Page 3 of Hold Me Today

“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,óxithat means . . .”

I refuse to look away until the word registers in her head.

No. It meansno.

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.

2

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 saysYay For Hitting Your New Lowthan drinking to excess on a weeknight.

“Alcohol always helps,” Effie says from her perch on the farside 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.

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