by Maria Luis
“I don’t ski.”
Nick doesn’t cave to my stiff rebuttal. “Where in Maine are we going again?” he asks Sophia without taking his eyes off me.
“Bethel,” offers up the instigator of this entire fiasco. “It’s about three hours away. Maybe three and a half depending on how slow you drive.”
Amused pewter eyes pin me in place. “Fast, then, just how Ermione likes it.”
I’m going to murder him. Forget about kissing him, forget about doing anything more with him, I’m going to kill him and then do something horrible with his body. Like bury him in a 1970’s home with awful wallpaper and shag carpeting in every room. Because that’s the sort of godawful grave he deserves, the jerk.
I return his unblinking stare. “I’m going to be sick that weekend. I’m predicting the flu.”
His mouth twitches. “All the better to let me take care of you for a full seventy-two hours. You’ll never meet a better nurse than me.”
“Your ego, Nick,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, “seriously.”
“A little birdie told me I needed more sugar in my life. Well, I’m ready to deliver.”
With my gaze locked on his handsome face, I debate the meaning behind that. Is he . . . is he using sugar as a sexual euphemism? Something tells me he’s only yanking my chain, but it doesn’t stop me from shifting in my seat because, damn him, now I’m imagining him parting my knees and settling his big body between them. Does he have any tattoos of his own? Any snapshots in time that are forever marked on his body? It seems only fair that I find out, considering he got a full view of my rear end.
Finally, with the image of a naked Nick in my head, I drag the words out slowly like I’m being led to the gallows. “I’ll . . . consider it.”
Satisfaction curves his lips into a wide grin. “Glad to hear it. You need to remember to live, even when you’re reachin’ for those dreams of yours. Plus, I didn’t want to break out the big guns.”
“And those are?”
“Blackmail,” he says with a wink. It’s the second time he’s done that tonight and my heart (and libido) don’t know how to handle it. Looking altogether too pleased with himself, he nods toward Sophia. “Looks like you’ve got two more tagalongs. When’s this shindig happening?”
It’s only then I notice that Nick and I have caught the attention of every person at the table. In the midst of our banter, it was all too easy to forget that we aren’t alone. Effie looks like she’s swallowed her steak the wrong way. Aleka keeps staring at her husband, and I don’t miss the way she checks out her mother-in-law.
Kyria Stamos, the one woman most likely to throw a fit at her grandson’s new plans, sits perfectly quiet while she sips her café. Like me when the conversation was rolling in Greek, she’s blissfully unaware of anything that’s been said in English.
Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss.
“Two weekends from now,” Sophia says, and, like Nick’s grandmother, she doesn’t seem at all perturbed by the fact that Nick just browbeat me into attending. Maybe she really does need a weekend away from Boston and her ex-husband? Or maybe she’s got her eye on another attendee. Both seem like viable, preferable options. Way better than to think she’s gunning for Nick. “Oh, this is going to be so much fun!”
Fun isn’t the word I’d use.
But when I glance over at Nick, I amend that.
A weekend in snow-laden Maine sounds like hell, but with Nick there . . . well, maybe there’s something to be said about body heat.
17
Mina
The next morning, I’m up early enough that I watch the sun hit the horizon from my salon’s bay window. Its rays kiss the narrow, winding street, and the other brownstones that rise up like miniature towers and stretch toward the pink-and-orange sky. From a young age, I always loved coming to Harvard Square. It’s a bustle of students and young professionals and creatives carving their place in the world.
Just as I am now.
Seated on the floor with paint swatches spread out before me, I lean forward and press my fingers to the cold glass. Snow fell last night, a good five or six inches that I shoveled at the crack of dawn this morning. Already there’s a dusting of a new sheet of the fluffy stuff and I figure I have another hour or so before I need to bundle up and grab my shovel and boots for round two.
Shoveling snow isn’t my thing. Although, to be fair, winter in Massachusetts isn’t my thing, either. Maybe in five years or ten or twenty, I’ll hire someone to plow the snow on my strip of sidewalk, but right now I’m enjoying the satisfaction of doing it myself. It took me a long time to get to this place in life, and I’m not ready to pass off even the most basic of responsibilities to anyone else.
Even if that means I need to get my butt out of bed at a ridiculous hour to ensure I’m not blocked in by a Nor’easter, I’ll do it, no questions asked.
I shift my attention away from the quiet street and down to the myriad paint chips. It feels like I’ve waited years to pick out a paint color for the walls of Agape. Endless pictures on my Pinterest boards. Back further than that, I had binders stuffed full of cutouts from interior-design magazines. Each decision made for the salon is a win, a reminder that patience and hard work got me here, even when my own parents would have preferred me to choose the marriage route.
Except that marriage has never been in the cards for me. How can it be when my own mother, who claims to love my adopted father, cheated on her new husband? And with some random guy she met on a trip? Not that my dad is any better. He may have “taken me in” out of the kindness of his heart, but he took me to task in a way he never did with Katya and Dimitri. Expectations I would never meet were set out before me, and I tore through them all, knocking each one down.
Because unlike what most parents do for their children when they don’t want to see them hurt, mine never hid that I was the outlier in the family. Not outside the house, of course, where they maintained their uppity, holier-than-thou act—but within our home, where both Katya and Dimitri were allowed to flourish and find their way, I was . . . controlled.
Picking a wall color feels like the greatest gift. A miracle that I still managed to find my path, despite being held back for so many years. A miracle that I refused to let my learning disability get the best of me, even when my father quietly, in that awful, reserved way of his, insinuated that the problem was all in my head and that I simply didn’t apply myself hard enough.
Getting here, achieving the dream all on my own, is nothing short of a miracle.
Fate’s tipping hand, even after being dealt bullshit card after bullshit card.
Quietly, I sort through the paint chips and hold them up, one by one, and try to imagine them on Agape’s walls. And, one by one, I narrow down the possibilities. Canary Yellow calls to my rebel soul but isn’t the right fit. It goes in a pile with the other misfits. I pick up another, a muted gray, and slowly read over the printed name at the bottom of the chip: Reflection. Appropriately titled, maybe, but a little too morose for the salon of my dreams.
Beyond the window, the record store across from Agape floods with light and I spot the manager meandering through the aisles. I’m convinced it’s the only remaining music store in the city, and, as I have every morning since moving in, I raise a hand and wave. The manager waves back, then goes on his way.
Happiness floods my chest. This right here, this is my life and it’s perfect.
No, perfect was Nick Stamos almost kissing you last night.
My heart skips a beat.
That almost kiss, that tight embrace he wrapped me in, was better than any sex I’ve ever experienced. I’m not sure what that says about the men I’ve hooked up with, but it probably reflects more on me than it does on any of my casual flings.
I lift Reflection up once more, giving it a second thought, then add it to the pile with Canary Yellow.
Sifting through the paint chips, I come to a pretty one that straddles the line of gray and lavender. It’s th
e perfect blend of elegant and feminine. With a darker accent wall to complement it, I can easily see this color painted throughout the salon. Plus, isn’t lavender supposed to promote a calm atmosphere?
Pulling it closer to my face, I give myself a moment to study the letters. As a kid, reading of any kind sent me into a blind panic. The words blurred, they danced across my vision like a Whack-A-Mole evading the gavel; they gave me hell until frustration warred under my skin and in my soul, a constant battle of maybe-you’re-just-dumb, and I gave up.
Like this salon, I’ve come a long way since then. Words no longer terrify me, and if someone has a problem that it takes me an extra moment to read the options on a menu or a long-winded text, then that’s on them. Sorry, not sorry.
I sweep a cursory glance over the letters on the paint chip, absorbing them as a whole instead of individually as I once did, and whisper, “Elation.”
Sounds like a winner to me.
Hell, I feel pretty elated about life right now.
Happy bequeaths happy—that’s pretty much the mantra of my life.
I stick Elation in my binder of Wants for the salon, then check my phone. It’s after eight now, and my ass is sore from sitting on the concrete floor for so many hours. I’d sit for another four if it means I can continue watching the world outside my window. My window. Man, I don’t think I’ll ever get over how good that feels.
My phone vibrates, and I glance down to see that Effie’s texted me.
Oh, boy. Last night I fled the Stamos household before she had the chance to have the come-to-Jesus talk I knew she so desperately wanted to have with me. She’s obviously worried about Nick and me, and it’s not that I’m slamming the door on her concerns. She’s not wrong: her brother wants the whole shebang and I . . . well, I want what I have now. A quiet morning that belongs to me, watching the shops lining Bow Street come to life. I want to live on my own terms by my own rules without a heavy hand to ensure I comply with rules designed to hold me back.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not attracted to Nick or that I haven’t been attracted to him for years now. And I can’t, no matter how much it would appease Effie’s worries, ignore how insanely giddy I feel about the prospect that Nick may find me attractive too. I mean, talk about wishes cast on shooting stars actually coming true.
We’re both adults. Assuming that last night wasn’t a fluke, shouldn’t a fling be a mutual decision between the two of us? I trust Nick to know his own mind, just as I know mine. I’m not going to be dick-tranced into changing my decision about a husband and kids.
Maybe you’re getting ahead of yourself.
Sigh. Yeah, maybe that too.
We almost kissed, but we were also standing on a dark, empty street with no one to judge us or to question our motives. It’s possible that he was only caught up in the sexually charged moment, but can’t the same be said for me? I never would have been so bold if I hadn’t—literally—seen his jean-covered erection only last week.
The way I look at it, Nick and I will have to talk at some point about what happened, and then we’ll set down the rules. And, knowing him, he’ll have a spreadsheet and approximately fourteen bullet points, all detailing the risks and potential hazards of a no-strings attached fling.
Call me ruthless, but I can’t wait to see his expression when I rip his precious list to shreds. He needs someone who’ll yank him out of his shell, and I’m more than woman enough to do the job.
Tapping my phone awake, I pull open Effie’s text, only to see that she messaged me a link to an article from a site called Celebrity Tea. I cringe, then cringe again when I spot the bolded byline: Nick Stamos, America’s Heartbroken Bachelor, finds Love with Unknown Woman.
My stomach sinks.
Oh, crap.
I tap-tap-tap on the article, sending my phone into an apoplectic fit, and am visually assaulted by a blown-up image of myself in Nick’s arms. As in, it’s me, in the clothes I wore last night, hugging Nick in the clothes he wore last night. The Red Sox logo on his T-shirt is visible from the angle the photographer captured the picture. We’re standing in the semi-dark, our arms wrapped around each other, our faces mostly shadowed by the street lamp overhead.
“Oh, fuck a goddamn duck.”
I skim the article as quickly as I can, doing my best to keep my phone steady.
“Put A Ring On It contestant Nick Stamos (age 32) was spotted getting cozy late last night in his hometown of Cambridge, Massachusetts. According to one anonymous source linked to TV production, Stamos was a favorite from day one on the show’s debut season. ‘I really thought he’d walk away with the final ring, you know?’ disclosed the source. ‘Savannah Rose was absolutely smitten by him. There wasn’t a date she didn’t have Nick on, and anyone could clearly see that the two of them had major chemistry.’
And yet, major chemistry couldn’t save Stamos—no relation to John Stamos, America’s favorite uncle, by the way—from the last elimination round. A video of the bachelorette turning down our Greek Adonis went viral just weeks ago, and now it seems Nick’s already on the rebound with a new lady love. Who might she be? Time will only tell, but since the two lovebirds were spotted only a few blocks from his family’s residence, it’s easy to presume that a My Big Fat Greek Wedding may be in the making soon enough.
Let’s raise a toast to leaked sources, shall we?
I’ll be back soon with more details, dear reader. You know we at Celebrity Tea do our best at spilling the damn tea, 24/7.”
Uh-oh. Grimacing, I fire off a quick text to Effie to smooth any ruffled feathers: Looks like my unofficial role as fake girlfriend has begun.
Immediately, three little dancing dots appear at the bottom left corner of the screen. I smooth my thumb over the glass and wait. Effie is not going to be pleased. Sure enough, I don’t have to wait long.
Effie: There were cameras near our house. Cameras neither of you knew were on the hunt. You were doing that crazy thing with your tongue when you want someone to kiss you!!!
Me: Crazy thing with my tongue??? I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Me: Nick and I were just . . . having a conversation.
Me: About tattoos.
Effie: You’re a shit liar.
Me: Tell me how you really feel.
Effie: Trust me, there are a lot of exclamation marks and four-letter words. You’re gonna get hurt. He’s gonna get hurt. This is going to be a disaster of epic proportions and I’m already foreseeing sending Tito’s out of stock when I order everything they’ve got to keep you from going off the deep end.
Me: What makes you think I’ll be the one who needs to be consoled?
Effie: Because you’ve been obsessed with my brother since the time you finally grew boobs.
Me: Obsessed is a strong word. I’m not a stalker, Ef.
Effie: And I repeat: obsessed.
Me: I know you don’t want to hear this, seeing as you both came out of the same womb, but maybe Nick only wants a fling?
Effie: Maybe he does. And maybe you’ll hook up with him and, for the first time in your life, realize that you want MORE. And he still only wants that fling. Let that settle in for a sec.
I don’t want to let it settle in, and thanks to the universe not being an asshole today, I don’t have to.
The front door to my salon bursts open and Nick’s workers spill inside from the cold with equipment cradled in their arms. Shaking snow from their hair, they stomp their boots on the two towels I laid out this morning after spotting the steady snowfall.
One last “let’s not fight about this” text to Effie, and then I drop my phone onto the pile of paint chips and hop to my feet. Swipe my hands over my fleece-lined leggings. Unexpected butterflies erupt in my belly. Seeing Nick after last night . . . Well, it’s moment-of-truth time. If he pretends nothing happened, I’ll either knee him in the balls or shove his ass out into the snow to freeze.
Giving the group of three men a hasty scan, I note with disappointme
nt that Nick isn’t with them. Feigning a blasé tone, I ask, “Where’s your hailed leader?”
The tallest of the bunch, a handsome guy named Vince, lets out a deep laugh. “He who payeth our checks wenteth to Dunkin’s . . . eth.”
“You been watching Shakespeare in Love again?” deadpans the redheaded, Rupert Grint lookalike, named Mark. He’s built in a way that Vince isn’t, with heaps of muscles on top of muscles that speak to hours spent in a gym. Height-wise, though, he might as well be Vince’s little brother.
Vince flips him the bird with all the flare of a true Bostonian. “It’s a great movie—a goddamn classic.”
“Haven’t seen it.”
“You’re un-American, Mark. You don’t like the Fourth of July,” Vince says, holding up one hand, his index finger extended. “You don’t like Shakespeare in Love.” His middle finger shoots up next. “You’re squirrelly as fuck about cannoli, and I’m saying this for all to hear—if you don’t like cannoli, you can’t be trusted. It’s in the Italian bible, right after you-shall-always-listen-to-your-mother-or-risk-death-by-slipper.”
Holding back a snort, I raise my hand. “I don’t like cannoli.” I don’t touch the slipper comment—my mom never whipped out the pandofla herself, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t heard the horror stories from my peers. It’s a Greek thing, too.
Vince slaps a hand over his heart and claws at his chest. Gasping, he pretends to collapse in a heap. “Blasphemer!”
“It’s the texture that gets to me,” I say with a lighthearted shrug.
That doesn’t seem to make a difference. Vince side-eyes me with playful distrust. “Correction, Mina, cannoli is the texture of the gods.”
Bill, the last one in the group, claps Vince on the back with a hearty thwack. “You say the same thing about your cum—”
Vince erupts into a coughing fit. The words “shut up” and “asshole” are meshed in, and I’m about to respond when I hear Nick’s familiar voice behind me: “Keep that thing in your pants, man. No one needs to be scarred for life. And I speak from experience.”
