Home > Hold Me Today (Put A Ring On It #1)(2)

Hold Me Today (Put A Ring On It #1)(2)
Author: Maria Luis

He wants his good TV. It’s his job, and I get that too.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll willingly ruin mine and Savannah Rose’s lives to pacify the public’s demand for cheap shots and trashy entertainment.

“Nick,” Savannah Rose murmurs, her gentle New Orleans accent barely audible over the crashing of the ocean waves behind her, “I just want to say how—”

“Óxi.”

She blinks. Then blinks again. “I’m sorry, what—”

“Do you remember what I taught you when we were in Australia?” If Joe wants to publicly humiliate me, I’ll go along—but only if Savannah catches on, and he’s clearly passed along nothing of what I told him. So much for letting her hold the reins. The asshole obviously didn’t plan to tell her anything, preferring to send her into today’s proposal as blind as a damn bat. “The Greek words?” I prompt when she says nothing.

“Well, yeah, I think—” She scrunches her nose, clearly trying to recall our exact conversation from a few weeks back. “Óxi, óxi that means . . .”

I refuse to look away until the word registers in her head.

No. It means no.

And I’m banking on her understanding everything that I’m not saying, so she can keep her pride and hold her chin up high when it’s obvious that Joe the Prick wants nothing more than to see her fall—and watch the show’s ratings skyrocket in contrast.

“Oh.”

The word emerges from her mouth, small, hesitant, and then she’s blinking away, running a hand through her dark hair and nodding, nodding, nodding, like she’s trying to get her brain back into the game plan.

Tell me no, I mouth slowly, tell me no.

I drop to one knee, just as she fixes her gaze on my face.

Her eyes are clear, her mouth relaxed and un-pinched. My guilty conscience kicks in, and, dammit, but I’m seriously hoping that she was prepared to accept Dom’s ring today. That’ll make this easier for the both of us when we go our separate ways.

I’m sorry, Savannah Rose.

I never break hearts.

Until today.

2

Mina

Boston, Massachusetts

“My heart feels like it’s going to give out.”

The words leave me on a rough exhale, and my best friend does nothing but shove a glass of vodka-on-the-rocks into my hand like it’s the cure to end all shit-tastic days. “It’s called anxiety,” Effie Stamos tells me, all no-nonsense attitude and calm-in-the-middle-of-my-storm as she sips from her own glass. If she thinks it’s weird that we’re camped out in my unfinished hair salon, guzzling booze like it’s our job, she doesn’t say so out loud.

Her dark eyes flit over me, though, no doubt cataloguing my very obvious lack of fucks to give. I haven’t showered in days. Haven’t shaved in days either. If I cared to look in the mirror, which I don’t—the scent clinging to my skin and clothes are all I need to know that I look like hell—I’m very certain I’d come face-to-face with the modern-day Yeti. It’s not a look I’d ever suggest to one of my clients when they come in to get their hair cut.

Then again, I don’t have clients anymore either.

My heart seizes again, lungs clamping tightly, and I briefly contemplate ditching the dainty glass Effie’s given me for the entire bottle instead. Nothing says Yay For Hitting Your New Low than drinking to excess on a weeknight.

“Alcohol always helps,” Effie says from her perch on the far side of the sofa. There’s at least three feet separating us, which I’m sure is her way of trying to avoid the stink that is currently me. Smart lady. “Stub your toe,” Effie continues, lifting her glass in a toast, “drink Tito’s. Flat tire, drink Tito’s.” Her dark eyes light with a forced, let’s-laugh-this-one-out-together humor. “Find out that your handyman ran out on you with your check for ten-thousand dollars—”

I’m lunging for the bottle off the coffee table before she even finishes her sentence. The vodka tickles and warms its way down the back of my throat, a reminder that I rarely drink anything heavier than wine or a fruity cocktail weighted with more calories than a burger from McDonald’s. I’ve never been one for the Skinny Girl menu.

Effie’s mouth twitches.

“Just say it,” I mutter morosely, waving the bottle in her direction. “I’m an idiot. A screw-up. A—”

“I was actually thinking about the fact that he took your lucky penny.”

“Bastard.” I down another mouthful of Tito’s and pray to the alcohol gods that I won’t be tossing up my cookies tomorrow morning. A hangover is not in the plans—then again, neither was trusting a scammer.

“Who does that?” I point Tito to the far side of my newly purchased hair salon, which is empty save for the sofa we’re sitting on and the cute receptionist’s desk I picked up at an antiques sale a few weekends back. “It wasn’t enough that he took the ten-K? The jerk went through my desk and took my lucky penny. I’ve had that thing since your mom gave it to me on prom night.”

Aleka Stamos, the hairdresser who gave me my first pair of shears, promised that if I kept the lucky penny on me, one day I’d have the chance to see it in my very own register at my very own hair salon. Envision your dreams, she said, manifest them into reality. The penny’s copper was worn down, smoothed thrice over, and had survived over a decade of being almost handed over to cashiers time and again. Well-earned battle scars, only to be swiped from my register before I even opened Agape’s front doors.

“I’m telling you,” I mutter darkly, “that crossed a line.” Another pull from Tito the Great. “Bastard.”

“You’re starting to sound repetitive.”

My brows lower. “I’m drunk.”

“You’ve had one shot and approximately three gulps of vodka, half of which is drenching your shirt.”

I glance down, and sure enough, not only am I pulling a Yeti in terms of hair growth, I look like I’ve taken a dunk in a pool of D-grade vodka.

What a good look, Miss New CEO.

I can’t even find it in myself to crack a smile at my poor attempt at sarcasm.

Since my teenage years, I’ve worked toward only one dream: running my own hair salon. I’ve never wanted anything else, never deviated from the path I set into motion after the first time I watched Tyra Banks on America’s Next Top Model. Call me crazy, but the show—dramatic as each season was—gave me hope.

I was never the smart girl in school. A C was as good as an A in my book—considering all the work and sweat and tears that the C cost me. My inability to keep up with my peers in class was then matched by my very Greek and very traditional father, who thought sports were a waste of time, as were other extracurriculars like drama and singing. I was, effectively, particularly good at doing nothing. Unless you included my expert skills at babysitting. As the eldest of the three Pappas siblings, I was tasked with taking care of Katya and Dimitri every day after school.

For years.

And that included helping with their homework, which, no surprise there, was more hellish than burning off my eyebrows for just the fun of it.

Back then, I craved the confidence I saw in those women on the show. I craved their vitality and their uncontained excitement and the way they stood proudly as though to publicly declare, This is who I am, and you can either love it or kiss my butt.

I wanted their swagger.

And it may have taken some time, but I learned to cultivate that same swagger for myself until—

“I need a plan.”

Effie eyes me warily. “How about we wait till tomorrow when you aren’t on the verge of a meltdown?” She casts a quick glance about the empty salon. Before I bought the space, and the small apartment above it, the building had housed a floral shop. A few potted plants still linger here and there, their soil dry and leaves bronzing, even though I’ve done my best to keep them alive.

Turns out that a hairdresser and a horticulturalist are not synonymous occupations, despite the fact that shears are used for both.

My best friend takes another sip of Tito. “How long are you going to make us sit down here in the dark? It’s creepy.”

Ambient light filters in through the bare windows, basking the concrete floors in shadowy figures. Instead of a building meant to kickstart my hopes and dreams, the eerie vibe tonight gives the space more of a haunted-house-attraction appeal. “You own a ghost tour company,” I say, cupping the vodka bottle to my damp chest like a babe about to suck on a nipple, “creepy may as well be your middle name.”

Rolling her eyes, Effie points a finger at me. “You need a lawyer.”

“I need money for a lawyer.” Feeling the all-too-familiar punch to my gut, I strangle the neck of the vodka bottle and try to stem the well of tears burning at the backs of my eyes. I don’t cry—haven’t for years—and I have no plans to start now. But, jeez, learning that Jake Rhodan disappeared with money intended to cover a third of the renovation costs is crippling. Like a kick to a blistering wound when I’m already down and bleeding. “I’ve already reported him to the cops but nailing his ass to a wall isn’t possible until they find him.” My vision swims like I’ve put on a pair of drunk goggles. Oh, right—I am drunk. The room is positively swaying. And when did Effie get a twin? I close one eye. Stare a little harder with my other. Plant a flat palm on the cushion beside me and curse Tito while trying not to slur my words. “What money is left has to go to finding a new reno company or I’m totally screwed.”

Confession: Effie and I both know that I’m already screwed.

Though I once worked for Effie’s mom, I’ve spent the last few years at Twisted, a high-end spa and salon situated in Boston’s ritzy Beacon Hill neighborhood. I cut the hair of congresswomen and celebrities, all while scraping together every penny until I could open my own salon.

Agape, my salon, is the pinnacle of my career.

   
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