Page 87 of Hold Me Today

“Biggest pet peeve aboutLord of the Rings—go, don’t think about your answer!” On my laptop, which is propped up on Nick’s office desk, the rolling credits forThe Two Towersstart playing.

My head bobs along to the soundtrack. I’ve watched the trilogy more times than I can count since they released, but watching them with Nick on a Saturday night is a completely new experience. One that makes me feel positively giddy as I dig into the bowl of popcorn in my lap.

Onebowl of popcorn, mind you.

To my left, Nick sits on a low stool, a sharp knife in hand as he carves a divot into the work-in-progress church spire. His dark, curly hair flops boyishly over his forehead, which he blows out of his eyes before answering. “Samwise not letting Frodo die.”

I throw a popcorn kernel at him. “You can’t justkillFrodo! He’s a leading character.”

Because Nick is Nick, he manages to catch the flying kernel in his mouth right before it would have bopped him in the cheek. “He’s amaláka,koukla. He should have just stayed in the shire.”

“You’ve said that before, and I’m here to play devil’s advocate.” Cupping the bowl with both hands, I swivel the office chair to face him head-on. “Frodo’s character arc is by far the best in all three films. He’s the heart of the fellowship, and the one forced to overcome the most obstacles while everyone and their mama wants his head on a pike.”

“I thought the saying was ‘head on a platter’?”

Maybe. Probably. “I’m going for the more violent option, considering that Frodo almost died twenty-two times.”

Nick grins, slowly. “Is that an accurate count?”

I grin right back. “I’ve got no idea. I’m rounding up and hoping for the best.”

He shakes his head, laughing, that curly hair flopping right back over again, and then hunches his shoulders to stare at the miniature sculpture, a mask of concentration pulling at his handsome features.

Deftly, I snag another popcorn kernel and pop it into my mouth. I spent the full three hours ofThe Fellowship of the Ringwatching Nick instead of the movie. I watched as his nimble fingers, roughened from his daily job, skimmed the intricate lines of the half-completed spire. I watched as he sharpened the knife on a whetstone like some woodworker from days of yore. I finished half a bowl of popcorn, existing on the euphoria of seeing Nick in action and hearing my favorite movie play in the background.

Is this even real life?

I’ve gone right off the deep end.

“How did you get into this?” I ask.

Pewter eyes lift to my face. “The woodworking?”

“Yeah.”

If I focus hard enough, I can hear the sharp-edged blade of the knifeswooshagainst the wood as Nick severs a stray knot he apparently doesn’t like. “I took a class for it in college. One of the projects was creating a sculpture from a four-by-four block of Butternut, one of the easier woods to manipulate.” The strokes of the blade are mesmerizing, making it hard to look away as he works. “Some people chose to carve animals, which is difficult in its own right. Feathers are tedious. Rounded limbs make me want to break out the scotch.”

“I’m guessing carving birds isn’t a favorite pastime of yours,” I tease.

“Definitely not.” His mouth curves upward, but his eyes remain focused on the task at hand. “I carved the Parthenon because it was always one of my favorite places we went to when we visited Greece, and it seemed only right that I have one in my own house.”

A Greek carving only the most famous architectural feature in the country? I don’t feel a lick of surprise. “How’d it turn out? Will I find any replicas in the gift shop on our next visit?”

Dark, smoky laughter drowns out the sound of Frodo begging loyal Sam to help him—again. “It was awful.”

“Yourbrand of awful, which is still pretty perfect, or the rest of society’s awful?”

“I got a D-plus,koukla.” The stool beneath his butt creaks as he shifts it a few inches over, to reach another side of the sculpture. “I was too ambitious on my first go-round. But even though I camethisclose to failing, I didn’t really care. I loved the way woodworking stole away my stress. I could work for hours and never feel my eyes start to strain or my fingers grow sore.”

Earlier, when I asked if he wanted to hang out tonight—thus ruining any lies I’ve been telling myself about not wanting anythingmorefrom this fake relationship of ours—Nick suggested coming over to his office. He asked me to bring my laptop but that he’d cover everything else. And he had.

He was the one to bring the threeLord of the Ringsmovies, as though suspecting I might want to binge-watch them all. (I never turn down Orlando Bloom as Legolas—ever.) He brought the popcorn, going so far as to purchase a ticket at the movies just so he could hit up the concession stands for buttery, movie-theater popcorn. All before he confessed that woodworking was a solitude endeavor for him, something he did when no one else was around and the office was silent, save for the sound of the blade meeting the grain of the wood.

Except, for tonight, he made it into a date. Something we could enjoy together.

Nick Stamos, my best friend’s older brother, is tearing down my life-long determination to keep my eyes on the dream—Agape—and leave dating and men and love to other people more cut out for relationships.

I want to hate him for it, but I’m having way too much fun to even consider pumping the breaks. He makes me feelspecial, and it should be noted that I’ve grown rather addicted to the way Greek peppers his English and when hereallywants to turn me on, he knows that a kiss to the delicate skin at the base of my neck gets me revved up from one to one-hundred in no time at all.

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