Page 93 of Hold Me Today

“Ermione, I—”

The sound of her ringtone cuts through the air and she flashes me an apologetic grimace before grabbing it from the cart. “It might be a client,” she says, her honey eyes already fixed on the screen. “Hold that thought.”

Keeping my gaze on her face, I listen as she answers the phone. “Hello, this is Mina.” Her eyes go wide. “Oh! Yes, of course I remember you, Detective.” She shoots a look my way, her honey eyes snapping with impatience. “You did? Oh, my God, that’s awesome . . . I see.” Mouth falling open, she plants a hand on my shoulder like she’s searching for support, and I reach back, wrapping my hand around her wrist. “Well, damn. Sorry, not damn. I don’t think I can curse—oh, thanks for understanding. But, really,French toast? Company fraud all in exchange for . . . Yeah, I’ll get myself a lawyer. Thanks for finding him, Detective. It’s appreciated more than you’ll ever know.”

With a tap of her finger she ends the call and tosses the phone in the glossy black cart.

“That was the police officer in charge of my case with Jake Rhodan.” She stares at the phone, then looks over to me. “The IOU man.”

“Ah, the one who stole your check for—”

“A shit ton of money.” She nods, pulling out of my grasp and planting her hands on her hips. “They caught him. He’s at the station now.”

“Well that’s good.”

“He bought some hockey player’s French toast on eBay with my money.”

I promptly choke on nothing but air. “I’m sorry”—I roll my hand, motioning for a repeat—“I’m going to need you to elaborate. Did you just say he spent thousands of dollars onFrench toast?”

“According to his transactions, I guess. His name popped up on their search list—the cops, I mean—and I can’t even begin to explain how all of that sleuthing works but, yes, he spentfive-thousanddollars on leftover French toast that some beefy player didn’t manage to eat while he was on some morning show. The TV host auctioned off the breakfast on eBay as a joke. The rest of the cash he took from me . . . Well, hopefully he still has it.” Her features pull tight. “I’m seconds away from tears and I don’t know if they’re laughing tears or oh-my-God-this-is-my-life tears.”

I consider her features thoughtfully. It’s a bad situation, but it’s also hilarious—and completely unexpected. “I wonder if they auctioned it off sans maple syrup or if it was already drenched in it.” Mina turns murderous eyes up on me, and I hold up my hands to ward her off. “It was a joke,koukla. Don’t cry.”

With an exhaled breath, her shoulders droop in defeat. “You suck, you know that? Now allIwant to know is if he received soggy French toast in the mail.” Her hands come up to shield her eyes. “Did he have to pick it up himself? Was it sent via UPS? Did this happen right before he was due to start onAgape, which is why he left the IOU?Who buys French toast when they steal thousands of dollars?”

There we go. The pinched look in her expression has turned more incredulous than sad, and I do her one better by pulling my phone out of my pocket and heading straight to the internet. I tap in the basics—Hockey Player’s French Toast Auctioned Off—and wait for the search to load. When it does, I select the first article and read aloud, “An anonymous man from Revere, Massachusetts, breaks a previous record from 2000, when a 19-year-old bid on Justin Timberlake’s half-eaten French toast. According to Blades Hockey player, Andre Beaumont, he was flabbergasted by the winning bid amount and is rumored to have said, ‘Who the fuck does that? I feel like I at least owe the guy season tickets. Also, the money is going to charity—don’t ask me which one yet. I’m still wrapping my head around a man spending five-thousand dollars to eat my leftovers.’”

“I’lleat his leftovers if someone gives me the money,” Mina mutters, disgruntled.

I pocket my phone. “Óxi. You’re gonna go down to the station, correctly identify him, and then you’re going to let me take you out for dinner where we’ll get some delicious—”

“Don’t youdaresay French toast, Nick, or I will—”

“—Pancakes.” I grin down at her. “French toast’s first cousin, twice removed.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“Nah,” I murmur smoothly, “you’re going to let me feed you, and then you’re going to let me do business.” I lean down to brush my lips over her cheek. “Someone’s got to do a test run on this new haircut,koukla, and that someone is you.”

31

Mina

“Ilike Nick Stamos. A lot.”

I repeat the words to my reflection in the mirror the night before our trip to Maine. I’m still holed up at my parents’ house for the time being, while Nick and the guys put their full efforts into finishing off my salon, which means I have clothes strewn everywhere, leaving me little room to move around. There are choices to be made—what jeans and sweatshirts and knee-high socks to bring with me—but I can’t stop re-reading the message he sent me via email. Sitting on the edge of my mattress, I swipe open my phone, and lucky me, his message was the last thing I looked at.

To:Mina Pappas

From:Nick Stamos

Subject:Can’t wait

We haven’t exchanged emails in a while. Just wanted to send a reminder that I’ll be by to pick you up around 8 a.m. We’ll grab Dom on the way. Countdown to Epic Bad Decisions: T minus 12 hours. Let the shit show begin.

P.S., Already contacted the B&B we’re staying at. I don’t care what Sophia or anyone else on this damn “singles’ retreat” says, me and you are staying in one room with one bed. Might have also snagged us a room with a fireplace—thought you might like it.

Hugs,

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