Hold Me Today

by Maria Luis

  “How . . .?”

  Feeling a blush crest my cheeks, I bring my hands to my lap. “That first day I came to your office, I saw the miniature sculpture in the waiting area. It wasn’t done, but I couldn’t—can’t—get the image out of my head of you working on it. The patience it would take. The acute attention to detail it requires. It could belong to anyone, but I saw it and I knew that it was yours.”

  His jaw works tightly. “I can’t seem to finish it. It’s the longest I’ve ever worked on a piece, but this one . . . I just can’t get it right.” He slides me a swift, searching glance that sparks goose bumps to life on my skin. “Maybe I will now.”

  “Do you like it?” I ask softly.

  His gaze hitches back to his chest, to the geometric-inspired church window inked into the side of his ribs. The lines of the tattoo are intricately Gothic, almost haunting in their austerity.

  He reaches for my hand, his thumb brushing over my skin. “You know me too well, koukla. It’s perfect.”

  No, this feels perfect.

  And it terrifies me how much I wish it all were real.

  26

  Celebrity Tea Presents:

  Nick Stamos Spotted Getting Tattoos With New Girlfriend—And We Have A Name!

  Readers, the headline says it all, but I’m here to spill the TEA. Take a seat, pour yourself a cup, and let’s get down to business. You may remember recent reports of Put A Ring On It contestant Nick Stamos stepping out with a mysterious woman. Well, a new source on Twitter claims that Stamos and his new girl (more on her in a minute) came into a tattoo parlor the source frequents. They picked tats out for each other, KISSED, and looked genuinely smitten.

  “I was just coming in when they were checking out,” the source told Celebrity Tea, “and the moment I spotted Nick I remembered seeing your article! OMG, they were all over each other, and I secretly grabbed a video. By the way, he’s even hotter in real life. She is one lucky girl.”

  Well, Dear Reader, we’ve done our homework (you’re welcome) and this Mysterious Woman is none other than one Mina Pappas of Cambridge, Massachusetts. Her social media accounts are pretty sparse, but never fear! Looks like our girl Mina is opening a new hair salon—according to her Instagram bio link, anyway.

  Did our boy Nick hammer his way into Mina’s heart? Is Savannah Rose aware that her former beau has already moved on? So much to discuss, so little time. One thing’s for certain, a little birdie told me that Put A Ring On It will be airing sooner than expected, due to all the leaked footage. Grab some popcorn. Take a seat. It’s going to be a wild ride and you KNOW I’m down to deliver the tea, 24/7.

  27

  Nick

  “Why is painting so satisfying?”

  I stifle a laugh at Mina’s question. We’re camped out in Agape, painting the salon’s walls a mellow mauve that she claimed she couldn’t live without. Standing on the third-highest rung on a ladder, her hips sway back and forth to the tempo of a Greek song she’s playing off her laptop.

  “You laugh, but I’m not kidding.” She dips her roller back into the paint. “It’s calming.”

  “Said no one ever.” At her harrumph, I drape one arm over my bent knee. Mina wanted the chance to paint the upper halves of the room, which means I agreed to do the bitch work: edging. I would have put Vince and the boys on it, but I need them over at the museum today doing some preliminary demo work. “Painting is tedious. Edging is tedious. I could live the rest of my life without picking up another brush and be a happy camper.”

  The roller splats against the white plaster as she goes back in for another round. She attacks it with such gusto I almost feel bad for the wall—it’s beginning to look like an abstract mural. And not the good, expensive kind.

  “Well, I like it.” Mina’s dark ponytail slips over one shoulder as she reaches her arm diagonal across her chest to paint a bare spot she missed. “It’s a bit like coloring hair. So many stylists hate the process, but there’s nothing more exciting than making someone feel beautiful through color. The brighter the better, if you ask me.”

  Everything about Ermione Pappas is bold: her personality, her laughter, the way she feels in my arms when she orgasms. Anddd, yup, there we go. Instant hard-on. If I had it my way, she’d skip staying with her parents and camp out at my place. I have a king-sized mattress, which beats the twin she’s currently sleeping on. But Mina’s stubborn, maybe even more stubborn than I am, and even though I’ve convinced her to come over for dinner, she’s yet to leave her parents. Personally, I think she’s holding out and hoping they’ll come around and all sing Kumbaya together.

  All I know is that I’m glad we have the salon to ourselves today.

  Fixing my attention on that ponytail of hers that’s swinging as much as her hips are, I ask, “You ever miss the pink?”

  She touches her head with a gloved hand. “My hair, you mean?”

  I nod. “Other than now, I can’t remember the last time you went au natural. High school, maybe. Even then I remember walking into my mom’s bathroom to find you and Effie covered in hair dye and scrubbing the floors before Ma saw it all. Purple back then, right?”

  “You’ve got a good memory, Stamos.”

  “Attention to detail, Ermione.” I tap my forehead. “As someone tells me frequently, I’ve got it in spades.”

  “No truer words have ever been spoken.” Pausing with her roller resting on the lip of the paint tray, Mina shrugs. “And I do miss it. The pink hair. I promised Toula I’d strip it for her wedding—you know how she is about pictures—and I honestly thought I would have already ditched the black, but . . .”

  “You like it.”

  She nods, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Which one do you like more? The pink or the black?”

  I hold my hands up. “You’re not tricking me into answering that one, koukla. There’s no right answer.”

  That small smile grows bigger. “It was worth a try.” Another dip of the roller into the paint. “I’ll probably go back to the pink soon enough. Clients like it when hairstylists are edgy and fashion-forward, y’know?”

  I don’t know a damn thing about cutting hair, but I love that Mina loves it—so I guess that’s what matters.

  “Plus, people are commenting on Agape’s Instagram page left and right since that article came out. They’re loving any and all pictures of fun-colored hair inspos, so I guess I have my answer on that front. Colors of the rainbow, here I come.”

  I didn’t have my second cup of coffee this morning, and I blame withdrawal for being slow on the uptake. Pushing up onto my knees, I drop the edger into the paint tray to my right. “Someone wrote an article about the salon? One of the local newspapers or something?”

  Mina’s painting draws to a stop. “Nick, you did see it, right?”

  “The article about Agape?” And this is the part in every man’s life that he fears. Mina and I may not be dating “for real”—yet—but that doesn’t mean she won’t do that woman thing where her eye twitches when faced with a guy fucking up. Think fast, man! “You know, I never really . . . read the newspaper. Much.”

  Or ever.

  I get my news from the TV and the radio when I’m driving all over the goddamn state to various sites. Scratching behind my ear, I watch as she clambers down the ladder. “Send it to me and I’ll read it. Promise.”

  She huffs out a laugh. “You’re going to want to read this one—particularly since it’s about you.”

  My stomach drops. “Us Weekly again?”

  “Not them. At least, not yet.” Dropping to her haunches by our pile of materials, she palms her phone, taps away, and then holds it out for me. When I eye it like it’s a snake ready to attack, she rolls her eyes. “Someone saw us at Downtown Tattoo. There’s a video of us kissing.”

  Well, damn.

  Then again, this was the point of our entire deal, right? I overhaul the salon; she dates me in name only. Unfortunately, we’ve thrown the latter straight into the fire to burn to
the ground. Hesitation slicks through me when I finally take the phone from her. I skim the article fast, and it feels like a damn miracle that it’s not longer than a few paragraphs. I don’t watch the video of us, mainly because I hate the idea of being filmed—again. What Mina and I have . . . it’s not for mass consumption and gossip columns. “And these people commenting on your page—they’re not being assholes?”

  Her nose scrunches in confusion. “Why would they be assholes?”

  There is seriously no good way to put this. I meet her gaze. Silently return her cell phone. “Because you’re not Savannah Rose.” When her shoulders jerk, I get my shit together real fast to explain what I mean. “These people”—I point at the phone she pockets in her jeans—“they’re internet trolls, koukla.”

  “They seem like reasonably nice people,” she tells me stiffly.

  Ah, shit.

  I climb to my feet. “And they are nice people. It’s just that . . . how do I explain this?”

  “From the beginning, maybe.”

  I give a low laugh. “Smartass.”

  She twiddles her fingers in the air, urging me on. “Keep going.”

  My girl pushes a hard bargain. Almost as hard as I do.

  Heading for the mini fridge I installed as soon as my electrician did his thing, I pull out two bottles of water. “They prepped the two final contestants for the media right before it all went to shit. Might as well have been etiquette lessons for dummies—felt like it, anyway. And one thing they hammered home is that viewers grow loyalties just by watching us. Maybe one guy does something to hurt the bachelorette—viewers digest it as a personal attack. You hurt the person they were rooting for.” Uncapping one of the bottles, I drain half. Then hand the full one over to Mina, who’s watching me earnestly. “I may have been dumped, but now I’m worried they’ll be out hunting for blood. Yours, now that I’ve dragged you into this with me. The internet is a world of trolls.”

  “But it was your idea for this fake relationship in the first place.” She points the top of her bottle at me. “Did you think my identity wouldn’t get out?”

  Shifting my weight on my feet, I grumble, “I hoped it wouldn’t. I didn’t think . . . to be blunt, I didn’t think anyone would care enough about me to be leaking shit to the press. I’m me.”

  “You’re hot, Nick.”

  She says it so matter-of-factly that I can’t help but laugh. When she doesn’t join in, I toss the bottle from one hand to the other, buying myself time to think of something to say. Ultimately, I choose not to pussyfoot around the truth. “Mina, I work in construction. There’s nothing sexy about that. Half the guys on the show were lawyers, investment bankers, actors . . . For fuck’s sake, Dom played in the NFL.”

  Lifting one brow, Mina sips from her bottle. “You own a business, which means you’re a CEO. Women love CEOs. Trust me, I listen to enough romance audiobooks to know. And, as if that’s not enough, you’re the CEO of a business that by all accounts is doing insanely well. You’re kind and funny, and your arms are just—well, let’s just say that I don’t mind eating dessert at dinner because I know you’ll be able to lift me up no matter what. You’re a catch, Nick. Cream of the crop.”

  I try to smother my grin with a palm scrubbing over my mouth. Well, well, well, Mina Pappas thinks I’m a catch. A month ago, she was making fun of me for ordering two bags of popcorn on a date. Calling it like it is here: I should have kissed her years ago. Probably would have saved me from going on a show like Put A Ring On It in the first place—if I had a girl like Mina by my side, I never would have given the show a second thought.

  As if on cue, I think back to her comment about dreams manifesting when they should and never before. Was I not ready for Mina all this time? Hell, am I ready for her now? I sure want to be, especially when faced with the thought of never having her again.

  Oblivious to the dangerous direction of my thoughts, Mina says, “And in case you were wondering, everyone commenting on my pictures seems wicked nice. They’re sending me DMs and asking me when Agape is opening. The thought that even a few of them might turn into clients is beyond exciting, particularly since I can now count all that I have on one hand. And—hold onto your panties, here—but they’re actually commenting about how cute we are together.”

  Well, that’s . . . surprising. The cute thing, I mean. Everyone should want Mina as their hairdresser—that goes without saying.

  By leaving Put A Ring On It as I did, I expected some bumps and bruises after coming home to Boston. Once the footage leaked of Savannah Rose turning me down, those expectations metamorphosized into a very real reality of shit going south. Only, Mina and I have somehow managed to create our own narrative through no real effort on our part. Each moment that’s been broadcasted to the press is all too real. That kiss in Downtown Tattoo, that raw moment of us standing outside my parents’ house. What this Celebrity Tea site is capturing is a man falling in love.

  Falling in love.

  My eyes fly shut at the realization, just before I shove it in a lockbox and throw away the key. Mina’s made no secret about being fearful of relationships and commitments—and I had sex with her knowing where she stands.

  A fling.

  This is only a fling.

  The thought rings surprisingly hollow.

  I guzzle the rest of my water, wishing I could just dump it all over my head instead. “Production is going to lose their shit over this.”

  “Do you really care? This Savannah girl turned you down. Not that she’s not nice—I’m sure she is—but do you really care about what production thinks? They’ll air the season when they air the season. Live your life the way you want to.”

  And I am living my life exactly how I want. Only . . . “She didn’t turn me down.”

  I flick my gaze over to Mina in time to catch her jaw dropping open. “I’m sorry, but I thought you just said . . . I’ve seen that shot of you two on the beach when she told you no. Everyone has seen that shot. Everyone and their mother—except for your yiayia.” She blinks, her honey gaze locked on my face. “That day in your office, you told me you weren’t engaged.”

  God, this is going to be awkward.

  I toss the water bottle into the open trash can near the ladder, then begin to pace. Dragging my palms over my face, I twist around and square off my hips. “For the record, I’m not engaged.”

  “I’d hope not,” Mina says all prim and proper, “since I let you fuck me. Three times now.”

  Her don’t-fuck-with-me tone brings a smile to my face. She’s feisty as all hell and I love it. “Not engaged,” I repeat more for her benefit than mine. “I went on the show because I wanted to find someone. I wanted someone to love, the way my mom loves my dad and Effie loves Sarah. By that point, Effie had forced me into all the usual outlets after everything with Brynn—online dating, blind dating, literally dragging me into a coffee shop and shoving me into a seat with the first random woman she saw.”

  “She was married, wasn’t she?”

  I bark out a laugh. “She sure as hell was. We ended up talking about the Patriots before I darted the hell out of there.” Glancing at the half-painted wall to our left, I go on. “So Effie surprises me one day with this crazy, big news. Tells me all about how it’s this huge opportunity that I can’t pass up.”

  “She got you on the show . . . you said that before.”

  Nodding, I look back over to Mina. “She sent in my bio, some newspaper clippings of recognition Stamos Restoration has received over the last few years . . . and the video of Brynn telling me at the altar how she’d fallen in love with her boss.”

  Mina’s hands come up to cover her mouth. “Oh, Nick.”

  My smile is a little weak this time around. “Yeah, I know. Awkward, right? Effie and I had a long chat and she knows if she ever pulls another stunt like it, I’ll tell Sarah about how she used to wear her underwear over her head until she was eleven. But I guess the idea of a guy like me showing up on a show like Put
A Ring On It was too hard for them to pass up. I was golden-boy material.”

  Mina’s smile matches mine, turned down at the edges and completely somber. “Good, ol’ Saint Nick.”

  “Yeah.” God, how I hate that nickname. “So, I went on with high hopes. Or, at least, reasonably mediocre hopes because clearly I was having no luck on my own. The producers . . . well, they also pushed a hard bargain during the audition process. They told me all the things I wanted to hear—that they had done compatibility tests based on our personalities, and that Savannah and I were a perfect match. There was other stuff that I know now was bullshit, but yeah, they got me, hook, line, and sinker. I was tired of going on dates that led to nowhere, even more tired of my yiayia asking when I was giving her grandbabies, and I thought—stupidly, maybe—that letting someone else choose for me might be for the best.”

  “And you liked her?” Mina asks. “Savannah Rose?”

  “I liked her, except that it never went further than that, not for me. I kept pushing at first because I know I’m not the most social guy. Maybe the chemistry wasn’t there because I was—”

  “Being surly?”

  I let out a low chuckle. “Calling it like it is—I expect nothing less from you.” When she opens her mouth to protest, I hold up a finger and cut her off. “But, yeah, surly. Rigid. However you want to put it. Savannah and I ended up getting along wicked well. We’re more alike than I think either of us realized at the beginning of the show. Boston construction guy meets Southern, aristocratic socialite. The producers fucking loved the idea of it, and the thing with TV is, they manipulate shit all the time. For all I know, they could have been pressuring her to keep me on for the sake of ratings.”