I don’t sleep around, but when I do choose to let a man in my bed, it’s with the understanding that there’s nothing more to it than uncomplicated sex. One and done. I’ve always preferred to work toward my dreams of opening my own salon than be caught up in guy drama.
You’d burn me without thought.
I’m not so dumb that I can’t read between the lines: Nick thinks I’d hit it and quit it. Quit him. That I’d do to him what I’ve done to the other six men who have ever shared my bed.
Six.
Not sixteen or sixty or six-hundred.
It takes every ounce of control not to let my voice shake when I finally gather the strength to speak. “I’ve never burned anyone.” Those aren’t the words I wanted to say, but they’re the words that come out regardless. “Just because you love being in a relationship doesn’t give you any right to judge how I live my life. Not everyone wants to settle down.”
His head jerks back, full lips parting. “What the hell are you talking about?” The question comes in Greek, and it’s almost ironic to me that it’s his default language. When he’s excited. When he’s angry. And, apparently, when he’s completely flummoxed too.
My shoulders hitch up. “You make it sound like I’m . . . flighty, like I jump from bed to bed.”
Awareness enters his expression, turning his pewter eyes a deeper hue, the color of a stormy sky just before the winds wreak havoc. “Mina, I didn’t—” He cuts his hand through his hair, pulling at the curly strands. “That’s definitely not what I meant. I’m not judging you. Fuck, I’ve never judged you.”
Nick plays favorites with Greek obscenities, and, at the very English four-letter curse, steam rolls off my back. “Thank you.” I pause. “So, we’d date in name only.”
Nick’s nod is short and clipped. He meets my gaze, and I see hesitation lingering there. “You’re Effie’s best friend, Mina. You can tell me no and I’ll still work on your salon.” Again he spears a hand through his wild hair. “Gamóto,” he grunts, “I shouldn’t have even asked you. It’s crossing so many boundaries.”
He’s a rule-follower. Nice guy, Saint Nick.
And I’m reckless, at least according to all our family and friends.
“I’ll do it.”
His body snaps in my direction. “What?”
Old crushes stay dead, right? I swallow, hard, and pray I’m not putting myself in the flames. “We have a deal. You work on my salon and I’ll . . . I’ll date you.” I try to crack a grin. “For the record, I wouldn’t sleep with you anyway. I don’t mess around with Greek guys.”
Dark brows arch high. “Any reason for the aversion?”
There are so many reasons, starting and ending with the fact that nothing else would bring my father more joy than a Greek son-in-law for his Greek daughter. So perfect, so completely nauseating. And what if he turned out to be just like your dad? Controlling, stifling. A shiver slithers down my spine.
Instead of telling Nick the truth, I flash him a wide smile. “It all goes back to one teeny-tiny, pink bikini bottom.” When his jaw snaps closed, I saunter to the desk and grab all the papers I set out earlier. “There I was, a young, impressionable teenage girl, and I thought . . . Greek men are legendary in bed. That’s what everyone says, or, you know, at least Cosmo does. It has to be because they’re packing something extra-large down there.” I shove the manila folder in my bag, then hang the strap over my shoulder. The coffee cup I pick up and tuck close to my chest before moving toward the door. “Imagine my surprise when I caught sight of the reality after we all went swimming.”
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 <[email protected]>
From: Mina Pappas <[email protected]>
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 <[email protected]>
From: Nick Stamos <[email protected]>
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 <[email protected]>
From: Mina Pappas <[email protected]>
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 <[email protected]>
From: Nick Stamos <[email protected]>
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 <[email protected]>
From: Mina Pappas <[email protected]>
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.