?”
His self-deprecating tone pulls a laugh from me. It’s definitely true. My mom and dad certainly haven’t cornered the market on American colloquialisms, even after thirty years of living in Boston. “It’d be an instant bestseller,” I tell Nick, “something they’ll pick up right after they’ve watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding for the tenth time.”
“Only ten times?” His gray eyes flash with humor, and I’m momentarily struck silent with the realization that Nick and I have been talking for almost fifteen minutes and not once has our banter skated into dangerous territory. We’re actually, might I say, getting along? Hello, alternate universe. “How about twenty, at least,” he adds.
“I was trying to lowball it.”
“Speaking of lowballing it, we’re not doing that with your salon.”
“But the plans—”
“Are awful,” he interrupts, “and there’s no shot in hell I’ll ever put my company’s name anywhere near them.”
“Your ego is showing, Saint Nick.” I sing-song the words, unable to keep myself from making fun of him. Just a little. “You better watch out before I start thinking all that good-guy niceness was only a façade.”
Planting a hand on the wall to my right, he leans in, big body bending at the waist, lowering his face until we’re nose to nose. Up close, his pewter eyes are as mercurial as ever, with flecks of blue and green. His gaze never wavers from mine, and then he lowers his voice, the gravel pitch slicking through my limbs like I’ve been dunked in molasses. “You do realize that you don’t know everything about me, right?”
My breath constricts in my chest. “I think I know enough.”
One shift of his large frame and then the toes of his work boots are kissing the tips of my flats. I catch his scent, that musky combo of male and sawdust and something woodsy that shouldn’t be appealing given who he is—Effie’s brother, my old, teenage crush—but nevertheless succeeds in sweeping around me like forbidden temptation.
Entrepreneurial spirit that I am, I’d bottle up that scent and sell it by the boatloads. I’d make a mint off it. Change the lives of millions of women and men because I’m not kidding when I say this: Nick Stamos smells delicious.
His warm breath wafts across my forehead, rustling the baby hairs that have escaped my top-knot. My knees pin together, unwelcome lust spiking at his nearness, and I shift my focus from the breadth of his chest to his too-handsome face.
Nothing in his expression speaks to the same arousal flaring to life within me.
As usual.
“We’ve known each other a heck of a long time, Mina, but make no mistake”—his gaze drops to my mouth, lingers, before lifting once more—“we’ve never been friends.”
And welcome to that moment in my life when good reason disappears and need slips in. Licking my lips, I counter, “You’re lying.”
“Lying about what?”
“About us not being friends. We might not be besties”—he snorts derisively at that and I refrain from punching him in the solar plexus—“but I’ve known you my entire life. I know more than what Effie’s told me over the years.” I think back to the wooden sculptures in his office. Those took time and patience and an acute precision that most people lack. Not Nick, though.
“I know you’re a details guy,” I go on, refusing to step down and let him win this round. I would never consider him a close confidante—a frenemy, perhaps, more than anything—but to hear him dismiss our relationship riles me up in a way that leaves me feeling rattled. “I know that when you started Stamos Restoration, you lived off Ramen noodles for almost a year. You were twenty-three and full of dreams and Brynn hated that you put everything you had to give into a new business and not on dates and outings and the little trinkets she wanted.”
Controlled as his expression is, I don’t miss the flare of his nostrils. “I did it for her,” he growls, drawing ever closer still, “for us, for our future.”
“No.” I angle my chin in silent challenge. “You worked all those hours for you. Because you
spent years as a kid holed up in your room building anything and everything. You interned at an antiques place in high school, restoring furniture, long before Brynn entered the picture. So, maybe I’m not your friend, but let’s not play it like I don’t know you. I know plenty.”
I’m breathing hard. You revealed way too much, my heart bemoans. I may as well have waved the I-crushed-on-you-for-years flag. A white flag, of course, for surrender and acceptance. Fact is, I spent my teenage years and early twenties collecting any and all anecdotes regarding Nick’s life that I could. I know more than I should because I once cared more than I should.
Those old feelings may be long gone but that doesn’t mean all the memories have dissipated along with them.
After my little rant that has nothing at all to do with the renovation project, I expect Nick to return to the topic of my salon and botched plans and new mock-ups and everything that is professional and orderly. Nick is, at the end of the day, a rule-follower.
Obsessively so.
But maybe he’s trying to prove me wrong—to axe his saintly nickname once and for all—or maybe he’s right and I’ve never known him the way I thought I did.
Because instead of wheeling around and leaving me alone in the hallway, he grinds his molars, jaw clenching, and then that hand on the wall is shifting over until it rests mere inches away from my head, invading my precious space. His sweatshirt-covered chest grazes mine with each labored contraction of his lungs. And those unreadable gray eyes blaze with emotion.
Too far. This time, I’ve pushed him way too far.
Abort. Abort the mission!
My feet refuse to move. They’re rooted to the concrete flooring as my back collides with the wall and my fingers curl in at my sides.
