Page 20 of Hold Me Today

Secrets don’t exist between us . . . except, I guess, they do when it comes to Nick.

I push aside the sting of hurt that’s not mine to feel. Her relationship with her brother has nothing to do with me, and it’s not as though Nick has been a well-versed topic of discussion for us, well, ever.

Needing something to do with my hands, I fiddle with the empty coffee cup. “I didn’t realize you were having trouble with—” I cut myself off. Is it any of my business that he was failing in the L-O-V-E department? No, it’s not. Just like it’s not his business that I’ve watched every episode ofThe Bachelorfrom season one. And though I find it odd thatNickof all people went on a dating show, I can’t help but ask, “Did you meet Chris Harrison?”

“Not even close,” he mutters, bouncing the scotch gently on his knee. “CallingPut A Ring On It—that’s the name—the budget-cut version ofThe Bachelorwould be giving it too much credit. It was a shit show.” Nick grimaces, jaw clenching. “Not that it matters anymore.”

“Then what does matter?” I gesture to the papers spread out across his desk. “You agree to fix up my salon, and I . . . what? Find you a new girl to date?” I gesture toward the computer. “Hire a hit man to kill off whoever wrote that article about you? I’m creative, as we both know, but I need to know what I’m working with here.”

I say it flippantly but Nick’s response is anything but:

“I need you to pretend to date me.”

If I thought Mr. IOU had me suffering heart palpitations, then there’s no comparison to the way my lungs clamp tight and air comes slow and reedy through my nose now. Of all the times I’ve imagined him asking me out, I never once cooked upthisparticular scenario. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that? I thought you said—”

Nick has the good grace to look embarrassed. Maybe even a little flustered. The tips of his ears flush, and if it weren’t for his Mediterranean skin, I know they’d be fire-engine red. “Date me,” he mutters, voice low and rough, “I need you to date me.”

Yup, that settles it. I’m dreaming.

Or being pranked on the comeback season ofPunk’dwith Ashton Kutcher.

Nick pushes his chair back like an animal on the prowl. “I need you.” He sets the scotch on the table, twists the cap back on to secure it tightly, and begins to pace the length of his office. It’s jampacked with random woodwork, most of which he steps around or nudges to the side with his boot. “Trust me, I never thought I’d say that either, but the truth is . . . the last thing I want is the press digging into my life. Even if I’ve got nothing to hide, that doesn’t mean I’m interested in having everything dissected.”

This makes me snort out loud, and when Nick side-eyes me, I only shrug. “Nick, what are they gonna dissect? That time you ratted me out to our Greek school teacher thatIwas the one to steal her whiteboard markers? You confessed forme.” I jab my thumb to my chest.

“She paid for them out of her own paycheck.”

I roll my eyes at his justification. “Jesus, do you know howgoodyou are? Saint Nick—the old nickname still rings true, doesn’t it?”

Something in his expression tightens and he spins away before I can look too close.

“I’m oh-for-two in the wedding bell department, Ermione.”

“Third time’s always the charm. Don’t lose hope just yet. Pretty mucheveryfemale will be begging for you to look their way soon.”

His shrewd gaze finds me over his left shoulder. “I need a break from relationships.” He grumbles something under his breath and then says, louder, “I’m done with dating.”

My mouth falls open, and I don’t have the good manners to clamp it shut when he blows out a breath of heavy frustration. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Like what? Like he’s having a mid-life crisis at the age of thirty-two? Because that’s the vibe I’m getting right now. Good Guy Nick is trying to remove his gilded crown and I have no idea what to make of it.

“You’ve never even had a one-night-stand,” I say, becausesomeoneneeds to knock some common sense into him. Because, honestly,who is this man standing in front of me? With my gaze glued to his broad back, I go on, “There are two types of people in this world: people who have no qualms about jumping into the sack with a stranger, and those who need to know a person’s blood type, direct lineage, and whether or not they recycle their trash every week. You, Saint Nick, fall into the latter camp.”

From the way his back muscles twitch under his T-shirt, I’ve got a feeling he doesn’t appreciate the comparison. Well, tough. It’s true. Nick is the relationship guy. The full-on-love type of guy. And to see him want something else is weird, mind-boggling, and, yes, more than a little uncomfortable for me, seeing as how I’ve known him for two decades and counting.

I don’t like the idea of him breaking out of the box I’ve put him in—the pedestal he’s sat on for years—and, yes, I know that makes me sound hypocritical. But there’s something comforting in knowing that what I see is what I get with Nick, and this revelation is throwingallof that out of whack.

Stiffly, Nick turns to face me, then rests the curve of his ass against a waist-high bookshelf. His arms cross over his chest and those gray eyes of his home in on me, unwavering in their intensity.

“I didn’t say anything about a fling,” he grinds out, so low that I strain my ears to hear every word. “Savannah turned down Dom, which means I’m publicly single in a way I’ve never been before. It’d be one thing if she and I were together—at least that’s how I reasoned it when I agreed to the show. We’d be together. We’d be in love. Everything else would be nothing but background noise.”

“But that’s not what went down.”

“Exactly.” Nick nods sharply. “She voted me off, and that was fine too. Because then the focus was gonna be on her and Dom and their new engagement, and I was gonna get off with a pass to fade back into obscurity just the way I like it. No harm, no foul. Except that’s not on the table anymore. So, you want me to overhaul your salon for free—”

“Free sounds so cheap,” I cut in, trying to infuse humor back in the conversation. “Pro bono sounds better. More professional.”

Nick talks right over me. “And I want the chance to work in peace without magazines and single women hounding me left and right. It’s a win-win.”

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