Her nose scrunches in confusion. “Why would they be assholes?”
There is seriously no good way to put this. I meet her gaze. Silently return her cell phone. “Because you’re not Savannah Rose.” When her shoulders jerk, I get my shit together real fast to explain what I mean. “These people”—I point at the phone she pockets in her jeans—“they’re internet trolls, koukla.”
“They seem like reasonably nice people,” she tells me stiffly.
Ah, shit.
I climb to my feet. “And they are nice people. It’s just that . . . how do I explain this?”
“From the beginning, maybe.”
I give a low laugh. “Smartass.”
She twiddles her fingers in the air, urging me on. “Keep going.”
My girl pushes a hard bargain. Almost as hard as I do.
Heading for the mini fridge I installed as soon as my electrician did his thing, I pull out two bottles of water. “They prepped the two final contestants for the media right before it all went to shit. Might as well have been etiquette lessons for dummies—felt like it, anyway. And one thing they hammered home is that viewers grow loyalties just by watching us. Maybe one guy does something to hurt the bachelorette—viewers digest it as a personal attack. You hurt the person they were rooting for.” Uncapping one of the bottles, I drain half. Then hand the full one over to Mina, who’s watching me earnestly. “I may have been dumped, but now I’m worried they’ll be out hunting for blood. Yours, now that I’ve dragged you into this with me. The internet is a world of trolls.”
“But it was your idea for this fake relationship in the first place.” She points the top of her bottle at me. “Did you think my identity wouldn’t get out?”
Shifting my weight on my feet, I grumble, “I hoped it wouldn’t. I didn’t think . . . to be blunt, I didn’t think anyone would care enough about me to be leaking shit to the press. I’m me.”
“You’re hot, Nick.”
She says it so matter-of-factly that I can’t help but laugh. When she doesn’t join in, I toss the bottle from one hand to the other, buying myself time to think of something to say. Ultimately, I choose not to pussyfoot around the truth. “Mina, I work in construction. There’s nothing sexy about that. Half the guys on the show were lawyers, investment bankers, actors . . . For fuck’s sake, Dom played in the NFL.”
Lifting one brow, Mina sips from her bottle. “You own a business, which means you’re a CEO. Women love CEOs. Trust me, I listen to enough romance audiobooks to know. And, as if that’s not enough, you’re the CEO of a business that by all accounts is doing insanely well. You’re kind and funny, and your arms are just—well, let’s just say that I don’t mind eating dessert at dinner because I know you’ll be able to lift me up no matter what. You’re a catch, Nick. Cream of the crop.”
I try to smother my grin with a palm scrubbing over my mouth. Well, well, well, Mina Pappas thinks I’m a catch. A month ago, she was making fun of me for ordering two bags of popcorn on a date. Calling it like it is here: I should have kissed her years ago. Probably would have saved me from going on a show like Put A Ring On It in the first place—if I had a girl like Mina by my side, I never would have given the show a second thought.
As if on cue, I think back to her comment about dreams manifesting when they should and never before. Was I not ready for Mina all this time? Hell, am I ready for her now? I sure want to be, especially when faced with the thought of never having her again.
Oblivious to the dangerous direction of my thoughts, Mina says, “And in case you were wondering, everyone commenting on my pictures seems wicked nice. They’re sending me DMs and asking me when Agape is opening. The thought that even a few of them might turn into clients is beyond exciting, particularly since I can now count all that I have on one hand. And—hold onto your panties, here—but they’re actually commenting about how cute we are together.”
Well, that’s . . . surprising. The cute thing, I mean. Everyone should want Mina as their hairdresser—that goes without saying.
By leaving Put A Ring On It as I did, I expected some bumps and bruises after coming home to Boston. Once the footage leaked of Savannah Rose turning me down, those expectations metamorphosized into a very real reality of shit going south. Only, Mina and I have somehow managed to create our own narrative through no real effort on our part. Each moment that’s been broadcasted to the press is all too real. That kiss in Downtown Tattoo, that raw moment of us standing outside my parents’ house. What this Celebrity Tea site is capturing is a man falling in love.
Falling in love.
My eyes fly shut at the realization, just before I shove it in a lockbox and throw away the key. Mina’s made no secret about being fearful of relationships and commitments—and I had sex with her knowing where she stands.
A fling.
This is only a fling.
The thought rings surprisingly hollow.
I guzzle the rest of my water, wishing I could just dump it all over my head instead. “Production is going to lose their shit over this.”
“Do you really care? This Savannah girl turned you down. Not that she’s not nice—I’m sure she is—but do you really care about what production thinks? They’ll air the season when they air the season. Live your life the way you want to.”
And I am living my life exactly how I want. Only . . . “She didn’t turn me down.”
I flick my gaze over to Mina in time to catch her jaw dropping open. “I’m sorry, but I thought you just said . . . I’ve seen that shot of you two on the beach when she told you no. Everyone has seen that shot. Everyone and their mother—except for your yiayia.” She blinks, her honey gaze locked on my face. “That day in your office, you told me you weren’t engaged.”
God, this is going to be awkward.
I toss the water bottle into the open trash can near the ladder, then begin to pace. Dragging my palms over my face, I twist around and square off my hips. “For the record, I’m not engaged.”
“I’d hope not,” Mina says all prim and proper, “since I let you fuck me. Three times now.”
Her don’t-fuck-with-me tone brings a smile to my face. She’s feisty as all hell and I love it. “Not engaged,” I repeat more for her benefit than mine. “I went on the show because I wanted to find someone. I wanted someone to love, the way my mom loves my dad and Effie loves Sarah. By that point, Effie had forced me into all the usual outlets after everything with Brynn—online dating, blind dating, literally dragging me into a coffee shop and shoving me into a seat with the first random woman she saw.”
“She was married, wasn’t she?”
I bark out a laugh. “She sure as hell was. We ended up talking about the Patriots before I darted the hell out of there.” Glancing at the half-painted wall to our left, I go on. “So Effie surprises me one day with this crazy, big news. Tells me all about how it’s this huge opportunity that I can’t pass up.”
“She got you on the show . . . you said that before.”
Nodding, I look back over to Mina. “She sent in my bio, some newspaper clippings of recognition Stamos Restoration has received over the last few years . . . and the video of Brynn telling me at the altar how she’d fallen in love with her boss.”
Mina’s hands come up to cover her mouth. “Oh, Nick.”
My smile is a little weak this time around. “Yeah, I know. Awkward, right? Effie and I had a long chat and she knows if she ever pulls another stunt like it, I’ll tell Sarah about how she used to wear her underwear over her head until she was eleven. But I guess the idea of a guy like me showing up on a show like Put A Ring On It was too hard for them to pass up. I was golden-boy material.”
Mina’s smile matches mine, turned down at the edges and completely somber. “Good, ol’ Saint Nick.”
“Yeah.” God, how I hate that nickname. “So, I went on with high hopes. Or, at least, reasonably mediocre hopes because clearly I was having no luck on my own. The producers . . . well, they also pushed a hard bargain during the audition process. They told me all the things I wanted to hear—that they had done compatibility tests based on our personalities, and that Savannah and I were a perfect match. There was other stuff that I know now was bullshit, but yeah, they got me, hook, line, and sinker. I was tired of going on dates that led to nowhere, even more tired of my yiayia asking when I was giving her grandbabies, and I thought—stupidly, maybe—that letting someone else choose for me might be for the best.”
“And you liked her?” Mina asks. “Savannah Rose?”
“I liked her, except that it never went further than that, not for me. I kept pushing at first because I know I’m not the most social guy. Maybe the chemistry wasn’t there because I was—”
“Being surly?”
I let out a low chuckle. “Calling it like it is—I expect nothing less from you.” When she opens her mouth to protest, I hold up a finger and cut her off. “But, yeah, surly. Rigid. However you want to put it. Savannah and I ended up getting along wicked well. We’re more alike than I think either of us realized at the beginning of the show. Boston construction guy meets Southern, aristocratic socialite. The producers fucking loved the idea of it, and the thing with TV is, they manipulate shit all the time. For all I know, they could have been pressuring her to keep me on for the sake of ratings.”
Mina’s mouth purses. “I won’t lie about the fact that I’ve watched every season of The Bachelor, but still . . . that seems wrong to me.” And then, good soul that she is, Mina yanks off her gloves, puts her hands on her hips and says, “If that’s the case, I feel bad for her. TV or not, no one should be forced into something they don’t want. It’s not right.”
Her righteous sense of justice has me crossing over to her, clamping my hands down at her side, and lowering my mouth to hers. She exhales into me, and I swallow the breath to keep as my own. My cock twitches in anticipation, the greedy bastard.