Page 53 of Hold Me Today

“Achieving your temporary longing.”

His fingers squeeze mine gently. “More like making it permanent.” He pauses, and maybe it’s my imagination but I hope he’s as entranced by the sight of us holding hands as I am. Like a time capsule, it feels like we’re teenagers again and experiencing lust for the first time. A handhold can be as exciting as a hot make-out session, if it’s with the right person. Nick’s thumb traces the outer line of my palm, dipping to the indentation of my wrist. “Anyway,” he says, “I want you to have this, if it’s what you want.”

Itiswhat I want, but that doesn’t mean I have the extra funds to consider anything but the bare necessities. Floors, sinks, mirrors, hairdryers—those are the necessities. A hydrotherapy room, equipped with a massage table and a whirlpool, aren’t even in the same galaxy here.

Mistaking my silence as the go-ahead, Nick scoots a little to my left, all the better to point out the features marked on the blueprint. “I’ve been doing a shit ton of research over the last week, and with this . . . you’ll leave your competition in the dust, Mina.” He releases my hand to sift through his mock-ups for yet another. The second blueprint he lays over the first, and I realize the paper is nearly translucent. Between the two, his vision for the room crackles to life: Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling, a Vichy shower set out in one corner of the room with a marble wall to keep it out of sight from the hydrotherapy tub. The floors are dark, and I eye his scribbles in the corner of the page: rosewood walls, slate floors, a periwinkle-painted ceiling.

It’s . . . stunning.

And so out of my price point that I want to sob at the loss of it, even though it’s nothing but a mere thought in his head. Except now it’s in mine too, and I wish I could bring it to life with nothing but the snap of my fingers.

I turn to face him. “Nick . . .”

His head jerks up and those pewter eyes home in on me. “Is it too much?”

“No. No, it’s perfect.” If anything, it’s almosttooperfect. “But I can’t afford this. You know I can’t afford this.”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“We?” I point to him, then stab my chest with the same finger. “Me, Nick. I need to figure this out, and I can’t increase my budget. Maybe by a grand—I could scrape it together.” Instead of dining out and hitting up the town like my peers, I’m scraping pennies together by feasting on Ramen noodles and taking cold-ass showers at the age of thirty. Forget the fact that I haven’t even furnished my apartment more than is needed. All my money, every last dime, is in this hair salon. Shaking my head, I flatten my palm over Nick’s beautifully etched draft, so I can’t be tempted by what I can’t afford. “Nowhere in the budget do I have room for the sort of money we’re talking about here.”

He blows out a frustrated breath. “Any news on the asswipe who stole your cash?”

“I wish, but no.” I purse my lips together, determined to hold my ground on this. “No extra money is coming my way, so although I love what you’ve done—and I’ll be dreaming about it for years to come—we need to keep it simple.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

I feel my nostrils flare. “No, you won’t.” I wave an arm at the rest ofAgape. “You’re doing enough already, don’t you think? I’m not—I’m not acharitycase.”

The balls of his shoulders practically bulge as he plants his weight on his fists and leans forward. His chin juts forward when he growls, “No one said you’re a charity case, Ermione. We have a deal, don’t we?”

I think back to theCelebrity Teaarticle Effie sent me, and I wonder if he’s seen it yet this morning. As much as I want to bring it up—and, better yet, discussus—my stubborn streak boils to life, all to prove a point. At the end of the day, last night’s private moment was captured and posted for the masses. It wasn’t an orchestrated date, designed and premeditated to show Nick as someone moving on from the havoc of the show. No, we werespottedby a douchebag pap hiding out in a car or in the bushes, which means I effectively did nothing. He’s got Vince and Bill and Mark out here working day-in and day-out to finish off my salon, and I’m . . . well, truth is, I’m getting a whole lot more out of this deal of ours than he is. I can’t—Iwon’t—allow him to throw anymore freebies my way.

My pride can’t handle it.

And neither do I want to think ofAgapeand remember that it was built solely upon begged favors. It’s an acidic, toxic thought, and my fingers launch into atap-tap-taprhythm, even as my gut twists.

Keeping my voice low, I meet Nick’s gaze. “The deal is on, but there’s no room for addendums. A hydrotherapy room is off the table. Not open for discussion.”

A tick flares to life in his jaw. “We didn’t sign a contract, Mina.”

“An oversight, maybe, considering how much you love your rules.”

He keeps talking, as though I didn’t just hand deliver a jab. “No contract means we’re not legally bound to keep to the terms of the same deal.” His gaze falls to my mouth, and my core heats like he’s directly wired my body to respond to him and him only. Chris Hemsworth could walk intoAgaperight now and I doubt I’d be as needy for him, a Hollywood A-lister, as I am for Nick. It’s ridiculously unfair. “Adjustments,” he adds, “can be applied as necessary.”

No, they can’t. I bite the words back and ask instead, “What sort of adjustments are we talking about here?”

My mouth practically tingles under his intense, steady stare. “I’m sure we can get creative.”

Oh, my God.

He didnotjust insinuate that, that—

“I-I’m not going tosleepwith you for a jacuzzi, you jerk.” I push against his chest and fight an eye roll when he doesn’t even a budge. “And, for the record, Iwouldsleep with you. Actually, I’ve thought about sleeping with you for years, as you very well know because my best friend can’t keep her lips sealed, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to just . . . just open my legs like some eighteenth-century socialite all for a pretty room.” I jab him in the chest again, right over the heart, and then proceed to emphasize every word with another finger-thrust. “End. Of. Discussion.”

I twist away, not even acknowledging the wide-eyed stares I’m getting from the guys, and head for the stairs up to my apartment. Nick Stamos may be my teenage crush, and he may be as hot as Hades, but I’ve got my pride. I’ve got my self-respect. And if he even thinks for one second that I’ll jump in bed with him for amassage room, then he doesn’t know me at all.

I don’t have room in my life for asshole men.

---