Page 46 of Hold Me Today

Sophia sets down her fork. “Think of it like a reunion.” She turns to Effie’s mom, determination etched into her expression. “KyriaStamos, what do you think? This is such a great idea.”

Aleka trades an inscrutable glance with her husband, George, who sits across from her. “Well,” she hedges, one hand coming up to pat her dyed-blonde bouffant, “My daughter is busy, yes?”

“Very busy,” Effie confirms succinctly. She stabs a leafy green on her plate and gives it a swirl in a puddle of vinaigrette. “I’ve got tours all weekend. Man, just so many tours.” With a free hand to her chest, she purses her lips. “If I could cancel them, I would in a second. Butwe’re unfortunately rain or shine.” A short, noncommittal shrug brings her shoulders up to her ears. “It breaks my heart to tell you that I can’t—”

“Single people.”

Um, what?

We all stare at Sophia, she with the crazy orange hair. I’m beginning to think the personality matches the bad decisions on her head.

Nick’s gravel-pitched voice pierces the silence first. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I thought that, you know, instead of invitingeveryone,we could focus on those of us who are still single.” She sends aso-sorrypout at my best friend, and then looks to Sarah, who’s seated beside her wife and looking highly amused. “I mean, you’re married, Effie. And”—Sophia takes a big breath—“since I’m recently divorced, I figured this could be a singles-only trip.” She cuts her attention to me. “Though I didn’t realize you’d be here tonight, Mina. I was actually planning to send you a message online.” The smile she flashes me is so transparently fake that I almost call her on it.

Almost.

Unfortunately for her, she’s now totally solidified my decision. A weekend trip with a bunch of single Greeks—it sounds like a naughty ballad, a bad Greek comedy, or the most epic of shit shows. Possibly all three, even. Since I’m already embroiled in a shit show of my own—hello,Agape—I don’t have the time to consider adding another.

Plus, I’m more of a beach person anyway. If I want to sit in front of a fireplace, I can camp out at my parent’s house on any given night. I’ll be forced to stand vigil for one of my dad’s lectures about my poor life decisions, but at least I can hop in my car and flee whenever I want.

The same can’t be said for up in Maine, where I’ll be hostage to Sophia’s brand of crazy, endless mountains of snow, and shitty cell service.

I shiver at the thought.

“Aleka,” snaps Nick and Effie’s grandmother to her daughter-in-law. She’s sitting diagonal from me, and altogether pretending I don’t exist. In my defense, she rarely pays anyone attention but her grandchildren . . . and her old crony friends. She’s predictable like that—same goes for her wardrobe. Dressed in mourning clothes,KyriaStamos is a wrinkled, old thing, more bones than skin. Her tongue has always been rapier sharp, proving the old adage false. Her bark isdefinitelyworse than her bite. I reach for my wine as she embarks on a verbal crusade in Greek.

She speaks too fast for me to translate on the fly, but I catch words here and there and piece them together like some mismatched puzzle. Something about Nick and Sophia and babies and disappointment.

Oh, Lord. Not back to this again.

Nick’s natural olive complexion turns a little green. “Óxi,Yiayia,” he growls, his back ramrod straight as he pushes his plate forward and makes a desperate-looking grab for his beer bottle. “Let it go.”

But his grandmother has never been one for letting anything go. See: finding me in her grandson’s hotel room, completely clothed. She snaps back furiously, hands flying through the air and nearly smacking Effie in the face. My best friend ducks out of the way, eyes rolling toward the heavens, and downs the rest of her wine.

“Shoot me,” she mouths in my direction.

I nod toward Sarah and make a show of tapping my bare ring finger. “Lucky bitches,” I mouth back, and they both snicker and huddle their heads together, Sarah leaning over at the last moment to kiss her wife.

I’m not kidding. They reallyarelucky—to have found theone, their best friend, the single person they’d do anything to protect.

I return my attention to Nick, my fake boyfriend, who looks on the verge of losing his temper—which issoout of character for him that I’m tempted to see if Uber Eats will do a girl a favor and deliver a bowl of popcorn.

Nick shakes his head curtly at whatever hisyiayiais tossing his way, then grimaces and looks toward Sophia. “Sorry,” he mutters in English, “you’re great, I’m sure, but I . . . I don’t want to”—his jaw visibly flexes—“breed with you.”

From the way his beautiful pewter eyes flick toKyriaStamos, I’m guessing that was one of her grand ideas, repeated verbatim. If I know her at all, then I’m sure the “breeding” came in the same sentence as “before I die,Niko.” Oh, the awkwardness. Screw the popcorn, it might be time to bust out the Tito’s.

Or you can come to his rescue.

I could, but what was it he mentioned before? Oh, yeah, that his family would never believe it if we claimed to be dating. Effie knows my relationship with her brother is nothing but a sham, and I can almost guarantee that Sarah’s in the loop too. Aleka and George wouldn’t believe it either. Not because they don’t like me, but because Nick has always had a solid type: women with “future wife material” written all over them. I don’t know what Savannah Rose does for a living, but Brynn Whitehead is a kindergarten teacher and you don’t get more “wifey” and “babymaker” vibes than that.

Except tonight he veered from the norm.

Tonight, he veered toward . . .me.

And there’s one person at this table—the one causing Nick the ultimate level of grief—who wouldabsolutelybelieve that I sank my claws into him . . .KyriaStamos herself. If I were a lesser person, there would be no better satisfaction than playing my one trump card over the woman who made my life hell for months on end.

But there’s no satisfaction thrumming through me right now, only nerves as I slap together the Greek words into a coherent sentence that she’ll understand. I conjugate the verb for “dating” into the present plural, my mouth silently moving over the words as the wineglass in my right hand turns slippery from my clammy palm.

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