Page 23 of Hold Me Today

Re: Re: Re: Subject Line:Renovation Details + Your Dating Show

I swear you get mouthier with every year.

P.S., Girth. De-virgining (de-virginizing?). Limp. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were sending subliminal messages about my dick.

P.P.S., For the record, I’ve had no cause for complaint where the latter’s concerned.

P.P.P.S., Shave my head and I’ll put in the worst glitter wallpaper you’ve ever seen in your life. That’s a promise.

To:Nick Stamos

From:Mina Pappas

Re: Re: Re: Re: Subject Line:Renovation Details + Your Dating Show

Glitter wallpaper? Now you’re talking the stuff of fantasies.

Bring it on.

P.S., I know there’s a secret part of you that loves my mouth.

9

Mina

Iknow there’s a secret part of you that loves my mouth.

Sweet Baby Jesus, has there ever been a more awkward moment in the history of awkward moments? I don’t think so—particularly since Nick never answered.

Not even that time when my bathing suit top came undone can trump this.

Okay, maybe it can.

At fifteen, my breasts were flat and practically non-existent but my nipples—God, my nipples—met the salty ocean breeze, the heat from the sun, and Nick’s wide-eyed stare as a wave crashed down on his head and took him under the water in one clean pull.

Good news: he survived, and my bikini top was recovered by an elderly woman with skin that could rival the world’s finest leather. Bad news: the ocean didn’t take pity and swallow me whole.

My breasts might be cupped and propped up now by a pretty nude bra, but I feel just as vulnerable and exposed as my younger self.

A groan rumbles to life in my chest as I thumb off my cell phone and toss it on the pleather loveseat. It bounces once, then falls flat in acceptance. Yup, totallynotre-reading that email thread for yet another time in the last twenty-four hours. Once was acceptable. Twice could be forgiven. But thirty times is obsessive, and I’m dangerously closing in.

Silent steps on my Craigslist-find rug bring me to the floor-length mirror that’s propped up beside the front door. Digging into the nearby bowl of makeup, I pluck out my favorite red lipstick and swipe it on.

I know there’s a secret part of you that loves my mouth.

“You arenotdolling up for Nick Stamos,” I warn my reflection. I suck my thumb between my lips and let it out with apop!Red stains my thumb, and I smile at the mirror for a teeth check.All clear. “Professional. You’re a businesswoman and he’s, well, he’shim.Agapecomes first.”

I drop the lipstick back in the bowl, take one last glance at my simple boyfriend jeans and cable-knit, white sweater, and head downstairs to wait for my new handyman to arrive. It’s quarter to noon, and knowing Nick, he’ll be early.

Sure enough, by the time I’m entering the empty salon less than a minute later, he’s standing outside the large windows and peering in, one hand level at his brow. Even from my vantage point, there’s no missing the way his work clothes fit him to perfection. Jeans encase his long, lean legs, and instead of a T-shirt, he’s decked out in a navy, Boston Blades sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

He looks rugged and masculine and even a little dangerous, which is insane to think about because Nick earned his nickname the old-fashioned way: by being so nice, so kind, to everyone he meets.

It wouldn’t surprise me to learn that he brings his bed-partners tea after sex, but not until after he’s gathered a warm washcloth like some Victorian-era gentleman and gently cleaned her up.

I bet he doesn’t even make a sound when he comes.

Catching sight of me, Nick knocks on the glass window and mouths something I can’t make out.

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