My red lipstick stains the white-plastic lid.
Evidence of my freak-out. Just wonderful.
“Carl!” bellows a husky voice. “Any day now!”
CT—Carl—flashes me a conspiratorial wink, followed by a quick pull of the Dunkin’s blend. “He’s a new man these days. Probably all that sand and sun and sex—”
The door to my right flies open, and this time the body that greets me is all too familiar. Though I’ll admit that I’ve never quite seen Nick so . . . dressed down before. Jeans and T-shirts have been his go-to outfit of choice for years now.
Today, he’s decked out in clothes that look like they’ve been worn to the brink of extinction. A threadbare, black T-shirt clings to the flat planes of his big chest. The logo for Stamos Restoration and Co. is emblazoned in faded white over his left pectoral muscle, and maybe it’s my imagination, but I swear I can see the hard ridges of his abs through the thin fabric. Wishful thinking, maybe. The front of the T is stuffed haphazardly into a pair of paint-splattered cargo shorts. They hang low on his hips, suspended in place by an old leather belt that matches the same dark brown of his scuffed work boots.
The latter look heavy enough, and big enough, to send ants everywhere scurrying to the hills or risk being stomped into oblivion.
My stomach seesaws at the thought, and, by reflex alone, I draw another sip from the coffee as I meet Nick’s gaze. The stained portion of the lid faces him like an illuminated beacon of my mistakes, and I slowly lower the Dunkin’s.
I shift my weight from foot to foot. Lift my arm and carefully wiggle the Styrofoam cup. “Black, right?”
It’s a miracle I sound so calm and collected.
Married. Nick.
I should have grabbed the Tito’s before leaving my apartment.
My fingers dig into the sides of the coffee cup, and it releases that awful squeaking sound only Styrofoam can produce.
Nick’s gray eyes flit from the coffee to me to Carl and then back again. In a voice as smooth as velvet, he rumbles, “I can never say no to Dunkin’s.” Then, without another word, he takes the cup from my hand, lifts it to his mouth, and promptly drinks from the same, lipstick-stained spot that I boldly marked like a dog peeing on a hydrant.
With a defiant tilt to his chin, Nick’s attention remains fixed on my face.
It’s entirely unfair that a man so good-looking can be both the reason I want to learn how to pack a punch and the reason I once slipped my fingers under my panties at night.
As though he’s aware of the R-rated direction of my thoughts, a masculine groan reverberates in his chest.
The sound echoes in my ears, delicious and unforgettable. My gaze latches onto his Adam’s apple as it bobs down the length of his throat with each swallow.
When he pulls the cup away, he does so with purpose—and cuts the distance between us. He touches the coffee to the center of my chest, his fingers careful not to get all touchy-feely with my breasts, and then leans down. Full, pillow-soft lips to the shell of my ear. Pure gravel in his voice when he murmurs, “For future record, I take two spoonfuls of sugar in my coffee. A guy likes a little sugar when it’s being offered.”
Jerk.
Unwanted laughter at his unexpected arrogance threatens to escape, before I shove it back down into non-existence.
“Ah, you need me, boss?” Carl asks, reminding me that Nick and I aren’t alone. Over the years, we’ve rarely been alone. Except for my prom night and his wedding night, both of which ended not at all as my favorite romance books would have led me to believe.
Nick Stamos is a good guy. The best sort of guy, if you’re to believe all the Greek mamas here in Boston, but to me, Nick will always be an enigma I want nothing more to crack and dishevel.
He speaks to me like I’ll never understand even a fifth of what he says.
Watches me like he has a secret I’ll never know.
Judges me with his mercurial, pewter eyes and his perfectly perfect self.
Now, he steps back and gives me breathing room again. “You’re all good, Carl. Thanks for letting in Ermione.”
Ermione.
Not Ermionehh.
A shiver curls down my spine.
I do my best to curtail the urge to let my mind wander and think about the what-ifs.
The realities are this: I need Nick’s expertise for Agape. Nothing more.
That’s it.
As I enter his office behind him and hear the click of the door shut behind me, I remind myself that this is business. Only business. By the time I sit down at the desk across from my best friend’s brother, I do what I’ve done for the last decade and counting: shove any youthful hopes and dreams hung on the shoulders of one Nick Stamos back into the black abyss of Only-In-Your-Dreams.
6
Nick
I recline in my leather chair, hoping that Mina won’t notice the strain in my expression as I set my computer to sleep mode. My unease this morning has got nothing to do with her and everything to do with the phone call I just received from one of Put A Ring On It’s marketing people.
Savannah Rose rejected Dominic DaSilva’s proposal.
Their breakup wouldn’t be an issue—it isn’t an issue, not for me—except that production is speeding up now, all thanks to someone on staff spilling the beans.
“Someone leaked footage of Savannah turning you down, man,” Taylor said over the phone, “and Dom’s already been outed too. I’m telling you right now, heads are gonna fucking roll over at the studio for this. Lucky for me, that’s not my problem—I’m in PR, so what I’m gonna need you to do is lay low until TMZ remembers you’re not as exciting as you look and stops replaying that botched proposal of yours.”
Six months ago, the thought of TMZ even knowing who I am would be laughable. Stamos Restoration and Co. has a wildly successful reputation in the Boston metro area. We did work for the Boston Public Library a few years back, and the company name landed on every newspaper in the state after I single-handedly won the bid at an auction for a house that once belonged to Nathaniel Hawthorne’s family. Yes, that Nathanial Hawthorne. Restoring the property earned the company recognition in ways I never fathomed, but those successes belong to Stamos Restoration and Co.
Not me, Nick Stamos.
I hate the public eye, hate even more the idea of being center stage. The only reason I went on the show in the first place is because I truly hoped it might be crazy enough to work.
That by the end of it all, I’d be crazy in love.
Dammit, why couldn’t Savannah see that Dom was her perfect match? If she had, the press wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about me. Wedding planning. Honeymoons. Speculation about future children. Every reporter in the goddamn country would be interested in them, not me. That’s the way this was supposed to go.
You need to keep your head in the game and focus on the matter at hand.
With stiff shoulders, I glance up and find Mina watching me with those luminous honey eyes of hers. She looks like the quintessential professional today, like she thought I might take her to task for her usual dark lipstick or showing off her cleavage or wearing her hair down in loose waves.
“You look stressed,” she says, reaching up with two fingers to tug at the high-neck collar of her sleeveless shirt. A bow with long, flapping wings cinches the material closed like those old-fashioned pins Victorian women used to wear.
If she can tell I look on edge, there’s no point in denying it.
Briefly, I debate whether 8 a.m. is too damn early to break out the scotch I keep in my office. On a morning like today, when my head feels close to exploding, I don’t think there’s such a thing as too early. It’s always five o’ clock somewhere. Plus, if Mina has some with me then there’s no reason to feel like a total schmuck.
Right?
Right.
“Want something a little stronger than coffee?” I ask.
Her teeth sink down into her bottom lip. “Really, I shouldn’t.”
I should make a funny quip and tease the light back to her eyes, but if there’s one bonus to having known Mina my entire life, it’s that I don’t have to pretend. She may not know all that resides in my soul, but she still knows me. Just as I know her. Though I guess we only really know what Effie’s told us both.
Still, I make a last-ditch effort, more for her sake than mine. “I’ll even get you your own glass. You don’t have to worry about catching cooties.” I nod to the Dunkin’s cup on the desk. “Then again, if that was a concern, you shouldn’t have offered me your coffee.”
A slight laugh escapes her. “If it helps, this one was meant to be yours.” She pokes the cup with a gold-painted finger. “A peace offering, if you will, for me behaving . . . out of turn on Friday night.”
“Out of turn” implies that Mina hasn’t always loved to bust my chops, and we both know that isn’t true.
As though nervous about my contemplative silence, she hastily adds, “I’m sorry about the elevator incident, by the way. Sometimes I . . . sometimes I just—”
“Like to fuck with me.”
Her fingers drum a nearly silent beat on the desk. “I wouldn’t phrase it quite like that. It sounds so aggressive.” She smiles at me, wide and full like she’s innocence personified and not full of shit. “And I’m not an aggressive person. I’m all about the hugs and unicorns and kumbaya moments—”
“Admit it, Mina,” I murmur, barely leashing in a laugh as I struggle to maintain a straight face, “you love to mess with my head. Nothing makes you happier than seeing me thrown off balance.”
Funny how only five minutes of back-and-forth ribbing with this woman has pushed my own problems to the periphery. And that’s all before I have the satisfaction of watching her squirm in her chair. That dainty, ultra-feminine bow, black and lined with red seams, stands a direct contrast to her olive complexion. She plays with the end of one wing, rubbing the silky fabric against the pad of her thumb.
“But you make it so easy for me to . . .” She drops her hold on the bow and lifts both hands, palms facing out. “No, no, I will not let you distract me from the mission at hand.”