by Luis, Maria
Dominic blinks up at me, all wide-eyed innocence. “Aspen, will you”—my breath catches—“do me the great honor of changing my ringtone on your phone? Bad Company isn’t a good fit anymore.”
The problem with falling in love with a broken man is that when he becomes unbroken, he suddenly thinks he’s a comedian.
I stick out my left hand.
As I knew he would, he slides the most beautiful ring I’ve ever sort-of seen onto my fourth finger. He picked it out for me, with Topher’s help, which makes it perfect. Perfect for me. In a shaky voice that is so not like him, Dominic finally asks, “Will you marry me, Coach?”
This time, I don’t answer with words.
I drop to my knees before him and I plant a kiss on his lips, pouring all of my love for him into my touch. I frame his handsome face with my hands and breathe in everything this man is to me: my safe haven, my partner in crime, my reason to smile every morning that I wake up in his arms and he pushes me to embark on another insane adventure with him by my side.
My heart pounds so erratically that I almost miss his ragged whisper, “Thank you for making me see.”
“See what?” I ask against his mouth, refusing to let him go.
“How I can love you more every day, and I will still never have enough of you.”
The End
* * *
Do you want to know a secret? The Put A Ring On It series isn’t over! Love Me Tomorrow, Book 3, will be releasing in Fall 2019, and it features a certain bachelorette…
And before you go! Are you curious to know what Aspen wished for under the stars? Find out here and catch up with Dominic & Aspen three years later! Visit this link to download your exclusive bonus content!
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Dear Fabulous Reader
Hi there! I so hope you enjoyed Kiss Me Tonight, and if you are new to my books, welcome to the family!
In the back of all my books, I love to include a Dear Fabulous Reader section that talks about what locations from the book can be visited in real life or what sparked my inspiration for a particular plot point. (I like to think of it as the Extras on DVD’s, LOL).
As always, we’ll hit it up bullet-point style—enjoy!
It seems only fitting (and most important, I think) to begin with Dominic’s upbringing. It must be said that not every child in foster care has the experience Dominic had—I know so many amazing foster parents, including family members of mine. But writing Dominic’s character went deeper than that…for me, writing Dominic came as a direct result in listening to Mr. Luis come home from work (he is a police officer in New Orleans) and talk about the children he comes across on his job. Children who, yes, find themselves stumbling down the wrong path. The ten-year-old who has a rap sheet a mile long and an ankle monitor that goes with him everywhere. My heart broke (and breaks still) every time I heard Mr. Luis wish there was something he could do—or say—to get through to those kids. Something that would be the catalyst needed to give them something to strive for, something to believe in. For me, Dominic was born out of those late night conversations of discussing what we can personally do to make a difference. Dominic’s childhood was not easy, it was not kind, but it is the childhood that so many face—and tough as the subject is to read, it is only that much harder to survive.
Shelby Osborne. Becca Longo. Katie Hnida. April Goss. And now, Antoinette “Toni” Harris. These are all women who have gone on to play football at the collegiate level in the last decade—and Toni, the latest in the lineup of female greats—is determined to be the first to make it to the NFL. (Read about her here). In creating Aspen’s character, I knew that I wanted to delve into the world of women who dream of playing in the NFL. What challenges do they face, stuck in a world dominated by (as Aspen said), “cocks and balls?” What sort of inner strength does it take to really come out on top and defy the odds stacked against you? I, for one, will be rooting for Harris!
Remember when Topher claimed his Driver’s Ed instructor spent all class talking about running through a forest of pot? Well, I’m here to announce that “Mike” is real and that story came from my own Driver Ed’s class. It was too good to pass up, and to this day, I’ve never forgotten the two hours we spent learning about how he ran from the cops and ended up smoking weed with a couple he’d never met before. For the record: I still learned to drive just fine! LOL!
What goes into a name? Well, in the case of Rick . . . a whole lot! In writing his character, I knew that I wanted to really delve into the world of Hollywood where much-older men prey on young women. I’ve always been fascinated with the women themselves—what happens when those women aren’t so young anymore? If they do leave their spouse, what sort of lingering effect remains on their psyche? But picking a name for a character like Aspen’s ex was hard. No one likes a villain. Which is how I came by Rick “the Prick.” Years ago, my dad worked for a company (name most certainly redacted, LOL) and he had a boss named Dick. It should be noted that no one liked Dick. But one afternoon he, my dad, and the whole department sat in for a meeting. Dick, as Dick tended to do, got flustered about something and turned to the thirty-plus people in the room and announced, “I’ve never been a Rick, I’ve never been a Richard, I’ve just always been a Dick.” Did he realize what he’d said? No, not at all—meanwhile everyone else tried to rein in their laughter. I couldn’t resist paying a little homage to Dick in my own little way, fifteen years later :)
London, Maine. While London is completely fictional, I based our coastal town on “nearby” Bar Harbor. Beautiful. Quaint. An absolute escape from the rest of the world. I highly recommend visiting if you ever find yourself in that neck of the woods! Cadillac Mountain is a must!
Speaking of London, the Golden Fleece is a merge of my two favorite bars in the world: Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop in New Orleans and the Golden Fleece (the one and only original!) in York, England. Like Lafitte’s, my Golden Fleece is lit only by candlelight. And, like the OG Golden Fleece, London’s version is very much fashioned/designed in the same Tudor style. You can’t go wrong in visiting either—although I’d be remiss if I forgot to mention that cardboard cutouts of Dominic DaSilva will not be found at either establishment. I’m as sorry about this as you are, LOL.
Ferris wheels—majestic amusement park rides, aren’t they? Until, you know, you discover your other half is terrified of heights when you’re already strapped in. Like Aspen, I’m not the biggest fan of heights. As it turns out, neither is Mr. Luis! Unfortunately, this is apparently something neither of us ever disclosed to one another in ten-plus years of our relationship—not until this past Christmas when we were each pretending to be totally cool with going on one. Yeah. We quickly realized our own mistake when it was too late to get off. I loved the idea so much, I decided to put it into a book!
And, last—The Athlete’s Reckoning is actually based on the real-life online journal called The Players’ Tribune. If you’ve never had a read, I highly suggest it! It’s an inside look into the minds and thoughts of so many high-profile athletes. Some articles look back to a particular game while others truly reminisce about how an event went so very wrong. For me, I knew I wanted Dominic to find his voice—and this was the perfect way to do it.
As always, there are many more but here is just a sampling! If you’re thinking . . . that seems rather fascinating and I want to know more, you are always so welcome to reach out
! Pretty much, nothing makes me happier =)
Much love,
Maria
Preview of Hold Me Today
Keep reading for a sneak peek of Hold Me Today, the first book in the Put A Ring On It series—featuring Nick Stamos (Dominic’s best friend) & Mina Pappas. This is an older brother’s romance/frenemies-to-lovers you don’t want to miss!
* * *
Chapter One
Nick
On a beach somewhere in Bali
Breaking hearts isn’t in my DNA.
Call me a pussy, a romantic, a believer in the unicorn of all emotions—true love—but I want the real deal. I crave what my parents have shared for thirty-something years; what my younger sister Effie has with her wife; what I almost had six years ago before my ex-fiancée dumped me at the altar with a half-hiccupped, “I’m in love with someone else.”
That someone else turned out to be her I-wear-pocket-protectors-like-a-douchebag boss, the bastard.
So, yeah, I’m talking about the white-picket-fence, make-love-even-when-you-haven’t-showered happily ever after. The kind that sinks into your bones and accelerates your heart rate and turns your hands into a clammy mess.
My hands aren’t clammy now. They’re ice cold despite the balmy weather and the fact that I’m wearing a Hawaiian T-shirt the color of puke and a pair of too-tight board shorts that hug my crotch the same incessant way my grandmother anxiously squeezes her stress-relief balls.
“Women will love that bulge,” the wardrobe crew assured me with a pat on the shoulder.
The women might, but there’s a good chance my ability to reproduce will die today.
“Gamóto.”
The Greek curse for “fuck” flies off my tongue, as it has since my teenage years when my Greek mother warned me and Effie against using English profanity in public. I’ve never been more grateful for speaking two languages than when I showed up on set for Put A Ring On It, a reality show that might as well be the budget-cut edition of the infamous The Bachelor franchise.
See: the Hawaiian T-shirt and board shorts bit.
I shift my hips and pray for relief.
The small, velvet box burns in the front pocket of my shorts as I face down the production crew. Louder, in perfectly clear English, I grind out, “I can’t do this.”
“Buck up, Stamos,” rumbles Joe, the show’s director. He side-eyes me like I’m a caged animal clawing for escape, then casually claps me on the back like we’re best buds. I’d have to be tone-deaf to miss his hearty, fuck-you laugh. Prick. If I wasn’t determined to leave this island uncuffed, I’d throw a fist right at his pretty-boy, Hollywood face. “It’s only pre-engagement jitters. You love her, dontcha?”
It was easy to think so in the midst of orchestrated dinner dates and cameras being shoved into my face and producers pointedly asking, “How do you feel? You love her yet?”
I haven’t answered “yes” once. And now that it’s down to me and one other contestant, the questions have narrowed down to the most vital: “How are you gonna propose?” It’s all I can do not to ditch the wannabe-surfer outfit and make a break for it, away from the white, sandy beach where Savannah Rose is waiting.
She deserves better than what I can offer: nothing but a gut-deep awareness that marrying her would be the equivalent of getting hitched to myself. I like me—hell, I even enjoy my own company most days—but there’s a reason why my mom thanked the good Lord that I didn’t turn out to be a twin, like the doctor first predicted. Thirty-two years later, she’s still pinching my cheek and praising her lucky stars like she won the MegaBucks.
So, yeah, me and Savannah? Despite the high hopes I had coming onto the show, we turned out to be the same blend of black and white, equally balanced in temperament, opinions, and our shared preference for the introverted hermit life.
Savannah Rose is lovely, but I just don’t love her.
I open my mouth, ready to flay Joe alive with the reminder that, according to the contract I signed before embarking on this shit show of a journey, I can leave whenever the hell I want. Including on the last day of production when I and the other runner-up are expected to get down on bended knee and propose.
Joe beats me to the punch. “Listen, Nick. Fact is, you gotta do it now, ‘kay?” He thrusts a finger at the narrow cobblestoned pathway that leads from the cottage I’ve been sharing with my fellow contestant, Dominic DaSilva, to the beach. “Right there. She’s waiting for you right down there. You gonna disappoint her? You gonna let insecurities cloud your judgment? You said you loved her only last night!”
The hell I did.
“Joe,” I grunt, shoving one hand into my pocket to grab the engagement ring box, “I’m not doing it. Not for you, not for TV, and definitely not for Savannah Rose. She came here lookin’ for love and I’m not going to be that asshole who lies to her for the sake of good ratings, you hear me?”
I slam the velvet box down on the entryway table to my right.
And, because the gravitational pull of the universe is a conniving son of a gun, the box skids as I let go, turning over onto its side and falling from the table.
Crashing to the floor.
Cracking wide open.
The diamond ring, which probably costs more than my restoration business is worth back in Boston, pops out from the box. It circles on the tile floor, once, twice, before teetering flat on its side. Sardonically, I lift a brow. “If that isn’t an ironic show of how this is about to go down, then I don’t know what is.”
Joe’s knees pop as he snatches the ring off the floor and shoves it back into the box. With a speed I don’t anticipate, he crams the whole thing into the pocket of my shorts and comes mighty damn close to fondling the family jewels.
Full confessional: there’s not much wriggle room in these things.
I arc my ass backward, away from his wandering hands. “Jesus! What the hell are you doing, man?”
“Earning myself a damn paycheck.” He jabs an accusatory finger in my face. “You’re going out there with this fuckin’ ring, Stamos, you hear me? You’re gonna get down on one knee and we’ll let Savannah know before filming rolls that you want out. She’ll do the dumping, not you.”
My jaw drops without ceremony. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I told you yesterday that I wanted to talk to her without the cameras. I don’t want to hurt her. She’s a great girl—”
“But she’s not the one for you.” Joe rolls his eyes and twiddles his fingers in the air like a complete asshat. “Yada, yada, yada. I’ve heard this shit before when I was working with Chris-fuckin’-Harrison on The Bachelor. You think this is my first rodeo? No, Mr. Adonis, it’s not. We’re doing this my way since it’s my goddamn show. And my way is letting Savannah land the proverbial kick to your balls. Capiche?”
“No fucking capiche.”
Savannah isn’t any more in love with me than I am with her, if the few lackluster kisses we’ve shared are anything to go by. And that was all before we unanimously agreed to skip the overnight date last week. The way I look at it, that decision hammered the final nail in our coffin. I’m no virgin, and she isn’t either, which leads to only one conclusion: neither of us are feeling the chemistry.
It’s disappointing, yeah, considering I showed up at the Put A Ring On It house with big hopes of leaving with the love of my life. Sure, I only ended up on the show because Effie was convinced that I was failing—epically—in the dating department on my own. She wasn’t wrong, much as it grates me to admit it. I have a bad habit of choosing women who, in the end, don’t choose me back. And maybe there’s something to be said for letting someone else play matchmaker for once. Clearly, I haven’t been doing myself any favors since Brynn stormed out of that church.
After I pulled my head out of my ass (and my sister chewed me out for being a stick in the mud), I gradually warmed up to the idea of meeting a woman I never would have crossed paths with in my routine, day-to-day life in New England.
Hello, my name is Nic
k Stamos and I’m a closet romantic.
Sue me.
End of the day: it didn’t work out. But that doesn’t mean I’m keen on ending the relationship with lies tripping off the tongue. My mom taught me better. My dad taught me better.
And, yet, ten minutes later I find myself being led, like a lamb to slaughter, down to the beach. I spot Savannah Rose immediately—it’s hard not to. With her caramel skin, thanks to her Creole heritage, and her rich, dark hair, Savannah is a show-stopper. Tall and willowy, she dropped jaws throughout filming, whether it was when she stepped out in a dress for a night out on the town or put on a bikini while relaxing on the beach. She’s serenity personified, rarely raising her voice, though I’d have to be an idiot not to notice that her spine is laced with steel.
Like I said, the two of us are peas in a pod. Reserved. Sometimes shy. But with unwavering backbone—being taken advantage of isn’t a concern.
My molars grind together as Joe waves me forward from where he sits beside the camera crew. They’re camped out between two sky-high palm trees, as though the rotund barks are wide enough to provide some sort of coverage and conceal them from sight.
To provide us with the illusion of privacy.
My hands clench at my sides.
Do the right thing, I shout at myself. Get down there and do the right thing.
I’m not a bad guy. Hell, I’ve always been the good guy, if I’m being real honest about it. The guy mothers love. The one they have no qualms about their daughters spending time with because, “that Nick, he’s just such a nice person.”
I don’t feel all that nice right now.
Don’t feel all that good either.
