Page 50 of Hold Me Today

Oh, crap.

Itap-tap-tapon the article, sending my phone into an apoplectic fit, and am visually assaulted by a blown-up image of myself in Nick’s arms. As in, it’s me, in the clothes I wore last night, hugging Nick in the clotheshewore last night. The Red Sox logo on his T-shirt is visible from the angle the photographer captured the picture. We’re standing in the semi-dark, our arms wrapped around each other, our faces mostly shadowed by the street lamp overhead.

“Oh, fuck a goddamn duck.”

I skim the article as quickly as I can, doing my best to keep my phone steady.

“Put A Ring On Itcontestant Nick Stamos (age 32) was spotted getting cozy late last night in his hometown of Cambridge, Massachusetts. According to one anonymous source linked to TV production, Stamos was a favorite from day one on the show’s debut season. ‘I really thought he’d walk away with the final ring, you know?’ disclosed the source. ‘Savannah Rose was absolutely smitten by him. There wasn’t a date she didn’t have Nick on, and anyone could clearly see that the two of them hadmajorchemistry.’

And yet, major chemistry couldn’t save Stamos—no relation to John Stamos, America’s favorite uncle, by the way—from the last elimination round. A video of the bachelorette turning down our Greek Adonis went viral just weeks ago, and now it seems Nick’s already on the rebound with a new lady love. Who might she be? Time will only tell, but since the two lovebirds were spotted only a few blocks from his family’s residence, it’s easy to presume that aMy Big Fat Greek Weddingmay be in the making soon enough.

Let’s raise a toast to leaked sources, shall we?

I’ll be back soon with more details, dear reader. You know we atCelebrity Teado our best at spilling the damn tea, 24/7.”

Uh-oh.Grimacing, I fire off a quick text to Effie to smooth any ruffled feathers:Looks like my unofficial role as fake girlfriend has begun.

Immediately, three little dancing dots appear at the bottom left corner of the screen. I smooth my thumb over the glass and wait. Effie is not going to be pleased. Sure enough, I don’t have to wait long.

Effie:There were cameras near our house. Cameras neither of you knew were on the hunt. You were doing that crazy thing with your tongue when you want someone to kiss you!!!

Me:Crazy thing with my tongue??? I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Me:Nick and I were just . . . having a conversation.

Me:About tattoos.

Effie:You’re a shit liar.

Me:Tell me how you really feel.

Effie:Trust me, there are a lot of exclamation marks and four-letter words. You’re gonna get hurt. He’s gonna get hurt. This is going to be a disaster of epic proportions and I’m already foreseeing sending Tito’s out of stock when I order everything they’ve got to keep you from going off the deep end.

Me:What makes you think I’ll be the one who needs to be consoled?

Effie:Because you’ve been obsessed with my brother since the time you finally grew boobs.

Me:Obsessed is a strong word. I’m not a stalker, Ef.

Effie:And I repeat: obsessed.

Me:I know you don’t want to hear this, seeing as you both came out of the same womb, but maybe Nick only wants a fling?

Effie:Maybe he does. And maybe you’ll hook up with him and, for the first time in your life, realize that you want MORE. And he still only wants that fling. Let that settle in for a sec.

I don’t want to let it settle in, and thanks to the universe not being an asshole today, I don’t have to.

The front door to my salon bursts open and Nick’s workers spill inside from the cold with equipment cradled in their arms. Shaking snow from their hair, they stomp their boots on the two towels I laid out this morning after spotting the steady snowfall.

One last “let’s not fight about this” text to Effie, and then I drop my phone onto the pile of paint chips and hop to my feet. Swipe my hands over my fleece-lined leggings. Unexpected butterflies erupt in my belly. Seeing Nick after last night . . . Well, it’s moment-of-truth time. If he pretends nothing happened, I’ll either knee him in the balls or shove his ass out into the snow to freeze.

Giving the group of three men a hasty scan, I note with disappointment that Nick isn’t with them. Feigning a blasé tone, I ask, “Where’s your hailed leader?”

The tallest of the bunch, a handsome guy named Vince, lets out a deep laugh. “He who payeth our checks wenteth to Dunkin’s . . . eth.”

“You been watchingShakespeare in Loveagain?” deadpans the redheaded, Rupert Grint lookalike, named Mark. He’s built in a way that Vince isn’t, with heaps of muscles on top of muscles that speak to hours spent in a gym. Height-wise, though, he might as well be Vince’s little brother.

Vince flips him the bird with all the flare of a true Bostonian. “It’s a great movie—a goddamn classic.”

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