Those old feelings may be long gone but that doesn’t mean all the memories have dissipated along with them.
After my little rant that has nothing at all to do with the renovation project, I expect Nick to return to the topic of my salon and botched plans and new mock-ups and everything that is professional and orderly. Nick is, at the end of the day, a rule-follower.
Obsessively so.
But maybe he’s trying to prove me wrong—to axe his saintly nickname once and for all—or maybe he’s right and I’ve never known him the way I thought I did.
Because instead of wheeling around and leaving me alone in the hallway, he grinds his molars, jaw clenching, and then that hand on the wall is shifting over until it rests mere inches away from my head, invading my precious space. His sweatshirt-covered chest grazes mine with each labored contraction of his lungs. And those unreadable gray eyes blaze with emotion.
Too far. This time, I’ve pushed him way too far.
Abort. Abort the mission!
My feet refuse to move. They’re rooted to the concrete flooring as my back collides with the wall and my fingers curl in at my sides.
“Nick?”
His full lips part and the words that spill out rock me to my core. “I know that you used to get bullied in high school because you collected Barbies. Some asshole saw you at Toys “R” Us when he was there with his little sister.”
I blink, more than a little surprised by the admission. Even if the admission is true. Swallowing down my nerves, I find the need to defend myself a little, to make my younger self not seem quite so pathetic. “It wasn’t like . . . I mean, it’s not like I played with—”
Nick shakes his head, cutting off my tangent. “You practiced cutting hair on them. I remember, Ermione.”
Between my difficulties in class and being that “weirdo with the Barbie fetish,” high school was rough. Teenagers were assholes, and sometimes, when you were different—a little more unique, I liked to think—than your peers, your differences became an opportunity to be targeted. My learning disability, my Greek “otherness,” my weirdness, all made me a prime target for getting shit on. Back then, I never had the self-esteem to hold my ground.
“I remember when he came in to school one day with a black eye and a busted lip.” The memory pulls a soft, caustic laugh from me. “I wanted to feel bad, you know? I’m against violence, no matter if someone deserves it. Maybe the bully is being bullied at home—or maybe that’s my brain making excuses for their inexcusable behavior. But after months of putting up with his asshole comments, I straight up walked around on cloud nine for days after seeing him like that.”
“Weeks.”
“What?”
Nick shifts his weight on his feet. “You walked around for weeks lookin’ like you’d been hand-delivered a unicorn. And,” he says, looking down the aristocratic slope of his nose at me, “I’d never felt so pleased with myself.”
Pleased with—?
Oh. My. God.
“You didn’t,” I burst out, shock turning my heart rate into a rapid tattoo of disbelief. “Did you?”
Lips curling in a satisfied grin, he gives an ambivalent shrug. “How would you put it?” He pins me with a direct, daring look that I feel all the way down to my toes. “Oh, yeah . . . that Saint Nick doesn’t gossip. Sounds about exactly what you’d say to me, nickname and all.”
“If the shoe fits . . .”
His chin tucks in to his chest as he taps his work boot alongside my foot. “One of these days you’ll see that being a good guy doesn’t mean I can’t be a little bad.”
“Do you want to be bad?”
Another tap of his shoe against mine, and then, “Óxi, Mina mou.”
No, my Mina. My heart gives a little jolt at the teasing glint in his voice—and the Greek endearment that rarely anyone but my mother uses for me. It’s not a possessive show of affection, as it sounds in English, but more of a . . . diminutive way to refer to someone. Koukla mou, my mom always calls me and Katya, my doll. I try not to imagine Nick whispering the words in my ear, his big body hovering above mine as those pillow-soft lips graze my neck and up to that sensitive place behind my ear.
You do not like him anymore.
I haven’t in years. But that doesn’t stop me from inhaling a little too often now that he’s standing close, taking in that money-in-the-waiting scent of his that smells less like cologne and more just like him.
“Why be bad when being good is so rewarding?” he asks, and before I can digest that particular statement, he’s stepping back and crouching down to pick up the Walgreens bag. Letting the plastic strap dangle from one finger, he ducks a hand inside, then pauses, as though thinking better of it.
“C’mere.”
Nick has solidly knocked me off my axis this morning and I’m floundering, unable to move. “Why?”
He crooks a finger at me, then repeats, in Greek, “Éla edó.”
I go to him.
Wait with my heart in my throat as he peels the bag open wide and gestures for me to glance inside. Heart beating wildly against my ribcage, I do as he says—only to find the infamous yellow Domino’s bag staring back at me.
Sugar.
The man brought me actual sugar.
My shoulder blades hit the wall as I tip my head back and laugh harder than I have in a good long while. It filters out of me, unweighted by the stress of life and Agape and my dwindling bank account, and echoes off the walls. Then deep, masculine laughter joins in, too. I can’t believe he went out of his way to go to the store and pick it up, all for the purpose of proving what? That he can give a girl a little bit of sweetness? That he’s not all rough edges and surly attitude?
I peer up at Nick, only to find him posted opposite me in the same position. But instead of cupping his hands over his mouth to stem off the laughter like I am, he’s all smooth, male confidence with one hand buried in the pocket of his Blades sweatshirt and one boot planted on the wall behind him. He looks like he’s got all the time in the world to stand there and change my perception of him.
“Funny thing,” he says when he catches me studying him, “Saint Nick’s got a weakness.” He lifts the Walgreens bag and gives it a little shake. “Nice or not, good or bad, there’s nothing I hate more than when people look at me and cast their judgments. It’s one of the reasons this whole thing with the media and Put A Ring On It thing is driving me up a wall.”
My fingers tap the wall at my sides. “Why?”
“What do you mean why?”
I kick my chin in his direction. “You went on the show, right? Anyone who’s ever watched reality TV has to know that their character is about to be torn to shreds. Not even the good can survive.”
He lets out a rough chuckle at my subtle sarcasm. “It’s the sort of thing you don’t notice much when you’re out there. You’re stuck in a house with twenty other guys, all vying for the hand of the same girl. The producers ask the same questions of everyone. Do you love her? How’s the chemistry? Are you mad you didn’t get chosen for today’s date? They’re there to do their job, and we were there to fall in love and wait, gavel at the ready, for our dreams to be crushed and decimated.” Cocking his head to the side, as though giving my question deep consideration, he adds, “The judgment comes later, when it’s all said and done and you’re back home. When you check your email and scroll across multiple sites all having something to say about you. You become a one-note sensation, pre-determined by heavily edited scenes and your ability to stay true to yourself when you’re thrown to the lions.”
I swallow, hard, unable to tear my gaze away from his face. We’ve never talked about anything more important than pass the tzatziki sauce or stop stealing my towel! Even on his wedding night, conversation took a backseat to the numbing comfort of I Love Lucy and booze and room service. But, in this moment, I could stay here forever, listening to him philosophically analyze dating TV shows and the effect they have on the contestants’ vision of self-identity. I wonder if seeing yourself in the headlines, on screen, changes the way you perceive yourself—or if it all just becomes white noise.
The idea captivates me, swirls around in my head, and demands to be explored further, but I push it aside for now and ask the one question that won’t leave me alone: “What do they say about you?”
His Adam’s apple bobs down. His gray eyes shift to the right, staring at the wall above my shoulder, before swinging back. Meeting my own, unapologetically direct. “That even a pretty face like mine can’t convince a woman to stick by my side. Left once at the altar, and then during a proposal.” His voice lowers to gravel, a sound so sexy and alluring that I could orgasm on the spot and die happy. “It makes me want to prove them wrong.”
Even sexier than his voice is his confidence. “Yeah?”
He gives a curt nod. “Naí.” Yes.
Words fly to my tongue and stay in silence. Like an idiot, I repeat, “Yeah,” because clearly that’s a valid addition to our conversation right about now. Very riveting commentary. Honestly, how I don’t win any conversational awards is beyond me.
Instead of walking away with the unofficial Most Likely to Flunk Out of College award, my fellow high school peers did me an injustice. Obviously, I should have won Most Likely to Stand Silent When Faced With a Sexy Man Who Also Happens to Be My Best Friend’s Brother.
Go me.
“You didn’t ask me if I knew anything else about you.”
Honestly, I’m not sure I can handle anymore revelations today. Not when he seems to have an arsenal at the ready to make me question everything I know about him. “Was I supposed to?”
He doesn’t look away. “I think you should.”
Heart beating rapidly, I tap the outside of my thighs. “All right.” Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. “If we’re not friends, prove it and forever hold your peace. Unless there’s something else you know about me.”