His dark hair is in desperate need of a cut, and I vow to trim it soon. But it’s not his hair that truly steals my focus—it’s his naked torso . . . and the other tattoos I see marking his skin. There are only two, one gracing his pec—a quote, it looks like, that I spotted when he first removed his shirt—and another on the underside of his left ribcage.
I trace my memories with a heavy hand, trying to remember the last time I saw him shirtless. Back in high school, I think. And, boy, the years have made his already spectacular torso into a work of art.
Ropes of muscle clench as he sits under the needle, his eyes squeezed shut—leaving me full room to drool over him. His shoulders and arms are all bulging power, no doubt thanks to lifting things all day for Stamos Restoration and Co. My face heats as I wonder what it would be like to be under all that bulky mass.
“Do you need some water?” Calvin asks me, snapping me out of my daze. “You’re lookin’ a little pink.”
Quickly, I shake my head, muttering “no,” and then return to my unbidden perusal.
Nick Stamos is a catch. Why in the world would that girl Savannah Rose turn him down? Seriously, who in the world could trump a guy with so much heart and sex appeal? It doesn’t get better than him, that’s for sure.
Flicking my eyes up to his chest, and then to his face, I startle when I realize he’s staring right back. And my hands . . . my hands are cupping my naked breasts. The flush on my cheeks spreads down, warming my chest and then, yes, lower still. I cross my legs at my ankles, careful not to move too quickly.
He winks—winks!—and then mouths something that looks suspiciously like, Like what you see?
Turning my face back to front-and-center, I stare up the ceiling and fight the smile threatening to burst free.
Cocky, incorrigible man.
He’s such a liar. He isn’t shy at all. At least, he isn’t with me.
I spend the next hour on the table. Then spend the following one flipping through a magazine in the main area of the parlor. When my phone vibrates, I pull it out of my coat pocket to see that Effie’s texted me. Some of my happiness dims. She wouldn’t approve of any of tonight’s shenanigans, least of all our getting spur-of-the moment tattoos.
A permanent mark on our skin for a temporary, fake relationship.
I fidget in my chair. Hang my head in guilt. And then check my phone like any best friend ought to do.
Effie: Good news!!!!!!
Her enthusiasm is contagious as my fingers fly across the keyboard, not pausing to check for any possible typos before I shoot it off.
Me: TELL ME. Did the Blades write that 5-star reveiw?
Effie: I think so? Maybe?
Effie: Actually, I think they did. Totally forgot to tell you about it. But that’s not my news!!!
Me: Spill the tea, lady. I’m not getting any younger.
Effie: This is not a drill. I repeat, THIS.IS.NOT.A.DRILL.
Me: I just sprouted my first gray hair. Hurry it up!
Effie: Only the first? LOL
Me: Be glad I love you. Will you tell me already?
Effie: . . . we got the thumbs up! From the adoption agency! WE’RE GOING TO BE PARENTS!!!!!!!
Oh, my God.
I jerk my gaze up from the phone, sending a wild glance around the parlor because, holy crap, I need to tell someone. My only option is a dude sprawled out on a bench across from me. He looks like he eats children for breakfast, then picks his teeth with their bones. The face tats really aren’t doing him any favors.
“Hey!” I hiss at him, waving one hand when I notice he’s wearing earbuds. “Hey, mister!”
He raises his head, eyes drowsily glancing over at me. “Sup?”
I don’t even care about his lack of excitement. Holding up my phone, I thrust it toward him. “I’m going to be an aunt!”
He waits a beat. Pauses for yet another. And then tucks his earbud back in. “Does it look like I give a shit?” he grumbles.
Whatever. His loss, not mine. He has no idea how much of a badass aunt I’ll be. The best. I turn back to my phone and send off another text to my best friend.
Me: Who is it? A boy? A girl? How old is my nephew or niece? Who am I going to spoil???
Effie: LOL! We have no idea. All we know is that the adoption agency thinks we’ll be a good fit for some child out there and oh, my heart is FULL with all the possibilities!! We need to celebrate.
Me: Yes. YES! This wknd? I’m so happy for you guys
Effie: Works for me. Love you!!
Me: Love you back. Give Sarah a hug for me!
“That smile for me?”
My head snaps up at Nick’s gravel-pitched voice. He’s back in his T-shirt—another Stamos Restoration variation—with his coat tossed over one arm. He looks a little green around the edges, and I jump up from my seat to cross to his side.
“It can be,” I tell him as I pull the coat from his grasp, “but”—I lean in, standing on my tiptoes to get my mouth close to his ear—“Effie just texted me. The agency told them yes!”
Nick’s gray eyes widen. “Holy shit. For real?”
I grip his arm, my excitement bubbling over. “Yes!” And then, as though I have every right in the world, I hook a finger in the collar of his T-shirt and drag him down for a kiss. He stiffens under my touch for the briefest moment before squeezing my hip and nipping my lower lip.
“You two ready to pay?”
Oh. Oh.
Lowering to the soles of my feet, I laugh awkwardly. “Oops, sorry, Calvin.”
“No need, you two lovebirds.” He rolls his eyes, teasing us, before finishing up our joint transaction. Nick and I split the bill down the middle, and I do my best not to worry about the money. Sometimes you need to remember to live, to breathe. Plus, my stress levels feel nonexistent and I have zero urge to wander anymore tonight.
Some people take Xanax to calm down. I take a dosage of Nick Stamos.
Same results but the latter is a whole lot more fun.
“Anyway,” Calvin goes on, “since you’re both determined not to look at those tats while you’re here, do me a favor and call in the morning. If there’s something you don’t like, we’ll fix it up for you.”
We take our self-care brochures, along with the ointment they force us to buy—even though I have two tubes at home—and then we’re tromping outside to Nick’s car. The cold stings my face as I slide into the passenger’s seat.
“My place?” Nick asks quietly, one hand on the steering wheel.
I study his profile and feel myself nod. “I’d love to see where you live.”
“Buckle up, then. One home tour on the way.”
25
Mina
“This is the cutest neighborhood,” I say when we pull up to a tree-lined street twenty minutes later. Nick lives in a quiet spot in Wayland. The small town is picturesque, even at 9 p.m., with two-story Colonial-era houses dotting the side of the road, wide-open pastureland tucked behind short, wooden fences, and curvy streets that might as well be trademarked to New England.
“I picked the house out right before I proposed.”
Right. The proposal. I send him a forced grin he can’t see in the dark. “The first time?”
“Smartass.” He says it affectionately and without an inkling of heat. “Yeah, the first time. Figured I was heading right into marriage with children coming soon after, and I thought I needed something big and showy.”
It makes me wonder how he felt stepping into that big and showy house alone after his failed wedding.
“I bet it’s beautiful.”
“It is.” The car slows toward the end of the street, the headlights illuminating a gravel driveway that leads to a steep incline. As we head up to the house, Nick adds, “I did all the work on the house myself. Stripped out all the shitty shag carpet and brought in this amazing restored wood from an eighteenth-century mill that was being torn down over in Worcester. The back of the house overlooks a pretty big pond, and there was so much damage done to the wood that I actually put in—” He breaks off with a grumble deep in his chest. “Shit, sorry. You probably don’t care to hear—”
Except that I do. “Don’t stop,” I tell him, and he doesn’t.
I listen to him talk about some of the small details he incorporated—the parlor doors that separate the living room from the dining room he never uses; the six-burner stove he purchased from a restaurant in Somerville before they shut down; the beautiful, original trim work that he spent hours bringing back to life.
I can barely keep my mouth shut when he parks the car.
My nose presses to the window, and I fog it all up with my heavy breathing. “You live in a farmhouse!”
Nick chuckles. “Circa 1782. It’s one of the oldest structures still standing in Wayland, though it’s not a historical landmark. Probably for the best, since I axed the back wall and put in a glass window—this way I can look at the pond and woods whenever I want.”
I follow him out of the car but can’t quite bring myself to look away from the house. It’s beyond stunning. A fairy tale come to life. “Woods and pond, huh? You’re going to be a master at this Maine thing when we go.”
He nudges me to the side when we step up to his front door, and he fits in a key before letting us in. “Lucky for you, I conduct training sessions for the uninitiated.”
“Yeah? And what do these training sessions entail exactly?”
His smile is all wicked masculinity. “Orgasms.”
I burst into laughter. “You’re so full of shit.”
One flick of a switch, and light floods the space. Immediately, I soak it all up.
The ceilings aren’t particularly tall, maybe around seven and a half feet, but it’s . . . lovely. Eighteenth-century meets rustic farmhouse. It’s a style Nick has executed to perfection. Stonework takes up the lower half of the walls, painstakingly revealed during his renovations, I’m sure, whereas the upper halves are a solid plaster and painted the most exquisite Tiffany blue. Artwork hangs on the walls, featuring mostly landscapes and old architectural sketches.