Page 42 of Hold Me Today

I’ve never been a very good liar.

Beneath my fingers and his Red Sox T, Nick’s muscles are insanely firm. Nothing about his frame is soft, save for those lips of his which wreaked havoc on my fantasies for years. I used to picture them claiming mine, stealing away my breath the way I once convinced myself that he stole my heart. His mouth would dip lower, pressing kisses here, there, circling a nipple, before moving down, down, down to between my legs.

Unwanted arousal hits me square in the gut.No, no, and oh, right,hell no. Using his chest as leverage, I push out of his arms. “And on Mondays?” I ask, hating the way my voice tremors ever so slightly as I throw out a random day of the week. “If Wednesdays are for watching paint dry, then what are Mondays for?”

“Drilling.”

Oh, my God.

He didnotjust say that.

“Picking out the right speed,” he goes on blithely, seemingly clueless to the fact that I’m squeezing my knees together, not because it’s cold out but because I’m turned on. Oh, the injustice of it all. “Slow . . . it’s got its own merits. Precision, for one. Deliberate, for another. Or fast—gets the job done quickly. Instant gratification.” He meets my gaze, a small smile flirting with the corner of his mouth. “Have a preference on how I put up the drywall inAgapethis weekend?”

Agape.

He’s talking about drilling in my hair salon,notdrilling me.

I’ve never been so disappointed in my life.

Relieved, I shout at myself.You mean that you arerelieved.

“Are you—” I clear my throat. “Are we already putting up the drywall?”

His nod is nothing more than a dip of his chin. “We’ll be ready by Wednesday, probably, but I was trying to keep up the weekday game.”

Because Nick Stamos is nothing if not a game player.

And I’m still crushing on him, Effie’s older brother, like a loser.

My eyes squeeze shut. Haven’t I been through this cycle enough times already? Liking someone—him—when the feeling isn’t mutual? Ten years. I was into him fortenyears before finally bottling up those lovesick emotions and throwing away the key. You’d think by now that I would have my shit wrangled together when it comes to Nick Stamos. You’d think, but clearly he’s my kryptonite.

A cool, masculine palm cups my face, and it’s so shocking, sodelicious, that I don’t dare move for fear that it’ll end.

“Another migraine?” Nick asks softly, and then he kills me altogether by pressing his lips to my forehead. He lingers, and my pulse skyrockets. “No fever.”

“I’m freezing.”

“Are you?”

He voices the question like his mind is a million miles away instead of on this deserted strip of sidewalk, with the night sky a blanket to our secret desires—or mine, at least—and his family only a few houses away. Any moment, hisyiayiawill come storming down the street, soup ladle in one hand and her customary black slippers shuffling hastily over the cement. She’ll demand to know what we’re doing, firing off question after question, as is her way, and I’ll stand here and announce: “I’m back in lust with your grandson again.”

Not back in love, just lust.

Lust is a whole lot safer.

“C’mere.” It’s not Nick’syiayiasaying that now, but Nick himself. “Éla edó,” he repeats again in Greek. Big, hammer-swinging arms wrap around my waist. They pull me in close, palms planting flat on my back, one between my shoulder blades and the other inches away from the curve of my ass.

And, just like that, Nick is holding me.

Huggingme.

Through the thin fabric of his T-shirt, I feel the heavy thud of his heart. It hammers away at a clip that matches the insistent beat of my own. Is he . . . is he as turned onas I am right now?

I whisper his name.

“I’m keeping you warm. Don’t read into it,” he mutters, and I recognize that tone. The surliness. The rigidity. Nick may have his arms wrapped around me, but his emotions aren’t open for dissection.

Too bad. There’s no way I’m letting him get out of being anything less than honest with me.

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