Page 84 of Hold Me Today

Mina’s expression shutters. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Because it makes me toonice?”

“No, you jerk, because you only made things worse for yourself. If people care about what’s going on between us, what’s going on withyou, it’s only because you gave them the ammunition. People love a good underdog story and you, right now, are the quintessential underdog.”

The feeling of my phone vibrating in my back pocket has me cursing under my breath. “I got to take this,” I mutter. “It might be one of the guys.” I answer without screening the Caller ID. “Stamos.”

“How do you feel about clam chowder? Goes well enough with your Greek palette? I just landed and I’m fuckin’ starving.”

Ah,gamóto.

America’s other favorite underdog, Dominic DaSilva, has arrived.

“Meet me at that restaurant at the top of the Prudential? Say, thirty minutes?”

I glance over at Mina, then make a quick decision. “Yeah,” I tell Dom, “I’ll be there. And I’m bringing someone I want you to meet.”

28

Mina

We meet Dominic DaSilva in the restaurant housed on the top floor of one of Boston’s tallest skyscrapers—and let me be the first to say . . . he’s atotalhunk.

Dark hair styled like a woman’s fingers have already run through it this morning. Dark, espresso eyes that exude warmth, but don’t quite manage to conceal a cynicism I suspect runs deeper than he’ll ever reveal. Unlike Nick, whose wholesome, model-good looks stop people in their tracks, the former NFL tight-end’s appeal is rough around the edges. At six-foot-six, he’s also a giant, standing even taller than Nick. And it doesn’t help that the man clearly has a penchant for black: from the leather jacket encasing his broad shoulders to the unlaced combat boots on his feet, he’s not wearing a single shade lighter than midnight.

Hello, Dominic DaSilva—Lucifer will see you now.

“And this,” Nick says warmly, pressing a flat palm to the small of my back, “is Mina.”

I grin up at him. “Dominic, nice to meet you. I’ve heard . . . well,Celebrity Tealikes you a lot.”

His chuckle is low and raspy. “Not as much as they like my man Stamos over here.” He claps Nick on the shoulder in brotherly camaraderie. “Celebrity Tea’s all up in your business the wayEntertainment Tonightcan’t bother to show a single segment without flashing a shot of my mug.” Dark eyes drop down to my face. “You can call me Dom, by the way. No one calls me Dominic unless I’ve fucked up.”

“Well, we have that in common.” I poke Nick in his rock-hard bicep. “No one calls me Ermione—my full name—except this guy.”

Nick’s fingers slip under the hem of my coat to graze my skin. “You like it when I do,koukla. No use denying it.”

Dom arches a heavy brow, his gaze taking the both of us in. Then he breaks into a full-fledged grin. “Well, damn. So that prick atCelebrity Teawasn’t lying through his teeth for once.” He points a finger, swiveling it between Nick and me. “You two together now?”

“Um . . .”

“About that—”

“DaSilva, party of three?”

Praise Sweet Baby Jesus. I whip around to face the host, who’s holding black leather menus in the cradle of his arm. “Sure, we’dloveto take our seat!”

The host doesn’t even bat an eye. I can only imagine the sorts of shenanigans he sees working at a restaurant like this—a place for tourists and locals alike who want to feast on good New England clam chowder and even better views. We’re led to a table positioned near the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree window. From every vantage point around the room, Boston is unveiled. Gorgeous Back Bay, the winding Charles River meandering through the city, the John Hancock building rivaling the Prudential’s height.

Nick holds my chair for me—perfect Victorian gentleman, I’m telling you—before taking the seat next to mine. Unlike Dom’s all black getup, Nick’s in his trademark work jeans and a Stamos Restoration T-shirt, this one a navy blue that plays off the gray of his eyes. He leans forward, elbows on the table. “How’s the escape feeling so far?”

Leaning back, Dom throws one arm casually over the chair beside him. “Holdin’ out the verdict on that for now.” The corner of his mouth tugs down, and it hits me in the gut that Dominic DaSilva must be having a really rough time if he actually flew all the way out to Boston just to get away from it all.

I fiddle with the utensils before me. “Listen, Dom, if you want to talk to Nick about . . . whatever it is that’s going on, you can. I’m not going to run to the media or to a friend with your laundry list of secrets.”

Beside me, Nick stiffens. I only feel it because his knee presses against mine, and then he’s relaxing, letting out a breath before draping an arm on the back of my chair. It’s tough to tell if the touchy-feely bit is all an act, designed to keep up our ruse of fake dating.I don’t think it’s an act. Ihopeit’s not an act.

Nick is a lot of things—reserved, stiff—but in the last few weeks he’s let down his walls. Even now, his fingers softly tug on the strands of my hair, as though he does it absentmindedly. That’s not the mindset of a fake boyfriend. Right?

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