The way I look at it, Nick and I will have to talk at some point about what happened, and then we’ll set down the rules. And, knowing him, he’ll have a spreadsheet and approximately fourteen bullet points, all detailing the risks and potential hazards of a no-strings attached fling.
Call me ruthless, but I can’t wait to see his expression when I rip his precious list to shreds. He needs someone who’ll yank him out of his shell, and I’m more than woman enough to do the job.
Tapping my phone awake, I pull open Effie’s text, only to see that she messaged me a link to an article from a site called Celebrity Tea. I cringe, then cringe again when I spot the bolded byline: Nick Stamos, America’s Heartbroken Bachelor, finds Love with Unknown Woman.
My stomach sinks.
Oh, crap.
I tap-tap-tap on the article, sending my phone into an apoplectic fit, and am visually assaulted by a blown-up image of myself in Nick’s arms. As in, it’s me, in the clothes I wore last night, hugging Nick in the clothes he wore last night. The Red Sox logo on his T-shirt is visible from the angle the photographer captured the picture. We’re standing in the semi-dark, our arms wrapped around each other, our faces mostly shadowed by the street lamp overhead.
“Oh, fuck a goddamn duck.”
I skim the article as quickly as I can, doing my best to keep my phone steady.
“Put A Ring On It contestant Nick Stamos (age 32) was spotted getting cozy late last night in his hometown of Cambridge, Massachusetts. According to one anonymous source linked to TV production, Stamos was a favorite from day one on the show’s debut season. ‘I really thought he’d walk away with the final ring, you know?’ disclosed the source. ‘Savannah Rose was absolutely smitten by him. There wasn’t a date she didn’t have Nick on, and anyone could clearly see that the two of them had major chemistry.’
And yet, major chemistry couldn’t save Stamos—no relation to John Stamos, America’s favorite uncle, by the way—from the last elimination round. A video of the bachelorette turning down our Greek Adonis went viral just weeks ago, and now it seems Nick’s already on the rebound with a new lady love. Who might she be? Time will only tell, but since the two lovebirds were spotted only a few blocks from his family’s residence, it’s easy to presume that a My Big Fat Greek Wedding may be in the making soon enough.
Let’s raise a toast to leaked sources, shall we?
I’ll be back soon with more details, dear reader. You know we at Celebrity Tea do our best at spilling the damn tea, 24/7.”
Uh-oh. Grimacing, I fire off a quick text to Effie to smooth any ruffled feathers: Looks like my unofficial role as fake girlfriend has begun.
Immediately, three little dancing dots appear at the bottom left corner of the screen. I smooth my thumb over the glass and wait. Effie is not going to be pleased. Sure enough, I don’t have to wait long.
Effie: There were cameras near our house. Cameras neither of you knew were on the hunt. You were doing that crazy thing with your tongue when you want someone to kiss you!!!
Me: Crazy thing with my tongue??? I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Me: Nick and I were just . . . having a conversation.
Me: About tattoos.
Effie: You’re a shit liar.
Me: Tell me how you really feel.
Effie: Trust me, there are a lot of exclamation marks and four-letter words. You’re gonna get hurt. He’s gonna get hurt. This is going to be a disaster of epic proportions and I’m already foreseeing sending Tito’s out of stock when I order everything they’ve got to keep you from going off the deep end.
Me: What makes you think I’ll be the one who needs to be consoled?
Effie: Because you’ve been obsessed with my brother since the time you finally grew boobs.
Me: Obsessed is a strong word. I’m not a stalker, Ef.
Effie: And I repeat: obsessed.
Me: I know you don’t want to hear this, seeing as you both came out of the same womb, but maybe Nick only wants a fling?
Effie: Maybe he does. And maybe you’ll hook up with him and, for the first time in your life, realize that you want MORE. And he still only wants that fling. Let that settle in for a sec.
I don’t want to let it settle in, and thanks to the universe not being an asshole today, I don’t have to.
The front door to my salon bursts open and Nick’s workers spill inside from the cold with equipment cradled in their arms. Shaking snow from their hair, they stomp their boots on the two towels I laid out this morning after spotting the steady snowfall.
One last “let’s not fight about this” text to Effie, and then I drop my phone onto the pile of paint chips and hop to my feet. Swipe my hands over my fleece-lined leggings. Unexpected butterflies erupt in my belly. Seeing Nick after last night . . . Well, it’s moment-of-truth time. If he pretends nothing happened, I’ll either knee him in the balls or shove his ass out into the snow to freeze.
Giving the group of three men a hasty scan, I note with disappointment that Nick isn’t with them. Feigning a blasé tone, I ask, “Where’s your hailed leader?”
The tallest of the bunch, a handsome guy named Vince, lets out a deep laugh. “He who payeth our checks wenteth to Dunkin’s . . . eth.”
“You been watching Shakespeare in Love again?” deadpans the redheaded, Rupert Grint lookalike, named Mark. He’s built in a way that Vince isn’t, with heaps of muscles on top of muscles that speak to hours spent in a gym. Height-wise, though, he might as well be Vince’s little brother.
Vince flips him the bird with all the flare of a true Bostonian. “It’s a great movie—a goddamn classic.”
“Haven’t seen it.”
“You’re un-American, Mark. You don’t like the Fourth of July,” Vince says, holding up one hand, his index finger extended. “You don’t like Shakespeare in Love.” His middle finger shoots up next. “You’re squirrelly as fuck about cannoli, and I’m saying this for all to hear—if you don’t like cannoli, you can’t be trusted. It’s in the Italian bible, right after you-shall-always-listen-to-your-mother-or-risk-death-by-slipper.”
Holding back a snort, I raise my hand. “I don’t like cannoli.” I don’t touch the slipper comment—my mom never whipped out the pandofla herself, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t heard the horror stories from my peers. It’s a Greek thing, too.
Vince slaps a hand over his heart and claws at his chest. Gasping, he pretends to collapse in a heap. “Blasphemer!”
“It’s the texture that gets to me,” I say with a lighthearted shrug.
That doesn’t seem to make a difference. Vince side-eyes me with playful distrust. “Correction, Mina, cannoli is the texture of the gods.”
Bill, the last one in the group, claps Vince on the back with a hearty thwack. “You say the same thing about your cum—”
Vince erupts into a coughing fit. The words “shut up” and “asshole” are meshed in, and I’m about to respond when I hear Nick’s familiar voice behind me: “Keep that thing in your pants, man. No one needs to be scarred for life. And I speak from experience.”
I turn, only to find Nick balancing a cardboard tray stuffed full of coffee cups from Dunkin’s and a bag with what I assume are donuts. At least, I hope they’re donuts. I lift a brow. “Really?” I tease him. “From experience?”
Long-legged strides bring him to the receptionist’s desk that we pushed into the corner of the room last week. He sets the coffees and donuts down before dragging off his damp coat and dropping it on the floor. “Gave me nightmares,” he says, snagging one of the coffees from the tray. “You think you know a guy until you see his dick for the first time.”
I grin. “Strangely, I can relate.”
I watch as he moves toward me, and not for the first time, I can’t help but admire his prowl. He walks with his hips, all loose, masculine fluidity that can turn a girl’s brain to mush without a single bit of effort.
When he stops before me, I lift my chin and let my gaze climb up his sweatshirt-covered chest to the strong lines of his face. “Trust me,” he murmurs, “Vince’s a shocker down under.”
“A shocker?”
He holds up his free hand, thumb and index finger barely separated by air. “Small, if you catch my drift. Vincent Miceli’s been disappointing women around the world since circa 1986.”
Nick’s GM cuts loose a hearty laugh. “Bastard. The only shock happening is when your jaw hit the floor the first time you caught a gander of The Great One.”
I lean toward Nick and drop my voice to a whisper. “Why do I get the feeling he’s speaking about his penis and capitalizing the great one?”
Nick bends, bringing himself down to my level. The tip of his nose brushes the shell of my ear and my poor, needy body reacts all oooh-that-feels-nice. Goosebumps flare to life on my skin. “That’s because his mama never taught him that lying to yourself might be good for morale but sets you up for a lifetime of anticlimactic moments. Poor guy’s figuring it out the hard way, one small dick joke at a time.”
Anticlimactic moments. Oh, puns, how I love you so.
Poor Vince.
My shoulders shake with barely leashed mirth. I don’t want Vince to think I’m laughing at his expense—even though I’m sure Nick’s only busting his balls as guys do—but, still, I’m totally laughing at his expense.
A firm hand connects with the small of my back, and the unexpected touch is enough to stem my laughter and clam me right up. I jerk my gaze up, only to find Nick already watching me with his full lips tugged up in a big grin. “Yia sena,” he husks out. For you.
I glance down.
A little thrill zips through me when I see the coffee he’s offering. Above the Dunkin’s logo is my full name scrawled in black marker. Our fingers brush when I take it from him. “Thank you.” I make a point to blow the steam away from the plastic lid and take a small sip in gratitude. “You didn’t have to grab me anything.”