Home > Hold Me Today (Put A Ring On It #1)(3)

Hold Me Today (Put A Ring On It #1)(3)
Author: Maria Luis

Unfortunately, I must be on the universe’s naughty list because I’ve been slapped back down more times than I can count in these last few months.

First, my former boss pulled out the contract I signed years earlier without paying much attention to the finer details. It stated, in no uncertain terms, that while I could open a salon within close proximity to Twisted, I was legally bound to one stipulation: I couldn’t bring my clients with me.

Yay to starting from scratch.

And then, of course, I committed the ultimate error in trusting a recommendation for the renovation itself. Seeing as how the reference came from a friend of a friend, from back in high school, I see now that I should have treaded more carefully.

As in, I should have gone with the glaringly obvious choice.

Nick Stamos.

CEO/Head Honcho/He-Who-Does-Not-Smile of Stamos Restorations and Co.

Effie’s older brother.

Also, the bane of my existence . . . and my teenage crush.

But Nick was off galivanting around the world for his thirties-life-crisis, the sober part of my brain offers up, as though reminding me that, Hey, this is why you didn’t ask him in the first place.

I don’t actually know why Nick skipped town—for once, Effie didn’t spill the beans—but Drunk Me nevertheless shushes Sober Me, and baldly announces, “I need your brother.”

My best friend chokes on her vodka. “You hate him.”

“I’m desperate.”

“If he heard you say that, you’d never live it down.”

“I never live anything down when it comes to him,” I grumble, not even bothering to hide the exasperation lacing my tone. This is why no one should ever be judged for youthful infatuations. All those hormones brewing—it messes with the brain and causes severe lapses in judgment, like that time I convinced myself that Chris was the hottest *NSYNC member. Two decades later and I don’t even remember what Chris looks like. “I swear to God that man has a memory like an elephant. Nothing ever gets past him. It’s annoying. He’s annoying.”

“Like an elephant?” Effie’s brows lift with curiosity.

“Elephants never forget.” When she stares at me blankly, I roll my eyes and help myself to more vodka. “I saw it on Jeopardy. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I have a plan.”

“A plan for my brother to overhaul this sad, empty shell of a space into something beautiful?”

I nod sharply and feel the corresponding roll of nausea crawl through my belly. Motion-sickness and I’m not even driving. The back of my skull collides with the sofa’s armrest, the sole of my foot crashing down to the floor like dead weight.

This must be what rock bottom feels like: cradled Tito’s bottle, unshaven armpits and an unwaxed upper lip, and the single prayer that the one man who I’d prefer to avoid for the rest of my life is now my only hope.

Rock bottom sucks, big time.

“He doesn’t come cheap.”

I sigh, resignation settling heavily over my chest like the set of dumbbells I purchased years ago and have never used. Cutting hair all day means my biceps and arms are perfectly lean. The same, however, cannot be said for my butt and thighs, both of which fight my jeans on the regular. J.Lo has nothing on the Pappas butt, as the women in my family like to say.

“No, Effie,” I tell my best friend, “he doesn’t come cheap.”

It’s a good thing he owes me—and I’m finally ready to collect.

3

Mina

“Holy shit, this is going to be the best damn pee of my life, I’m telling you right now.”

Tulle and lace and pearl beading fill my hands to overflow as I keep my gaze locked on the bride’s upturned face—not that I can see anything below the belt.

Effie’s cousin Toula hovers ass over toilet, her wedding dress hiked up to her shoulders, as she manhandles the metal handicap railing with one hand and clutches my forearm with the other to keep from toppling over. One wrong knee bend and she’ll be face down . . . or ass up, depending on which direction gravity pulls.

Her stiletto heel skids across the linoleum with a whine as she tries to redistribute her weight. She wobbles, eyes flicking up to meet mine in panic, and then sinks her pointy, coffin-shaped fingernails into my forearm.

“You owe me,” I tell her as her shoe connects with mine. When Toula asked that I come with her to the bathroom to check her hair before the wedding reception, there’d been no mention of “bathroom” duties. This is what happens when you play nice with everyone—you risk the possibility of being peed on. I inch my shoes back a solid two inches in self-preservation. “I don’t care if you saved me way back when after I got stuck in a bathroom stall and couldn’t get out. We’re talking—”

“Don’t Rose and Jack me, Mina,” Toula pleads with all the drama of an actress, which is, to the surprise of no one, her day job. “I’m too young to go out like this.”

The urge to roll my eyes has never been more potent. “The toilet isn’t the damn Atlantic Ocean, Tou—” A stray layer of tulle sticks to my mouth, my glossy lipstick acting like suction, and I spit out the fabric, batting it away before I’m the one succumbing to Death by Wedding Dress.

“Eep, don’t let go!” Toula cries out.

With nimble hands, I grab the dress before any bits of tulle can take a dip in the toilet water. A relieved sigh stabs me in the chest when I catch it all. No doubt I look like Easter threw up all over me—so much tulle, so much lace. All I need are the bunny ears and a carrot. “All right, you’re good. Go forth with the mission.”

“I can’t tell if I’m over the toilet.”

Oh, for the love of—

I yank the dress skirt higher, out of the way of impending disaster. “Squat and pray. Just squat and pray.”

And please don’t pee on my shoes.

Toula screws her eyes shut, her mouth pursing in overt concentration. Good Lord, she might actually be praying. Laughter climbs my throat, just as the trickling, telltale sound of urine hitting water echoes in the linoleum-covered bathroom.

Effie’s cousin drops her head back, moaning with pure, unfiltered relief.

“Didn’t the bridal shop prepare you for this?” I ask, stepping to the side when Toula gives her butt a firm wiggle. If I even dare try to give her some toilet paper, I’ll probably lose my hand in the countless layers of fabric. Instead of opting for a sleek, modern cut, she’s gone for Cinderella-impersonator, tiara included. Family friend or not, she’s on her own from here on out. Mark my words, my duties are hereafter complete.

I’m in desperate need of a cocktail.

And then, if I’m lucky enough, Nick Stamos will appear like the white knight he isn’t, and I’ll have the chance to plead my case. I’m already dreading the moment when his pewter-gray eyes land on me, shrewdly giving me a once-over that has always—always—left me feeling lacking. Wanting. Like I’m forever disappointing him, even though I don’t care one bit about what he thinks of me. I don’t care anymore, at any rate. I used to, back when I was a disillusioned youth.

If there was ever a chance of me knowing what exactly goes on behind those uniquely colored eyes of his, I’ve long since given up figuring it out. Nick’s as stone-cold as an ancient Greek statue. If there’s any luck in the world, he’s the opposite of an Adonis and has a dick small enough to fit behind the requisite leaf coverage.

You know that’s not even remotely true.

With an imaginary needle, I pop the very vivid memory of a teenage Nick straight from my head.

At any rate, the likelihood of him agreeing to my proposition is close to nil, but I haven’t gotten this far in life by going belly-up and accepting fate’s bad hand.

Vini, vidi, vici, right?

I came, I saw, I conquered.

I’m working on the conquering bit, but I have no doubt that some magic can be spun to maneuver things into my favor. Not that Nick has ever allowed himself to be maneuvered into anything. Not that time when we were kids and I begged him to sneak Effie and me out of Greek school or that horribly awkward moment on prom night when I thought for one crazy second that he might actually—

Nope, don’t even go there.

I suck in my bottom lip and focus on the situation at hand.

“How about putting a warning label—No Solo Bathroom Trips—on the dress tag?” I tell Toula when she flushes the toilet. “Or, maybe, I don’t know, go eighteenth-century and cut a slit in your underwear for easy access?”

“Bad news, I’m not wearing any underwear.”

I’m not even surprised. When we were kids, Toula spent an entire summer stripping naked. She flashed everyone from the mailman to the family dog to unassuming passersby outside her front yard. When we turned eighteen, she opted out of college for a career in burlesque.

Unless it glitters and shimmers, Toula can’t be bothered.

As for me, I like clothes. Hell, I love them. There isn’t a skirt I won’t wear or a top I won’t try at least once, but my love for clothes can’t compare to how much I obsess over getting my hands into someone’s hair. Un-creepily, of course.

“Let me make sure the bobby pins are holding up.” I motion to Toula after she’s washed her hands in the sink and I’ve done the same. “Once you’re announced into the reception, I’ll be lucky if I get another chance to fix you.”

Dutifully, Effie’s cousin drops her chin to let me survey my handiwork from earlier this morning. I’ve arranged her black hair—the same charcoal hue as mine now that I’ve removed my usual hot pink—in an elegant up-do with sweeps of locks here and loose braids strategically placed there. I straighten the bobby pins, sticking the butt of a pin between my molars while I tug and rewrap a braid. Once Toula hits the dance floor in an hour, I’ll let nature do as it wants but until then . . .

“You sure you don’t mind me posting the picture on Instagram?” I ask, slipping the pin from my mouth and into the thick, intricately styled bun at the nape of her neck. “I don’t want you to feel—”

   
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