Chapter One
Nick
On a beach somewhere in Bali
Breaking hearts isn’t in my DNA.
Call me a pussy, a romantic, a believer in the unicorn of all emotions—true love—but I want the real deal. I crave what my parents have shared for thirty-something years; what my younger sister Effie has with her wife; what I almost had six years ago before my ex-fiancée dumped me at the altar with a half-hiccupped, “I’m in love with someone else.”
That someone else turned out to be her I-wear-pocket-protectors-like-a-douchebag boss, the bastard.
So, yeah, I’m talking about the white-picket-fence, make-love-even-when-you-haven’t-showered happily-ever-after. The kind that sinks into your bones and accelerates your heart rate and turns your hands into a clammy mess.
My hands aren’t clammy now. They’re ice cold despite the balmy weather and the fact that I’m wearing a Hawaiian T-shirt the color of puke and a pair of too-tight board shorts that hug my crotch the same incessant way my grandmother anxiously squeezes her stress-relief balls.
“Women will love that bulge,” the wardrobe crew assured me with a pat on the shoulder.
The women might, but there’s a good chance my ability to reproduce will die today.
“Gamóto.”
The Greek curse for “fuck” flies off my tongue, as it has since my teenage years when my Greek mother warned me and Effie against using English profanity in public. I’ve never been more grateful for speaking two languages than when I showed up on set for Put A Ring On It, a reality show that might as well be the budget-cut edition of the infamous The Bachelor franchise.
See: the Hawaiian T-shirt and board-shorts bit.
I shift my hips and pray for relief.
The small, velvet box burns in the front pocket of my shorts as I face down the production crew. Louder, in perfectly clear English, I grind out, “I can’t do this.”
“Buck up, Stamos,” rumbles Joe, the show’s director. He side-eyes me like I’m a caged animal clawing for escape, then casually claps me on the back like we’re best buds. I’d have to be tone-deaf to miss his hearty, fuck-you laugh. Prick. If I wasn’t determined to leave this island uncuffed, I’d throw a fist right at his pretty-boy, Hollywood face. “It’s only pre-engagement jitters. You love her, dontcha?”
It was easy to think so in the midst of orchestrated dinner dates and cameras being shoved into my face and producers pointedly asking, “How do you feel? You love her yet?”
I haven’t answered “yes” once. And now that it’s down to me and one other contestant, the questions have narrowed down to the most vital: “How are you gonna propose?” It’s all I can do not to ditch the wannabe-surfer outfit and make a break for it, away from the white, sandy beach where Savannah Rose is waiting.
She deserves better than what I can offer: nothing but a gut-deep awareness that marrying her would be the equivalent of getting hitched to myself. I like me—hell, I even enjoy my own company most days—but there’s a reason why my mom thanked the Good Lord that I didn’t turn out to be a twin, like the doctor first predicted. Thirty-two years later, she’s still pinching my cheek and praising her lucky stars like she won the MegaBucks.
So, yeah, me and Savannah? Despite the high hopes I had coming onto the show, we turned out to be the same blend of black and white, equally balanced in temperament, opinions, and our shared preference for the introverted, hermit life.
Savannah Rose is lovely, but I just don’t love her.
I open my mouth, ready to flay Joe alive with the reminder that, according to the contract I signed before embarking on this shit show of a journey, I can leave whenever the hell I want. Including on the last day of production, when I and the other runner-up are expected to get down on bended knee and propose.
Joe beats me to the punch. “Listen, Nick. Fact is, you gotta do it now, ’kay?” He thrusts a finger at the narrow cobblestoned pathway that leads from the cottage I’ve been sharing with my fellow contestant, Dominic DaSilva, to the beach. “Right there. She’s waiting for you right down there. You gonna disappoint her? You gonna let insecurities cloud your judgment? You said you loved her only last night!”
The hell I did.
“Joe,” I grunt, shoving one hand into my pocket to grab the engagement-ring box, “I’m not doing it. Not for you, not for TV, and definitely not for Savannah Rose. She came here lookin’ for love and I’m not going to be that asshole who lies to her for the sake of good ratings, you hear me?”
I slam the velvet box down on the entryway table to my right.
And, because the gravitational pull of the universe is a conniving son of a gun, the box skids as I let go, turning over onto its side and falling from the table.
Crashing to the floor.
Cracking wide open.
The diamond ring, which probably costs more than my restoration business is worth back in Boston, pops out from the box. It circles on the tile floor, once, twice, before teetering flat on its side. Sardonically, I lift a brow. “If that isn’t an ironic show of how this is about to go down, then I don’t know what is.”
Joe’s knees pop as he snatches the ring off the floor and shoves it back into the box. With a speed I don’t anticipate, he crams the whole thing into the pocket of my shorts and comes mighty damn close to fondling the family jewels.
Full confessional: there’s not much wriggle room in these things.
I arc my ass backward, away from his wandering hands. “Jesus! What the hell are you doing, man?”
“Earning myself a damn paycheck.” He jabs an accusatory finger in my face. “You’re going out there with this fuckin’ ring, Stamos, you hear me? You’re gonna get down on one knee and we’ll let Savannah know before filming rolls that you want out. She’ll do the dumping, not you.”
My jaw drops without ceremony. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I told you yesterday that I wanted to talk to her without the cameras. I don’t want to hurt her. She’s a great girl—”
“But she’s not the one for you.” Joe rolls his eyes and twiddles his fingers in the air like a complete asshat. “Yada, yada, yada. I’ve heard this shit before when I was working with Chris-fuckin’-Harrison on The Bachelor. You think this is my first rodeo? No, Mr. Adonis, it’s not. We’re doing this my way since it’s my goddamn show. And my way is letting Savannah land the proverbial kick to your balls. Capiche?”
“No fucking capiche.”
Savannah isn’t any more in love with me than I am with her, if the few lackluster kisses we’ve shared are anything to go by. And that was all before we unanimously agreed to skip the overnight date last week. The way I look at it, that decision hammered the final nail in our coffin. I’m no virgin, and she isn’t either, which leads to only one conclusion: neither of us are feeling the chemistry.
It’s disappointing, yeah, considering I showed up at the Put A Ring On It house with big hopes of leaving with the love of my life. Sure, I only ended up on the show because Effie was convinced that I was failing—epically—in the dating department on my own. She wasn’t wrong, much as it grates me to admit it. I have a bad habit of choosing women who, in the end, don’t choose me back. And maybe there’s something to be said for letting someone else play matchmaker for once. Clearly, I haven’t been doing myself any favors since Brynn stormed out of that church.
After I pulled my head out of my ass (and my sister chewed me out for being a stick in the mud), I gradually warmed up to the idea of meeting a woman I never would have crossed paths with in my routine, day-to-day life in New England.
Hello, my name is Nick Stamos and I’m a closet romantic.
Sue me.
End of the day: it didn’t work out. But that doesn’t mean I’m keen on ending the relationship with lies tripping off the tongue. My mom taught me better. My dad taught me better.
And, yet, ten minutes later I find myself being led, like a lamb to the slaughter, down to the beach. I spot Savannah Rose immediately—it’s hard not to. With her caramel skin, thanks to her Creole heritage, and her rich, dark hair, Savannah is a show-stopper. Tall and willowy, she dropped jaws throughout filming, whether it was when she stepped out in a dress for a night out on the town or put on a bikini while relaxing on the beach. She’s serenity personified, rarely raising her voice, though I’d have to be an idiot not to notice that her spine is laced with steel.
Like I said, the two of us are peas in a pod. Reserved. Sometimes shy. But with unwavering backbone—being taken advantage of isn’t a concern.
My molars grind together as Joe waves me forward from where he sits beside the camera crew. They’re camped out between two sky-high palm trees, as though the rotund barks are wide enough to provide some sort of coverage and conceal them from sight.
To provide us with the illusion of privacy.
My hands clench at my sides.
Do the right thing, I shout at myself. Get down there and do the right thing.
I’m not a bad guy. Hell, I’ve always been the good guy, if I’m being real honest about it. The guy mothers love. The one they have no qualms about their daughters spending time with because, “that Nick, he’s just such a nice person.”
I don’t feel all that nice right now.
Don’t feel all that good either.
My bare feet sink into the warm sand as I come to a stop before Savannah. She peers up at me through long, spiky lashes. I hold onto her dark gaze, trying to get a read on her. Has Joe told her a damn thing? Has he relayed the message that I need to tell her myself—that I don’t love her the way she deserves to be loved?
That I can’t propose forever with her, let alone the rest of today?
Her pink, glossy lips curl in greeting, offering a shy smile that sucker punches me in the gut.
She doesn’t know. No way in hell would she smile at me like that—or at all—if she knew how I really feel.
Ah, fuck.
I slide a quick glance over to Joe, who keeps his attention locked on the monitor set up before him.
He wants his good TV. It’s his job, and I get that too.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll willingly ruin mine and Savannah Rose’s lives to pacify the public’s demand for cheap shots and trashy entertainment.
“Nick,” Savannah Rose murmurs, her gentle New Orleans accent barely audible over the crashing of the ocean waves behind her, “I just want to say how—”
“Óxi.”
She blinks. Then blinks again. “I’m sorry, what—”
“Do you remember what I taught you when we were in Australia?” If Joe wants to publicly humiliate me, I’ll go along—but only if Savannah catches on, and he’s clearly passed along nothing of what I told him. So much for letting her hold the reins. The asshole obviously didn’t plan to tell her anything, preferring to send her into today’s proposal as blind as a damn bat. “The Greek words?” I prompt when she says nothing.
“Well, yeah, I think—” She scrunches her nose, clearly trying to recall our exact conversation from a few weeks back. “Óxi, óxi that means . .
”
I refuse to look away until the word registers in her head.
No. It means no.
And I’m banking on her understanding everything that I’m not saying, so she can keep her pride and hold her chin up high when it’s obvious that Joe the Prick wants nothing more than to see her fall—and watch the show’s ratings skyrocket in contrast.
“Oh.”
The word emerges from her mouth, small, hesitant, and then she’s blinking away, running a hand through her dark hair and nodding, nodding, nodding, like she’s trying to get her brain back into the game plan.
Tell me no, I mouth slowly, tell me no.
I drop to one knee, just as she fixes her gaze on my face.
Her eyes are clear, her mouth relaxed and un-pinched. My guilty conscience kicks in, and, dammit, but I’m seriously hoping that she was prepared to accept Dom’s ring today. That’ll make this easier for the both of us when we go our separate ways.
I’m sorry, Savannah Rose.
I never break hearts.
Until today.
Chapter Two
Mina
Boston, Massachusetts
“My heart feels like it’s going to give out.”
The words leave me on a rough exhale, and my best friend does nothing but shove a glass of vodka-on-the-rocks into my hand like it’s the cure to end all shit-tastic days. “It’s called anxiety,” Effie Stamos tells me, all no-nonsense attitude and calm-in-the-middle-of-my-storm as she sips from her own glass. If she thinks it’s weird that we’re camped out in my unfinished hair salon, guzzling booze like it’s our job, she doesn’t say so out loud.
Her dark eyes flit over me, though, no doubt cataloguing my very obvious lack of fucks to give. I haven’t showered in days. Haven’t shaved in days either. If I cared to look in the mirror, which I don’t—the scent clinging to my skin and clothes are all I need to know that I look like hell—I’m very certain I’d come face-to-face with the modern-day Yeti. It’s not a look I’d ever suggest to one of my clients when they come in to get their hair cut.
Then again, I don’t have clients anymore either.
My heart seizes again, lungs clamping tightly, and I briefly contemplate ditching the dainty glass Effie’s given me for the entire bottle instead. Nothing says Yay For Hitting Your New Low than drinking to excess on a weeknight.
“Alcohol always helps,” Effie says from her perch on the far side of the sofa. There’s at least three feet separating us, which I’m sure is her way of trying to avoid the stink that is currently me. Smart lady. “Stub your toe,” Effie continues, lifting her glass in a toast, “drink Tito’s. Flat tire, drink Tito’s.” Her dark eyes light with a forced, let’s-laugh-this-one-out-together humor. “Find out that your handyman ran out on you with your check for ten-thousand dollars—”
I’m lunging for the bottle off the coffee table before she even finishes her sentence. The vodka tickles and warms its way down the back of my throat, a reminder that I rarely drink anything heavier than wine or a fruity cocktail weighted with more calories than a burger from McDonald’s. I’ve never been one for the Skinny Girl menu.
Effie’s mouth twitches.
“Just say it,” I mutter morosely, waving the bottle in her direction. “I’m an idiot. A screw-up. A—”
“I was actually thinking about the fact that he took your lucky penny.”
“Bastard.” I down another mouthful of Tito’s and pray to the alcohol gods that I won’t be tossing up my cookies tomorrow morning. A hangover is not in the plans—then again, neither was trusting a scammer.
“Who does that?” I point Tito to the far side of my newly purchased hair salon, which is empty save for the sofa we’re sitting on and the cute receptionist’s desk I picked up at an antiques sale a few weekends back. “It wasn’t enough that he took the ten-K? The jerk went through my desk and took my lucky penny. I’ve had that thing since your mom gave it to me on prom night.”
Aleka Stamos, the hairdresser who gave me my first pair of shears, promised that if I kept the lucky penny on me, one day I’d have the chance to see it in my very own register at my very own hair salon. Envision your dreams, she said, manifest them into reality. The penny’s copper was worn down, smoothed thrice over, and had survived over a decade of being almost handed over to cashiers time and again. Well-earned battle scars, only to be swiped from my register before I even opened Agape’s front doors.
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