Rock bottom has never felt so good.
At least, that’s what I tell myself when I bargain with the enemy and score a renovation for my hair salon.
The enemy? Nick Stamos, my best friend’s older brother.
He’s got a body and face the Greek gods would envy but his personality needs a major overhaul.
He’s surly.
A rule-follower.
Did I mention he’s seen me n*ked?
I may have crushed on him for years, but the only place I want Nick swinging his hammer nowadays is at my salon.
Except, he needs something in return. . .
A fake girlfriend.
And I’m just reckless enough to say yes.
Chapter One
Nick
On a beach somewhere in Bali
Breaking hearts isn’t in my DNA.
Call me a pussy, a romantic, a believer in the unicorn of all emotions—true love—but I want the real deal. I crave what my parents have shared for thirty-something years; what my younger sister Effie has with her wife; what I almost had six years ago before my ex-fiancée dumped me at the altar with a half-hiccupped, “I’m in love with someone else.”
That someone else turned out to be her I-wear-pocket-protectors-like-a-douchebag boss, the bastard.
So, yeah, I’m talking about the white-picket-fence, make-love-even-when-you-haven’t-showered happily-ever-after. The kind that sinks into your bones and accelerates your heart rate and turns your hands into a clammy mess.
My hands aren’t clammy now. They’re ice cold despite the balmy weather and the fact that I’m wearing a Hawaiian T-shirt the color of puke and a pair of too-tight board shorts that hug my crotch the same incessant way my grandmother anxiously squeezes her stress-relief balls.
“Women will love that bulge,” the wardrobe crew assured me with a pat on the shoulder.
The women might, but there’s a good chance my ability to reproduce will die today.
“Gamóto.”
The Greek curse for “fuck” flies off my tongue, as it has since my teenage years when my Greek mother warned me and Effie against using English profanity in public. I’ve never been more grateful for speaking two languages than when I showed up on set for Put A Ring On It, a reality show that might as well be the budget-cut edition of the infamous The Bachelor franchise.
See: the Hawaiian T-shirt and board-shorts bit.
I shift my hips and pray for relief.
The small, velvet box burns in the front pocket of my shorts as I face down the production crew. Louder, in perfectly clear English, I grind out, “I can’t do this.”
“Buck up, Stamos,” rumbles Joe, the show’s director. He side-eyes me like I’m a caged animal clawing for escape, then casually claps me on the back like we’re best buds. I’d have to be tone-deaf to miss his hearty, fuck-you laugh. Prick. If I wasn’t determined to leave this island uncuffed, I’d throw a fist right at his pretty-boy, Hollywood face. “It’s only pre-engagement jitters. You love her, dontcha?”
It was easy to think so in the midst of orchestrated dinner dates and cameras being shoved into my face and producers pointedly asking, “How do you feel? You love her yet?”
I haven’t answered “yes” once. And now that it’s down to me and one other contestant, the questions have narrowed down to the most vital: “How are you gonna propose?” It’s all I can do not to ditch the wannabe-surfer outfit and make a break for it, away from the white, sandy beach where Savannah Rose is waiting.
She deserves better than what I can offer: nothing but a gut-deep awareness that marrying her would be the equivalent of getting hitched to myself. I like me—hell, I even enjoy my own company most days—but there’s a reason why my mom thanked the Good Lord that I didn’t turn out to be a twin, like the doctor first predicted. Thirty-two years later, she’s still pinching my cheek and praising her lucky stars like she won the MegaBucks.
So, yeah, me and Savannah? Despite the high hopes I had coming onto the show, we turned out to be the same blend of black and white, equally balanced in temperament, opinions, and our shared preference for the introverted, hermit life.
Savannah Rose is lovely, but I just don’t love her.
I open my mouth, ready to flay Joe alive with the reminder that, according to the contract I signed before embarking on this shit show of a journey, I can leave whenever the hell I want. Including on the last day of production, when I and the other runner-up are expected to get down on bended knee and propose.
Joe beats me to the punch. “Listen, Nick. Fact is, you gotta do it now, ’kay?” He thrusts a finger at the narrow cobblestoned pathway that leads from the cottage I’ve been sharing with my fellow contestant, Dominic DaSilva, to the beach. “Right there. She’s waiting for you right down there. You gonna disappoint her? You gonna let insecurities cloud your judgment? You said you loved her only last night!”
The hell I did.
“Joe,” I grunt, shoving one hand into my pocket to grab the engagement-ring box, “I’m not doing it. Not for you, not for TV, and definitely not for Savannah Rose. She came here lookin’ for love and I’m not going to be that asshole who lies to her for the sake of good ratings, you hear me?”
I slam the velvet box down on the entryway table to my right.
And, because the gravitational pull of the universe is a conniving son of a gun, the box skids as I let go, turning over onto its side and falling from the table.
Crashing to the floor.
Cracking wide open.
The diamond ring, which probably costs more than my restoration business is worth back in Boston, pops out from the box. It circles on the tile floor, once, twice, before teetering flat on its side. Sardonically, I lift a brow. “If that isn’t an ironic show of how this is about to go down, then I don’t know what is.”
Joe’s knees pop as he snatches the ring off the floor and shoves it back into the box. With a speed I don’t anticipate, he crams the whole thing into the pocket of my shorts and comes mighty damn close to fondling the family jewels.
Full confessional: there’s not much wriggle room in these things.
I arc my ass backward, away from his wandering hands. “Jesus! What the hell are you doing, man?”
“Earning myself a damn paycheck.” He jabs an accusatory finger in my face. “You’re going out there with this fuckin’ ring, Stamos, you hear me? You’re gonna get down on one knee and we’ll let Savannah know before filming rolls that you want out. She’ll do the dumping, not you.”
My jaw drops without ceremony. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I told you yesterday that I wanted to talk to her without the cameras. I don’t want to hurt her. She’s a great girl—”
“But she’s not the one for you.” Joe rolls his eyes and twiddles his fingers in the air like a complete asshat. “Yada, yada, yada. I’ve heard this shit before when I was working with Chris-fuckin’-Harrison on The Bachelor. You think this is my first rodeo? No, Mr. Adonis, it’s not. We’re doing this my way since it’s my goddamn show. And my way is letting Savannah land the proverbial kick to your balls. Capiche?”
“No fucking capiche.”
Savannah isn’t any more in love with me than I am with her, if the few lackluster kisses we’ve shared are anything to go by. And that was all before we unanimously agreed to skip the overnight date last week. The way I look at it, that decision hammered the final nail in our coffin. I’m no virgin, and she isn’t either, which leads to only one conclusion: neither of us are feeling the chemistry.
It’s disappointing, yeah, considering I showed up at the Put A Ring On It house with big hopes of leaving with the love of my life. Sure, I only ended up on the show because Effie was convinced that I was failing—epically—in the dating department on my own. She wasn’t wrong, much as it grates me to admit it. I have a bad habit of choosing women who, in the end, don’t choose me back. And maybe there’s something to be said for letting someone else play matchmaker for once. Clearly, I haven’t been doing myself any favors since Brynn stormed out of that church.
After I pulled my head out of my ass (and my sister chewed me out for being a stick in the mud), I gradually warmed up to the idea of meeting a woman I never would have crossed paths with in my routine, day-to-day life in New England.
Hello, my name is Nick Stamos and I’m a closet romantic.
Sue me.
End of the day: it didn’t work out. But that doesn’t mean I’m keen on ending the relationship with lies tripping off the tongue. My mom taught me better. My dad taught me better.
And, yet, ten minutes later I find myself being led, like a lamb to the slaughter, down to the beach. I spot Savannah Rose immediately—it’s hard not to. With her caramel skin, thanks to her Creole heritage, and her rich, dark hair, Savannah is a show-stopper. Tall and willowy, she dropped jaws throughout filming, whether it was when she stepped out in a dress for a night out on the town or put on a bikini while relaxing on the beach. She’s serenity personified, rarely raising her voice, though I’d have to be an idiot not to notice that her spine is laced with steel.
Like I said, the two of us are peas in a pod. Reserved. Sometimes shy. But with unwavering backbone—being taken advantage of isn’t a concern.
My molars grind together as Joe waves me forward from where he sits beside the camera crew. They’re camped out between two sky-high palm trees, as though the rotund barks are wide enough to provide some sort of coverage and conceal them from sight.
To provide us with the illusion of privacy.
My hands clench at my sides.
Do the right thing, I shout at myself. Get down there and do the right thing.
I’m not a bad guy. Hell, I’ve always been the good guy, if I’m being real honest about it. The guy mothers love. The one they have no qualms about their daughters spending time with because, “that Nick, he’s just such a nice person.”
I don’t feel all that nice right now.
Don’t feel all that good either.
My bare feet sink into the warm sand as I come to a stop before Savannah. She peers up at me through long, spiky lashes. I hold onto her dark gaze, trying to get a read on her. Has Joe told her a damn thing? Has he relayed the message that I need to tell her myself—that I don’t love her the way she deserves to be loved?
That I can’t propose forever with her, let alone the rest of today?
Her pink, glossy lips curl in greeting, offering a shy smile that sucker punches me in the gut.
She doesn’t know. No way in hell would she smile at me like that—or at all—if she knew how I really feel.
Ah, fuck.
I slide a quick glance over to Joe, who keeps his attention locked on the monitor set up before him.
He wants his good TV. It’s his job, and I get that too.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll willingly ruin mine and Savannah Rose’s lives to pacify the public’s demand for cheap shots and trashy entertainment.
“Nick,” Savannah Rose murmurs, her gentle New Orleans accent barely audible over the crashing of the ocean waves behind her, “I just want to say how—”
“Óxi.”
She blinks. Then blinks again. “I’m sorry, what—”
“Do you remember what I taught you when we were in Australia?” If Joe wants to publicly humiliate me, I’ll go along—but only if Savannah catches on, and he’s clearly passed along nothing of what I told him. So much for letting her hold the reins. The asshole obviously didn’t plan to tell her anything, preferring to send her into today’s proposal as blind as a damn bat. “The Greek words?” I prompt when she says nothing.
“Well, yeah, I think—” She scrunches her nose, clearly trying to recall our exact conversation from a few weeks back. “Óxi, óxi that means . . .”
I refuse to look away until the word registers in her head.
No. It means no.
And I’m banking on her understanding everything that I’m not saying, so she can keep her pride and hold her chin up high when it’s obvious that Joe the Prick wants nothing more than to see her fall—and watch the show’s ratings skyrocket in contrast.
“Oh.”
The word emerges from her mouth, small, hesitant, and then she’s blinking away, running a hand through her dark hair and nodding, nodding, nodding, like she’s trying to get her brain back into the game plan.
Tell me no, I mouth slowly, tell me no.
I drop to one knee, just as she fixes her gaze on my face.
Her eyes are clear, her mouth relaxed and un-pinched. My guilty conscience kicks in, and, dammit, but I’m seriously hoping that she was prepared to accept Dom’s ring today. That’ll make this easier for the both of us when we go our separate ways.
I’m sorry, Savannah Rose.
I never break hearts.
Until today.
Chapter Two
Mina
Boston, Massachusetts
“My heart feels like it’s going to give out.”
The words leave me on a rough exhale, and my best friend does nothing but shove a glass of vodka-on-the-rocks into my hand like it’s the cure to end all shit-tastic days. “It’s called anxiety,” Effie Stamos tells me, all no-nonsense attitude and calm-in-the-middle-of-my-storm as she sips from her own glass. If she thinks it’s weird that we’re camped out in my unfinished hair salon, guzzling booze like it’s our job, she doesn’t say so out loud.
Her dark eyes flit over me, though, no doubt cataloguing my very obvious lack of fucks to give. I haven’t showered in days. Haven’t shaved in days either. If I cared to look in the mirror, which I don’t—the scent clinging to my skin and clothes are all I need to know that I look like hell—I’m very certain I’d come face-to-face with the modern-day Yeti. It’s not a look I’d ever suggest to one of my clients when they come in to get their hair cut.
Then again, I don’t have clients anymore either.
My heart seizes again, lungs clamping tightly, and I briefly contemplate ditching the dainty glass Effie’s given me for the entire bottle instead. Nothing says Yay For Hitting Your New Low than drinking to excess on a weeknight.
“Alcohol always helps,” Effie says from her perch on the far side of the sofa. There’s at least three feet separating us, which I’m sure is her way of trying to avoid the stink that is currently me. Smart lady. “Stub your toe,” Effie continues, lifting her glass in a toast, “drink Tito’s. Flat tire, drink Tito’s.” Her dark eyes light with a forced, let’s-laugh-this-one-out-together humor. “Find out that your handyman ran out on you with your check for ten-thousand dollars—”
I’m lunging for the bottle off the coffee table before she even finishes her sentence. The vodka tickles and warms its way down the back of my throat, a reminder that I rarely drink anything heavier than wine or a fruity cocktail weighted with more calories than a burger from McDonald’s. I’ve never been one for the Skinny Girl menu.
Effie’s mouth twitches.
“Just say it,” I mutter morosely, waving the bottle in her direction. “I’m an idiot. A screw-up. A—”
“I was actually thinking about the fact that he took your lucky penny.”
“Bastard.” I down another mouthful of Tito’s and pray to the alcohol gods that I won’t be tossing up my cookies tomorrow morning. A hangover is not in the plans—then again, neither was trusting a scammer.
“Who does that?” I point Tito to the far side of my newly purchased hair salon, which is empty save for the sofa we’re sitting on and the cute receptionist’s desk I picked up at an antiques sale a few weekends back. “It wasn’t enough that he took the ten-K? The jerk went through my desk and took my lucky penny. I’ve had that thing since your mom gave it to me on prom night.”
Aleka Stamos, the hairdresser who gave me my first pair of shears, promised that if I kept the lucky penny on me, one day I’d have the chance to see it in my very own register at my very own hair salon. Envision your dreams, she said, manifest them into reality. The penny’s copper was worn down, smoothed thrice over, and had survived over a decade of being almost handed over to cashiers time and again. Well-earned battle scars, only to be swiped from my register before I even opened Agape’s front doors.
“I’m telling you,” I mutter darkly, “that crossed a line.” Another pull from Tito the Great. “Bastard.”
“You’re starting to sound repetitive.”
My brows lower. “I’m drunk.”
“You’ve had one shot and approximately three gulps of vodka, half of which is drenching your shirt.”
I glance down, and sure enough, not only am I pulling a Yeti in terms of hair growth, I look like I’ve taken a dunk in a pool of D-grade vodka.
What a good look, Miss New CEO.
I can’t even find it in myself to crack a smile at my poor attempt at sarcasm.
Since my teenage years, I’ve worked toward only one dream: running my own hair salon. I’ve never wanted anything else, never deviated from the path I set into motion after the first time I watched Tyra Banks on America’s Next Top Model. Call me crazy, but the show—dramatic as each season was—gave me hope.
I was never the smart girl in school. A C was as good as an A in my book—considering all the work and sweat and tears that the C cost me. My inability to keep up with my peers in class was then matched by my very Greek and very traditional father, who thought sports were a waste of time, as were other extra-curriculars like drama and singing. I was, effectively, particularly good at doing nothing. Unless you included my expert skills at babysitting. As the eldest of the three Pappas siblings, I was tasked with taking care of Katya and Dimitri every day after school.
For years.
And that included helping with their homework, which, no surprise there, was more hellish than burning off my eyebrows for just the fun of it.
Back then, I craved the confidence I saw in those women on the show. I craved their vitality and their uncontained excitement and the way they stood proudly as though to publicly declare, This is who I am, and you can either love it or kiss my butt.
I wanted their swagger.
And it may have taken some time, but I learned to cultivate that same swagger for myself until—
“I need a plan.”
Effie eyes me warily. “How about we wait till tomorrow when you aren’t on the verge of a meltdown?” She casts a quick glance about the empty salon. Before I bought the space, and the small apartment above it, the building had housed a floral shop. A few potted plants still linger here and there, their soil dry and leaves bronzing, even though I’ve done my best to keep them alive.
Turns out that a hairdresser and a horticulturalist are not synonymous occupations, despite the fact that shears are used for both.
My best friend takes another sip of Tito. “How long are you going to make us sit down here in the dark? It’s creepy.”
Ambient light filters in through the bare windows, basking the concrete floors in shadowy figures. Instead of a building meant to kickstart my hopes and dreams, the eerie vibe tonight gives the space more of a haunted-house-attraction appeal. “You own a ghost tour company,” I say, cupping the vodka bottle to my damp chest like a babe about to suck on a nipple, “creepy may as well be your middle name.”
Rolling her eyes, Effie points a finger at me. “You need a lawyer.”
“I need money for a lawyer.” Feeling the all-too-familiar punch to my gut, I strangle the neck of the vodka bottle and try to stem the well of tears burning at the backs of my eyes. I don’t cry—haven’t for years—and I have no plans to start now. But, jeez, learning that Jake Rhodan disappeared with money, intended to cover the first third of the material costs for the renovation, is crippling. Like a kick to a blistering wound when I’m already down and bleeding. “I’ve already reported him to the cops but nailing his ass to a wall isn’t possible until they find him.” My vision swims like I’ve put on a pair of drunk goggles. Oh, right—I am drunk. The room is positively swaying. And when did Effie get a twin? I close one eye. Stare a little harder with my other. Plant a flat palm on the cushion beside me and curse Tito while trying not to slur my words. “What money is left has to go to finding a new reno company or I’m totally screwed.”
Confession: Effie and I both know that I’m already screwed.
Though I once worked for Effie’s mom, I’ve spent the last few years at Twisted, a high-end spa and salon situated in Boston’s ritzy Beacon Hill neighborhood. I cut the hair of congresswomen and celebrities, all while scraping together every penny until I could open my own salon.
Agape, my salon, is the pinnacle of my career.
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.
Chapter Three
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—”
Toula flashes me a quick grin. “I told you earlier, it’s all good. How else are you going to build clientele for your new salon?”
Not for the first time, I feel the sting of my current reality. It zaps me right in the heart before burrowing deep in my gut. It’d be all too easy to sink into the black blanket already clinging to my legs, all while subjugating myself to endless nights of Tito’s, cryfests, and more hours of reality TV than my brain can possibly digest. Crying isn’t a solution to my problem, though, and neither is alcohol.
I’m an entrepreneur, something I never once imagined might be possible years ago. A CEO, for heck’s sake. Me, Ermione Pappas, Cambridge’s Most Likely to End Up Flunking Out of College. Okay, so that wasn’t a real vote in the ballot senior year, but some asshole had scrawled it across the final printed sheet in the cafeteria for all to gawk at like lemmings tripping over each other to all rush off the cliff together.
If I’m a hot mess, I’ll own it. But the hot-mess express is about to embark on its grand finale voyage, if I have anything to say about it.
C.E.O.
I may need the three letters stamped across my forehead as a constant reminder to myself that I’m as kickass and well-deserving of success as anyone else.
“I’m scrappy,” I say to Toula now, refusing to let my voice quiver with nerves. “I’ll figure it out. And then my old boss can eat her damn words when Agape becomes the go-to hair salon in the Boston-metro area.”
“Is your construction guy back from vacation yet?”
My smile freezes like I’m the one caught squatting, naked, over the toilet.
Don’t panic. Don’t cry. And, no matter what you do, don’t laugh hysterically because you can’t handle the stress.
“We’re right on schedule,” I lie through a tight smile.
If by schedule I mean “we’re on track for the biggest shit show this city has ever witnessed,” then there’s never been a truer statement uttered in my life. Aside from Effie, who was with me when I first realized Jake took off with the money, no one else knows my ass isn’t just heated by the fire, it’s roasting in it. I can only imagine what my father might say—and all that he wouldn’t say.
“Your place is in the home with a husband, Ermione,” he’d rumble, crushing me with the disapproval in his voice, “not owning a business.”
Embarrassment for being so naïve and trusting has kept my mouth shut thus far, but dogged determination to prove them all wrong is what drives me. What’s always driven me.
When Toula eyes me skeptically, I wave away her concern. “I’m good, I promise. And enough about me—your husband is waiting for you.”
It’s the perfect distraction.
With a shimmy and a grin, Toula twiddles her fingers at me and throws the bathroom door wide open with enough force that it thwacks the wall with a dull thud. “Oh, husband!” she calls out, and I wince even as I laugh because Toula is just Toula. Crazy, outgoing, and so insanely kind.
Hooking my hand through the purse I abandoned on the bathroom counter during #PeeGate, I hold the door open with the heel of my stiletto and then head for the elevator that’ll take me up to the fifth floor of the Omni Parker House Hotel, where the wedding reception is being held.
The hotel itself is beyond exquisite. Oak-paneled walls. Gold-leaf accents. Bellmen dressed in smart, navy-blue suits. Men in tuxedos wander along the halls, crystal tumblers in one hand and fawning women tucked in close with the other. Their smug, masculine smirks are shadowed by the flickering of old-fashioned lamps, which offer an ethereal glow that even has my unromantic heart sighing.
Figures that the lamps would get to me while the men don’t inspire so much as a quickening of my breath. I prefer to keep my relationships simple, uncomplicated, and out of sight and out of mind. Agape is where my head’s at, and where it has to remain if I want to drag myself out of my current hellhole.
With a ping! the elevator doors open and I step in.
I knuckle the fifth-floor button, then lean against the outer wall of the elevator.
“You’re fine,” I mutter to myself, the base of my skull connecting with gold-embossed wallpaper as I release a heavy breath. “If anyone else asks about the salon, just—”
Just, what?
Lie and then lie some more? How long can I really expect to get away with the lying game? My mother watches us kids like a hawk, no matter the fact that we’re all grown and adulting to our very best abilities. My dad . . . Well, after the Nick-Brynn wedding incident from a few years back, I’ve managed to stay off his radar for the most part. When it comes to money and business, however, nothing escapes his notice—and I have no doubt he’s already standing by and waiting to announce each and every mistake I make.
No doubt about it, I’m fuc—
A masculine hand sticks through the closing elevator doors, cutting off my train of thought as I lurch forward to jab the KEEP OPEN button. I smack it once with a heavy, don’t-fail-me-now finger, then again, my gaze flitting to the doors that are inching closed like the gates of Mordor.
That hand balls into a fist and then a suit-encased forearm appears, followed by a long leg and a brown, leather dress shoe. The leather is so soft, so visibly supple, I wouldn’t doubt that they cost more than my mortgage.
“Gamóto.”
At the Greek curse, and the more than familiar gravel-pitched voice, my back snaps straight, and I yank my gaze up. Up past the lean waist not even a suit jacket can hide. Up past the barrel chest and the bulging, I-swing-hammers-for-a-living arms. Up to a face that’s as unforgiving in its aristocratic, angular bone structure as his hair is a wild, dark mop on his head.
Only that curly hair and a pair of full, pillow-soft lips—not that I’ve ever tasted them, of course—make him seem more human than rigid statue.
Bingo.
Has there ever been more appropriate timing? I don’t think so.
She who asketh shall receive—or however the saying goes.
For possibly the first time in six years, I smile at the man standing just inches away.
Nick Stamos stares down at me, his pewter eyes hard and narrowed with suspicion. “Trying to amputate my arm, Ermione?”
My smile slips, hackles twitching like a cat’s fur standing on end when stalked by a predator. Er-me-o-ne. His tongue rolls over the R in my given name, his Greek accent perfect and sultry despite the condescension dripping heavy and thick with every purred syllable.
Don’t let him get to you.
Only, he’s gotten to me for years now.
“If by amputate you mean save,” I murmur with practiced flippancy, “then sure. It’s not my fault if technology doesn’t want to work for you.”
Those slate-gray eyes, unlike any pair I’ve ever seen, drop to where I’m still pressing the KEEP OPEN button. When his dark brows rise, taunting me with their perfect arches, I follow his lead and glance down at the illuminated button.
CLOSE DOORS.
Oh. Oh.
Air puffs up my chest indignantly as I inhale swiftly. “You didn’t really need that arm, did you?”
Nick snorts derisively. Without sparing me another look, his big hand circles my wrist. His touch is bold, his skin hot. A shiver of something—revulsion, I hope—rolls down my spine, unwinding and unfurling until even my gold-painted toes curl in my heels. And, as though he fears I’m completely incompetent, he angles my still-pointed finger at the button to close the doors.
Pushes down and lingers, as though to taunt, see? This is how a contraption called an elevator works. Welcome to the twenty-first century, Ermione.
Ermione. Even in my head I can hear him slinging around the name I inherited from my maternal grandmother, knowing that it makes my mouth pinch and my hands clench.
My smile has, as it always does around him, completely evaporated.
The elevator pings shut.
Locking me in with Satan’s mortal sidekick, my best friend’s older brother.