“What was that for?” she whispers.
I brush another kiss over her mouth, this one lighter. “For being you.” One more kiss because I can’t help myself. “But you’re right. It’s wrong. There’s only one time I can specifically recall Savannah putting her foot down and telling the producers to fuck off. It was the first night and we’d all just hauled ourselves out of the limo. What viewers don’t realize is that process takes nearly six hours. It’s brutal.”
“It sounds awful.”
“I never want to see the inside of another limo again—at least not when it’s jampacked with eight other dudes.” Narrowing my eyes, as though that’ll bring me back to that moment when all I could smell was cologne, booze, and B.O., I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. “There was this one guy. Owen. He was all tatted up—you could see the ink at the collar of his dress shirt and down to his fingers. We sat in that limo for long enough that I could start reciting the guys’ family members by name, but he never said a single word.”
Mina touches a finger to my loose T-shirt. “Maybe he was nervous.”
“I think he was. I was already in the house by the time he met Savannah outside, but then shit hit the fan. I heard her talking to one of the producers in the bathroom. She was, ah”—I scratch my jaw—“demanding that he be sent home before the ring ceremony. She didn’t want him there and she made it known.”
“That’s . . . uncomfortable.”
It’d been the sort of TV drama producers only wish they could manufacture—and it’d been completely authentic. From the way Owen stood like a granite statue as Savannah asked him to go, to the way he’d reached for her, with a look on his face I’d understood instantly.
He’d looked at her the way I’d stared at Brynn, right after she dropped the bomb of all truth bombs.
I don’t know how Savannah Rose and Owen knew each other, but it was clear that they did. And it was clear to me, even if not to anyone else, that she wouldn’t change her mind about keeping him around. The sound of the door slamming shut behind Owen had reverberated through the house, shocking every contestant into silence.
I clear my throat. “Maybe, subconsciously, I realized that they had some sort of unfinished business. She kept me around, and I kept hoping that this was it and I’d wake up one morning and realize I loved her.” Snorting derisively, I fold my arms over my chest. “That didn’t happen. I demanded to talk to the producers, then the director. I wanted to tell Savannah, privately, that I wasn’t the right guy for her. They wouldn’t let me. We were in different housing complexes and they kept her in this . . . bubble, almost, where they plucked her out for dates and ceremonies and put her back when she wasn’t needed. So I did what I had to do.”
“Nick . . .”
I look her in the eye. “It seemed cruel to dump her on TV when I was meant to be proposing. So, I let her reject me.”
Mina’s expression shutters. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Because it makes me too nice?”
“No, you jerk, because you only made things worse for yourself. If people care about what’s going on between us, what’s going on with you, it’s only because you gave them the ammunition. People love a good underdog story and you, right now, are the quintessential underdog.”
The feeling of my phone vibrating in my back pocket has me cursing under my breath. “I got to take this,” I mutter. “It might be one of the guys.” I answer without screening the Caller ID. “Stamos.”
“How do you feel about clam chowder? Goes well enough with your Greek palette? I just landed and I’m fuckin’ starving.”
Ah, gamóto.
America’s other favorite underdog, Dominic DaSilva, has arrived.
“Meet me at that restaurant at the top of the Prudential? Say, thirty minutes?”
I glance over at Mina, then make a quick decision. “Yeah,” I tell Dom, “I’ll be there. And I’m bringing someone I want you to meet.”
28
Mina
We meet Dominic DaSilva in the restaurant housed on the top floor of one of Boston’s tallest skyscrapers—and let me be the first to say . . . he’s a total hunk.
Dark hair styled like a woman’s fingers have already run through it this morning. Dark, espresso eyes that exude warmth, but don’t quite manage to conceal a cynicism I suspect runs deeper than he’ll ever reveal. Unlike Nick, whose wholesome, model-good looks stop people in their tracks, the former NFL tight-end’s appeal is rough around the edges. At six-foot-six, he’s also a giant, standing even taller than Nick. And it doesn’t help that the man clearly has a penchant for black: from the leather jacket encasing his broad shoulders to the unlaced combat boots on his feet, he’s not wearing a single shade lighter than midnight.
Hello, Dominic DaSilva—Lucifer will see you now.
“And this,” Nick says warmly, pressing a flat palm to the small of my back, “is Mina.”
I grin up at him. “Dominic, nice to meet you. I’ve heard . . . well, Celebrity Tea likes you a lot.”
His chuckle is low and raspy. “Not as much as they like my man Stamos over here.” He claps Nick on the shoulder in brotherly camaraderie. “Celebrity Tea’s all up in your business the way Entertainment Tonight can’t bother to show a single segment without flashing a shot of my mug.” Dark eyes drop down to my face. “You can call me Dom, by the way. No one calls me Dominic unless I’ve fucked up.”
“Well, we have that in common.” I poke Nick in his rock-hard bicep. “No one calls me Ermione—my full name—except this guy.”
Nick’s fingers slip under the hem of my coat to graze my skin. “You like it when I do, koukla. No use denying it.”
Dom arches a heavy brow, his gaze taking the both of us in. Then he breaks into a full-fledged grin. “Well, damn. So that prick at Celebrity Tea wasn’t lying through his teeth for once.” He points a finger, swiveling it between Nick and me. “You two together now?”
“Um . . .”
“About that—”
“DaSilva, party of three?”
Praise Sweet Baby Jesus. I whip around to face the host, who’s holding black leather menus in the cradle of his arm. “Sure, we’d love to take our seat!”
The host doesn’t even bat an eye. I can only imagine the sorts of shenanigans he sees working at a restaurant like this—a place for tourists and locals alike who want to feast on good New England clam chowder and even better views. We’re led to a table positioned near the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree window. From every vantage point around the room, Boston is unveiled. Gorgeous Back Bay, the winding Charles River meandering through the city, the John Hancock building rivaling the Prudential’s height.
Nick holds my chair for me—perfect Victorian gentleman, I’m telling you—before taking the seat next to mine. Unlike Dom’s all black getup, Nick’s in his trademark work jeans and a Stamos Restoration T-shirt, this one a navy blue that plays off the gray of his eyes. He leans forward, elbows on the table. “How’s the escape feeling so far?”
Leaning back, Dom throws one arm casually over the chair beside him. “Holdin’ out the verdict on that for now.” The corner of his mouth tugs down, and it hits me in the gut that Dominic DaSilva must be having a really rough time if he actually flew all the way out to Boston just to get away from it all.
I fiddle with the utensils before me. “Listen, Dom, if you want to talk to Nick about . . . whatever it is that’s going on, you can. I’m not going to run to the media or to a friend with your laundry list of secrets.”
Beside me, Nick stiffens. I only feel it because his knee presses against mine, and then he’s relaxing, letting out a breath before draping an arm on the back of my chair. It’s tough to tell if the touchy-feely bit is all an act, designed to keep up our ruse of fake dating. I don’t think it’s an act. I hope it’s not an act.
Nick is a lot of things—reserved, stiff—but in the last few weeks he’s let down his walls. Even now, his fingers softly tug on the strands of my hair, as though he does it absentmindedly. That’s not the mindset of a fake boyfriend. Right?
“You can trust her,” he says, still playing with my loose ponytail. “I do.”
I do.
Two little words with so much meaning behind them.
Our server comes around to take our drink and appetizer order. Once she leaves, Dom palms the edge of the table and exhales roughly. “Living in L.A. comes with its merits. Good weather, a quick ride to work. Except that means I’m in the cesspool of vultures.” He drums his fingers on the table. “I went to see Savannah Rose after the show ended.”
Nick curses beneath his breath.
I reach for my glass of water and pretend I don’t exist.
“It was . . . a bad idea.”
“DaSilva, man.” Nick’s free hand motions frantically through the air like he’s trying to find the right words. “Why the hell would you go to her after she turned you down?”
“Because I liked her.” He says it so simply, so easily, that I nod along with him, like I’ve known him for years and not just ten minutes. “I wanted to know why she rejected me, without all the cameras and shit in our faces. I’m not going to go into detail about what went down—clearly, I’m sure you can put two and two together—but someone caught me leaving her hotel room at almost four in the morning.”
“Gamóto.”
I reach for Nick’s thigh under the table. “There’s good news!” I tilt my head toward the scenery out the window. “You’re in Boston, which is great! And, oh yeah, no one’s reported anything about you and Savannah being in some hotel. I’ve been”—I slide my gaze over to Nick—“checking the gossip sites daily after the first time we ended up on one.”