Hold Me Today: Put A Ring On It

by Luis, Maria

Tap, tap, tap-tap-tap. “Your husband used to come into the salon I worked at. I’m sorry that he was such an asshole to you.” Tap, tap. “And that he did what he did.”

  “H-he didn’t do anything.”

  Her ex-husband made it no secret that he was having an affair with a woman who worked in his office. He came in every Friday, as routinely regular as my period, to have his hair trimmed before he and his mistress (side piece? cheater-in-accomplice?) left town for the weekend. Sophia may have been my own personal Regina George from Mean Girls back in high school, but no one deserves the backstabbing assholery her husband put her through. On more than one occasion, I reached out to her over social media to broach the subject. On more than one occasion, she read my messages and never responded.

  Zorba the Greek descends into silence, and then the front door pulls open and Nick is standing there. He looks . . . yummy, my brain happily supplies. Dark jeans, which seem to be his favorite; those amazingly soft leather shoes he wore for Toula’s wedding; and a Red Sox T-shirt that lends him a casual vibe that I like more than I should.

  His gaze visibly widens at the sight of us.

  “Sophia,” he greets roughly, and then his pewter eyes zero in on my face. Veer down the length of my body in a slow perusal before swinging back up again. “Ermione.”

  Ermione.

  When he says it like that, all deep and masculine and confident, it sounds less mocking and more suggestive.

  You do not like the suggestive! Remember what Effie said!

  As though I can possibly forget. Plus, she’s not wrong in her assessment: Nick and I want two very different lives. Aside from that one, delicious moment earlier this week, he’s made no move to make me think he wants anything more than a fake girlfriend to ward off the crazies.

  I peek over at Sophia. Years ago, I would have labeled her as a crazy. The queen of the crazies, even. Now, though, she just looks worn down, a little defeated by love and life.

  As much as I’d love to throw my arms around Nick’s neck and play up the fake-relationship factor, it seems cruel to throw that in Sophia’s face, given the circumstances. I mean, the girl has orange hair, for God’s sake. Forget Tony the Tiger, it’s like a traffic cone has taken up residence on her head. If that’s not a cry for help then I don’t know what is.

  Without giving her the chance to leap out of the way, I loop my arm around hers, linking us together. Her muscles twitch under my touch, which I studiously pretend to ignore. “Sophia and I have so much to catch up on tonight.” I blast her with a smile that I hope doesn’t look deranged. Then I gesture to the man standing slack-jawed in front of me to get out of the way. “Scoot aside, Nick, before my nipples freeze off.”

  Ice crawls up my stockinged legs as I wait for him to move.

  He stares at me, darts a glance to Sophia, then steps out onto the front porch. My high school nemesis wastes no time in rushing forward out of the cold. Before I have the chance to do the same, Nick shuts the door behind him and steps in front of me. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m slightly hunched against the chill in the air, but he’s got the whole human-mountain thing down pat. He looks massive as he blocks me from heading inside.

  Voice pitched low, he says, “Let’s take a walk.”

  My heart gives a little jolt of surprise. “It’s cold out.”

  His thumbs sink into the front pockets of his jeans. “I run hot.”

  Oh, I just bet he does.

  Standing on my tiptoes, I attempt to peer over his shoulder. Unfortunately, I’m a solid six inches too short to see much of anything. “Just because you’re an aberration doesn’t mean I run hot.” I point to my outfit: suede, caramel skirt, with an emerald green blouse tucked into the waistband. My knee-high suede boots are warm enough, and flat enough, for a short walk, but that doesn’t mean I’m keen on breathing out icicles for the next twenty minutes.

  It’s not even forty-degrees outside.

  Nick closes the gap between us, his fingers going to the parted fleece collar of my coat. His breath is warm against my forehead as his fingers trail over the metal of my zipper, down past my breasts, down past my belly, down farther until my lungs are heaving and I’m welcoming short bursts of icy air into my body.

  Then, swiftly, Nick zips my coat all the way up to the collar, locking in the heat he’s so easily sparked to life.

  “Feeling warmer yet?” he husks out by my ear.

  He steps past me, tromping down the three front steps to the sidewalk.

  I’m frozen for a heartbeat, maybe two, before I break into action and scurry after him. He slows his pace, no doubt hearing my shoes scrape over the gravel, until we’re walking side by side, our elbows knocking together.

  It’s an instant reminder of all those days we walked home after school and I hoped with everything that I was for our hands to touch.

  I shake off the memories and look at him out of the corner of my eye. The man is grinning like he’s not even aware that it’s freezing outside. He’s insane. “You’re crazy, you know that?” I pluck at the short sleeve of his T-shirt. “You’re going to catch a cold.”

  With his hands shoved deep into his pockets, he tilts his head. “Will you sit at my bedside in my time of need? Comply to my every whim and desire?”

  “Every whim and desire?” Rolling my eyes, I pull my gloves from my coat pockets and put them on. And, yes, maybe I do it with a fair share of sass. He’s lucky I never leave home unprepared for Boston’s snowy winters. “What? Are you trying out for the role of Henry VIII?”

  “Didn’t he have nine wives?”

  “Six,” I tell him. “Divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, lived.”

  “He loved the last one enough to let her live?”

  The wind caresses my face with icy fingers, and I zip up my coat the final two inches. I should have opened up Agape somewhere warmer, like Florida or Hawaii. “Probably not. Or maybe he did, I don’t know. He died; she became a widow. Thus, she lived.”

  “Huh.” His bare elbow brushes my arm as he leads us down the winding street. “Where’d you learn all that?”

  My cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Jeopardy.”

  For years, I spent hours watching the show, acquiring random facts the way some people collect baseball cards or rocks. Reading was hard, but my ears worked just fine, and TV became my saving grace. Jeopardy, the History Channel, PBS—I devoured them all. Let’s put it this way: I wipe the floor with my opponent’s tears on Trivia Night.

  “I’m more of an HGTV guy myself,” Nick drawls after a small pause. “Probably no surprise there.”

  “You mean, your favorite thing to do on a Friday night doesn’t include watching paint dry?”

  His deep laughter curls around me. “You’ve got the days mixed up. On Wednesdays, I watch paint dry. It’s exhilarating.”

  “Oh, I bet.”

  At my sarcasm, his hip collides with mine and nearly sends me stumbling off the sidewalk. Before I can fall to my doom, he catches me about the waist and hauls me upright. Correction—he tugs me right into him. My boobs smash against the hard planes of his chest. I fist his T-shirt; all the better to hold myself steady, I tell myself.

  I’ve never been a very good liar.

  Beneath my fingers and his Red Sox T, Nick’s muscles are insanely firm. Nothing about his frame is soft, save for those lips of his which wreaked havoc on my fantasies for years. I used to picture them claiming mine, stealing away my breath the way I once convinced myself that he stole my heart. His mouth would dip lower, pressing kisses here, there, circling a nipple, before moving down, down, down to between my legs.

  Unwanted arousal hits me square in the gut. No, no, and oh, right, hell no. Using his chest as leverage, I push out of his arms. “And on Mondays?” I ask, hating the way my voice tremors ever so slightly as I throw out a random day of the week. “If Wednesdays are for watching paint dry, then what are Mondays for?”

  “Drilling.”

  Oh, my God.

&
nbsp; He did not just say that.

  “Picking out the right speed,” he goes on blithely, seemingly clueless to the fact that I’m squeezing my knees together, not because it’s cold out but because I’m turned on. Oh, the injustice of it all. “Slow . . . it’s got its own merits. Precision, for one. Deliberate, for another. Or fast—gets the job done quickly. Instant gratification.” He meets my gaze, a small smile flirting with the corner of his mouth. “Have a preference on how I put up the drywall in Agape this weekend?”

  Agape.

  He’s talking about drilling in my hair salon, not drilling me.

  I’ve never been so disappointed in my life.

  Relieved, I shout at myself. You mean that you are relieved.

  “Are you—” I clear my throat. “Are we already putting up the drywall?”

  His nod is nothing more than a dip of his chin. “We’ll be ready by Wednesday, probably, but I was trying to keep up the weekday game.”

  Because Nick Stamos is nothing if not a game player.

  And I’m still crushing on him, Effie’s older brother, like a loser.

  My eyes squeeze shut. Haven’t I been through this cycle enough times already? Liking someone—him—when the feeling isn’t mutual? Ten years. I was into him for ten years before finally bottling up those lovesick emotions and throwing away the key. You’d think by now that I would have my shit wrangled together when it comes to Nick Stamos. You’d think, but clearly he’s my kryptonite.

  A cool, masculine palm cups my face, and it’s so shocking, so delicious, that I don’t dare move for fear that it’ll end.

  “Another migraine?” Nick asks softly, and then he kills me altogether by pressing his lips to my forehead. He lingers, and my pulse skyrockets. “No fever.”

  “I’m freezing.”

  “Are you?”

  He voices the question like his mind is a million miles away instead of on this deserted strip of sidewalk, with the night sky a blanket to our secret desires—or mine, at least—and his family only a few houses away. Any moment, his yiayia will come storming down the street, soup ladle in one hand and her customary black slippers shuffling hastily over the cement. She’ll demand to know what we’re doing, firing off question after question, as is her way, and I’ll stand here and announce: “I’m back in lust with your grandson again.”

  Not back in love, just lust.

  Lust is a whole lot safer.

  “C’mere.” It’s not Nick’s yiayia saying that now, but Nick himself. “Éla edó,” he repeats again in Greek. Big, hammer-swinging arms wrap around my waist. They pull me in close, palms planting flat on my back, one between my shoulder blades and the other inches away from the curve of my ass.

  And, just like that, Nick is holding me.

  Hugging me.

  Through the thin fabric of his T-shirt, I feel the heavy thud of his heart. It hammers away at a clip that matches the insistent beat of my own. Is he . . . is he as turned on as I am right now?

  I whisper his name.

  “I’m keeping you warm. Don’t read into it,” he mutters, and I recognize that tone. The surliness. The rigidity. Nick may have his arms wrapped around me, but his emotions aren’t open for dissection.

  Too bad. There’s no way I’m letting him get out of being anything less than honest with me.

  My hands snake around his solid form. “You’re hugging me.”

  “I’m keeping you warm,” he returns stiffly. “It’s an exchange of body heat.”

  Sure it is. “Are you using me, Nick?” I palm his back, rubbing in small circles. His muscles leap under my touch, like each tendon is vying for attention.

  “Ti?” The Greek word for what slips off his tongue.

  I bite back a grin. “You bundled me all up, coat and all, and wanted to go on a walk. You’re only in a T-shirt. I’m thinking you wanted an excuse to hug me. You could have just asked, you know. I wouldn’t say no.”

  His hold on me tightens. “You’re out of your mind.”

  “Am I?”

  “Naí.” Yes.

  I plop my chin on his chest and look up at him. He’s already staring down at me, his gray eyes wide, though they appear completely black in the evening light. “Then why did you want to take this walk?”

  A tick bursts to life in his jaw. “I wanted to check on how you’re feeling—after the migraine. I haven’t seen you much this week.”

  His concern for me sparks warmth throughout my body, but it’s not enough to put me off my intended course. We’ve exchanged emails all week. Platonic, simple emails—emails that never once indicated that I had his erection a hair’s breadth away from my face.

  That he got hard for me.

  Talk about dirty dreams coming true. If I weren’t so frustrated that he seems content to never mention it again, I’d feel like I won the lottery.

  “Nick.”

  He draws in a sharp breath. “Yeah?”

  “The migraine’s gone. It never lasts longer than twenty-four hours.”

  A heartbeat of silence. “Glad to hear it.”

  I bury my nose in the hard planes of his chest. “Nick?”

  “Ermione.”

  I’m prepared for this to blow up in my face. One hard dick does not take the fake out of our relationship. He’s still overhauling my salon, and I’m still pretending—if he needs me—to love up on him when or if the media cares to pay him any attention.

  But I have to know.

  I have to know what the hell he was thinking about when he stood next to my bed and got the hard-on to rival all hard-ons.

  “Mina?” My name’s a question on his lips, and it hangs there between us. Waiting for me to make a move.

  So, I do.

  “Earlier this week, when you came to my apartment . . .” Oh, God, here goes nothing. “You were hard.”

  Nick goes unnaturally still in my arms.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and rip the proverbial bandage off. “I was drugged up on meds for the migraine, but I remember everything. I thought, maybe, you might bring it up this week. You never did.” I hear him curse under his breath, and I shore up the last of my confidence. “You were hard, Nick, and I want to know why.”

  15

  Nick

  You were hard, Nick.

  Thank God for below-freezing temperatures or I’d be facing the same predicament now.

  Standing in the cold, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and jeans, it’s Mina’s warmth that chases the shivers away. Her nails digging into either side of my spine is the only sign that she might not be as confident as she’d have me believe.

  The smart thing to do would be to haul ass back to the family dinner we’re missing.

  Except, for reasons I don’t care to deliberate on, I can’t find it in myself to walk away.

  Obviously the chill in the air has turned my good sense into nothing but frozen blocks of you’re-an-idiot. Something I confirm tenfold when I roughly mutter, “Don’t knee me in the balls for this.”

  “Don’t what? Nick—”

  I cup her ass. Under her coat but over her soft skirt. I cup her ass like it belongs to me, like it’s always belonged to me. Fingers pressing in, palms downright greedy. I block out every protest springing to life inside my head, starting with who she is and ending with I-don’t-give-a-fuck because I’ve thought of nothing else but this for days.

  “Your tattoo,” I growl the words into the crook of her neck. “You want to know why I was hard? The ink you’ve got right here.” I squeeze her right cheek, and my cock twitches at the moan she releases. Jesus, that sound. Feminine and throaty and so damn sexy. The latter isn’t a word I’d have attributed to Mina Pappas in our youth. She’d been frustrating, always there, always pushing my restraint to the brink.

  My restraint feels tangible now, ready to snap.

  Distantly aware of the fact that we’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk, I brush Mina’s hair to the side and breathe life into the insane lust that’s plagued me all wee
k. “You in that thong”—my nose glides up along her throat, taking note of the quickening pulse just below her jawline—“is the thing of fantasies.”

  She arches her neck, giving me more room to play. “It’s big,” she whispers, squeezing my ass to let me know what she’s referring to exactly.

  “I like big.”

  “T-the women in my family . . . we call it the Pappas butt.”

  My lips graze her smooth cheek. “Passed down through the family?”

  “Never skips a generation—oh, wow, that feels good.”

  I nip again at her earlobe, then soothe the sting with my tongue. She tastes sweet. Smells even sweeter, especially here near her hairline. Perfume, maybe? Or maybe it’s her natural scent. Either way, it’s addictive. Fingers tangling in her hair, I sweep the strands back from her face and pose the question that’s nagged me for days: “Any other tattoos?”

  “There,” she says breathlessly, “behind my ear.”

  “Why?” I have two myself, both from my early twenties when I thought having tattoos made me somehow more of a man and less like a kid playing at being an adult. But getting ink didn’t magically mature me—life took care of that all on its own. Most days I forget I have them until I see my reflection. Hearing about Mina’s, though, feels like I’m uncovering something new about her. Like I’m opening a box that’s long since sat on a shelf, the key poking out of the lock. Except that the key didn’t belong to me, and I’ve never been one to push where I’m not wanted. Right now, right here, I feel wanted. It’s a fucking heady sensation, and I pull back to meet her gaze. “It’s my temporary longing,” I rasp, “to know why you love tattoos so much.”

  Her laughter greets my ears. “I love when art takes shape. No one tattoo is the same as any other—they all take on the slightest deviation.” She shrugs in my hold, stepping back. I miss her warmth immediately, but there’s something in her expression that steals my attention away from the activity below my belt. Raw honesty lingers there, furrowing her brow as she rocks back on her heels. “Tattoos are like people. We’re all unique. We all have our own temporary longings”—here, she flashes me a grin—“but whereas relationships can be fleeting, tattoos are an imprint of a memory marked in the skin. A snapshot of emotion or a moment forgotten to time and distance.”