“Your ego, Nick,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, “seriously.”
“A little birdie told me I needed more sugar in my life. Well, I’m ready to deliver.”
With my gaze locked on his handsome face, I debate the meaning behind that. Is he . . . is he using sugar as a sexual euphemism? Something tells me he’s only yanking my chain, but it doesn’t stop me from shifting in my seat because, damn him, now I’m imagining him parting my knees and settling his big body between them. Does he have any tattoos of his own? Any snapshots in time that are forever marked on his body? It seems only fair that I find out, considering he got a full view of my rear end.
Finally, with the image of a naked Nick in my head, I drag the words out slowly like I’m being led to the gallows. “I’ll . . . consider it.”
Satisfaction curves his lips into a wide grin. “Glad to hear it. You need to remember to live, even when you’re reachin’ for those dreams of yours. Plus, I didn’t want to break out the big guns.”
“And those are?”
“Blackmail,” he says with a wink. It’s the second time he’s done that tonight and my heart (and libido) don’t know how to handle it. Looking altogether too pleased with himself, he nods toward Sophia. “Looks like you’ve got two more tagalongs. When’s this shindig happening?”
It’s only then I notice that Nick and I have caught the attention of every person at the table. In the midst of our banter, it was all too easy to forget that we aren’t alone. Effie looks like she’s swallowed her steak the wrong way. Aleka keeps staring at her husband, and I don’t miss the way she checks out her mother-in-law.
Kyria Stamos, the one woman most likely to throw a fit at her grandson’s new plans, sits perfectly quiet while she sips her café. Like me when the conversation was rolling in Greek, she’s blissfully unaware of anything that’s been said in English.
Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss.
“Two weekends from now,” Sophia says, and, like Nick’s grandmother, she doesn’t seem at all perturbed by the fact that Nick just browbeat me into attending. Maybe she really does need a weekend away from Boston and her ex-husband? Or maybe she’s got her eye on another attendee. Both seem like viable, preferable options. Way better than to think she’s gunning for Nick. “Oh, this is going to be so much fun!”
Fun isn’t the word I’d use.
But when I glance over at Nick, I amend that.
A weekend in snow-laden Maine sounds like hell, but with Nick there . . . well, maybe there’s something to be said about body heat.
17
Mina
The next morning, I’m up early enough that I watch the sun hit the horizon from my salon’s bay window. Its rays kiss the narrow, winding street, and the other brownstones that rise up like miniature towers and stretch toward the pink-and-orange sky. From a young age, I always loved coming to Harvard Square. It’s a bustle of students and young professionals and creatives carving their place in the world.
Just as I am now.
Seated on the floor with paint swatches spread out before me, I lean forward and press my fingers to the cold glass. Snow fell last night, a good five or six inches that I shoveled at the crack of dawn this morning. Already there’s a dusting of a new sheet of the fluffy stuff and I figure I have another hour or so before I need to bundle up and grab my shovel and boots for round two.
Shoveling snow isn’t my thing. Although, to be fair, winter in Massachusetts isn’t my thing, either. Maybe in five years or ten or twenty, I’ll hire someone to plow the snow on my strip of sidewalk, but right now I’m enjoying the satisfaction of doing it myself. It took me a long time to get to this place in life, and I’m not ready to pass off even the most basic of responsibilities to anyone else.
Even if that means I need to get my butt out of bed at a ridiculous hour to ensure I’m not blocked in by a Nor’easter, I’ll do it, no questions asked.
I shift my attention away from the quiet street and down to the myriad paint chips. It feels like I’ve waited years to pick out a paint color for the walls of Agape. Endless pictures on my Pinterest boards. Back further than that, I had binders stuffed full of cutouts from interior-design magazines. Each decision made for the salon is a win, a reminder that patience and hard work got me here, even when my own parents would have preferred me to choose the marriage route.
Except that marriage has never been in the cards for me. How can it be when my own mother, who claims to love my adopted father, cheated on her new husband? And with some random guy she met on a trip? Not that my dad is any better. He may have “taken me in” out of the kindness of his heart, but he took me to task in a way he never did with Katya and Dimitri. Expectations I would never meet were set out before me, and I tore through them all, knocking each one down.
Because unlike what most parents do for their children when they don’t want to see them hurt, mine never hid that I was the outlier in the family. Not outside the house, of course, where they maintained their uppity, holier-than-thou act—but within our home, where both Katya and Dimitri were allowed to flourish and find their way, I was . . . controlled.
Picking a wall color feels like the greatest gift. A miracle that I still managed to find my path, despite being held back for so many years. A miracle that I refused to let my learning disability get the best of me, even when my father quietly, in that awful, reserved way of his, insinuated that the problem was all in my head and that I simply didn’t apply myself hard enough.
Getting here, achieving the dream all on my own, is nothing short of a miracle.
Fate’s tipping hand, even after being dealt bullshit card after bullshit card.
Quietly, I sort through the paint chips and hold them up, one by one, and try to imagine them on Agape’s walls. And, one by one, I narrow down the possibilities. Canary Yellow calls to my rebel soul but isn’t the right fit. It goes in a pile with the other misfits. I pick up another, a muted gray, and slowly read over the printed name at the bottom of the chip: Reflection. Appropriately titled, maybe, but a little too morose for the salon of my dreams.
Beyond the window, the record store across from Agape floods with light and I spot the manager meandering through the aisles. I’m convinced it’s the only remaining music store in the city, and, as I have every morning since moving in, I raise a hand and wave. The manager waves back, then goes on his way.
Happiness floods my chest. This right here, this is my life and it’s perfect.
No, perfect was Nick Stamos almost kissing you last night.
My heart skips a beat.
That almost kiss, that tight embrace he wrapped me in, was better than any sex I’ve ever experienced. I’m not sure what that says about the men I’ve hooked up with, but it probably reflects more on me than it does on any of my casual flings.
I lift Reflection up once more, giving it a second thought, then add it to the pile with Canary Yellow.
Sifting through the paint chips, I come to a pretty one that straddles the line of gray and lavender. It’s the perfect blend of elegant and feminine. With a darker accent wall to complement it, I can easily see this color painted throughout the salon. Plus, isn’t lavender supposed to promote a calm atmosphere?
Pulling it closer to my face, I give myself a moment to study the letters. As a kid, reading of any kind sent me into a blind panic. The words blurred, they danced across my vision like a Whack-A-Mole evading the gavel; they gave me hell until frustration warred under my skin and in my soul, a constant battle of maybe-you’re-just-dumb, and I gave up.
Like this salon, I’ve come a long way since then. Words no longer terrify me, and if someone has a problem that it takes me an extra moment to read the options on a menu or a long-winded text, then that’s on them. Sorry, not sorry.
I sweep a cursory glance over the letters on the paint chip, absorbing them as a whole instead of individually as I once did, and whisper, “Elation.”
Sounds like a winner to me.
Hell, I feel pretty elated about life right now.
Happy bequeaths happy—that’s pretty much the mantra of my life.
I stick Elation in my binder of Wants for the salon, then check my phone. It’s after eight now, and my ass is sore from sitting on the concrete floor for so many hours. I’d sit for another four if it means I can continue watching the world outside my window. My window. Man, I don’t think I’ll ever get over how good that feels.
My phone vibrates, and I glance down to see that Effie’s texted me.
Oh, boy. Last night I fled the Stamos household before she had the chance to have the come-to-Jesus talk I knew she so desperately wanted to have with me. She’s obviously worried about Nick and me, and it’s not that I’m slamming the door on her concerns. She’s not wrong: her brother wants the whole shebang and I . . . well, I want what I have now. A quiet morning that belongs to me, watching the shops lining Bow Street come to life. I want to live on my own terms by my own rules without a heavy hand to ensure I comply with rules designed to hold me back.
But that doesn’t mean I’m not attracted to Nick or that I haven’t been attracted to him for years now. And I can’t, no matter how much it would appease Effie’s worries, ignore how insanely giddy I feel about the prospect that Nick may find me attractive too. I mean, talk about wishes cast on shooting stars actually coming true.
We’re both adults. Assuming that last night wasn’t a fluke, shouldn’t a fling be a mutual decision between the two of us? I trust Nick to know his own mind, just as I know mine. I’m not going to be dick-tranced into changing my decision about a husband and kids.
Maybe you’re getting ahead of yourself.
Sigh. Yeah, maybe that too.
We almost kissed, but we were also standing on a dark, empty street with no one to judge us or to question our motives. It’s possible that he was only caught up in the sexually charged moment, but can’t the same be said for me? I never would have been so bold if I hadn’t—literally—seen his jean-covered erection only last week.