Hold Me Today

by Maria Luis

  But one of the boys came with his date, and I asked if he wanted me to style his hair. He flipped out. Said that I have a unibrow—I DON’T. I know because I shave it off because that’s what happens when you’re hairy. You shave every day. And then he said that I should just go back to my country. I LIVE IN AMERICA. And all because I said I’d do his hair. I hope it falls out and he goes bald and it all ends up coming out of his nostrils.

  I cried.

  I didn’t want to cry but between Baba and that stupid boy, I cried. Nick found me like that. I wish I didn’t like him so much. He’s Effie’s big brother and he’s never looked at me as anything but a brat but then he asked me to dance, and he put on some Greek song and took me in his arms and I CRIED ALL OVER HIM.

  He was just trying to be nice and I ruined the moment with snot. True romance right there.

  The worst part is, I thought at one point he might kiss me . . . we were close, like almost nose to nose because I was standing on my tiptoes, and it could have happened. Maybe. I closed my eyes. That’s what they all do in the movies. They close their eyes and lean in.

  But Nick didn’t lean in.

  He told me he’s dating this girl he really likes at school. Her name is Brynn and she’s beautiful, he says, and he thinks it might be the real deal.

  I thought HE was the real deal.

  Stupid me.

  So, yeah, bad memories, GSN. I’ll pay to get rid of them. All of them.

  I’ll miss you, since today is our last day of Greek school FOREVER. Thank you for listening. It’s nice to feel like someone understands me, even if you’re only a notebook and I’ve probably ruined you with all my bad grammar and misspelled words.

  Hugs,

  MINA

  I close the notebook and toss it back in the bin. It’s either stamp out the emotion or let it consume me, and crying gets a girl nowhere in life. Patience, like I have tattooed on the sole of my foot, gets me places. Soaring, like the set of wings I have inked behind my ear, reminds me to always keep moving, even if my steps are small and measured and frightened by the unknown lingering before me.

  But I’ve lived my entire life with some unknown part of me taking up residence in my soul, and I’ve never been all that scared by the what-ifs of the world. What-ifs are useless wastes of time. Get out there, make the magic happen—no matter what—and learn as you go. It’s the key to survival, and how I operate.

  I could spend months lamenting Jake the IOU Asshole, but that would get me nowhere. Same with the damn stairs and my sudden move back to my childhood home. It is what it is, and so long as I give my dad a wide birth, I’m sure we can co-exist like normal people.

  Shoving the bin back under the bed, I grasp the side of my laptop and haul it to the edge of the mattress. A few strokes of the keyboard later and I’ve officially accepted the invitation to participate in the fashion show.

  “There,” I say with an air of finality, “now move on to the next thing.”

  I smooth my thumb over the mouse pad. “Moving on to the next thing” reminds me of Nick and all his temporary longing theories. He’s not wrong. Dreams change, they adjust and grow, and . . . I have no idea what in the world I’ll start dreaming about after Agape opens. More clients, maybe, or more stints in hair shows and fashion shows or more followers on Instagram.

  Or something.

  I’m sure it’ll come to me. It’s not as though my ambition and drive will just roll over and die with the grand opening of a hair salon. That’s not how this dream thing works.

  I close my laptop and put it away, then putz around my room. Fiddle with old trinkets I haven’t seen in years. Send Effie a text about grabbing dinner together later this week. Boredom clings to me like a second skin until I find myself stripping off my sweats and putting on a pair of high-waisted jeans and a crop-top sweater with bell sleeves. I grab a beanie hat and gloves and shove my feet into a pair of trendy snow boots.

  I leave my face bare of any makeup, without even a trace of my trademark dark lipstick.

  Being back in this house doesn’t give me the warm fuzzies. No, it makes me want to run off into the night. Anxiety kicks boredom to the curb as I throw on a heavy wool coat, leaving it unbuttoned, and ignore looking in the full-sized mirror as I head out my bedroom door.

  For the first time in years, I don’t have a single destination in mind.

  My nerves are on edge, all those long-buried emotions bubbling to the surface. I shouldn’t have popped open Pandora’s box. What good did it do for me, anyway? Add little pinpricks of hurt to my soul after years of carefully removing them all from my childhood?

  I should have taken Nick up on his offer to stay at his house. “And here’s another time when you ignored the obvious choice.”

  I’m making a bad habit of it, clearly.

  The first floor is empty as I head for the front door. The lights are turned off, and my parents aren’t the sort to leave a note on the fridge about their whereabouts—or to send a quick text to let me know when they might be home. More likely than not, they’re at one of their mini-concerts down along the Charles River.

  Sighing, I fist the doorknob and pull it open.

  My heart flips over on itself at the familiar figure standing on the front stoop. “Nick?”

  22

  Nick

  Mina looks like she’s seen a ghost.

  Or maybe it’s that I’m seeing her without makeup for the first time in years. No spiky black lashes or lips painted the color of a deep, red wine. She looks . . . young, impressionable. A little worn down. No less beautiful, though.

  And when did you start seeing Ermione Pappas as beautiful? I shake the thought away and give the woman in front of me my full attention, which is probably a good thing because her expression has what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here? written all over it, arched eyebrows and all.

  “Nick?”

  She says my name like I’m the last person she ever expected to see show up at her parents’ house—she’s not out of line to wonder. I came here on a whim because I . . . missed her. Rewind. Scratch the hell out of that. I didn’t miss her exactly. More like, all day I wondered what it might be like to hang out with Mina Pappas. Grab some food for dinner or head to a bar for a cocktail. Engage in conversation that matters because I’ve got the craziest feeling that Mina and me, we’re not so unlike as we’ve always thought.

  Except that “hanging out” has never been our style.

  Then again, up until three days ago, kissing wasn’t our thing either.

  Now look at me, standing on the Pappas’ front stoop, hands buried in my pockets since I came empty-handed, wondering if the woman who claims she can never get a read on me can see that I’m wracked with nerves.

  Clearly, I’ve stepped over the threshold into insanity.

  I wasn’t nervous about being “rejected” on national television. Hell, even on my wedding day while I waited for Brynn to walk down the aisle—before I realized that shit was about to implode and blow up in my face—I was completely calm. Meanwhile, my mom sat in the pews hyperventilating about her baby boy becoming a husband. My yiayia, as can be expected, sat knitting a baby blanket—as one does at a wedding.

  The same can’t be said for my state of being right now.

  Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

  Clearing my throat, I nod to Mina’s getup, taking in the nondescript, gray beanie hat she’s tugged down over her ears. “Heading out?”

  She mumbles something under her breath, then steps out on the front stoop and tugs the door shut behind her. Louder, like she expects me to put up a fuss, she says, “I’m going on a walk.”

  A walk? To where, Antarctica? The ice rink? Granted, the latter is probably open but the last time I checked, Mina can’t skate for shit. Her balance sucks, and she always throws her arms out wide like she thinks if she evenly distributes her weight, she might not face plant. It never did work for her. She’s a beach girl, sandals optional.

  Blocking her path
to the frozen tundra, I stand my ground and point to the slick frost coating the grass. “You don’t do ice, Mina. Or snow. You’re overestimating the right time for a walk by at least three months, maybe four if the snow gods want to play a sick joke on us.”

  “I can take care of myself, you know.” As though determined to prove her point, she kicks out one foot, gesturing at her black snow boot like it’s the miracle of all miracles. “I’ve got kicks.”

  Pressing my lips together, I pray for patience. Slowly, evenly, I mutter, “They have pom-poms.”

  She stands on her tiptoes and those furry, ridiculous pink pom-poms do a jig, bouncing this way and that. “They’re stylish.”

  Because style really matters when you’re wiping out on black ice and looking like an extra out of a horror movie. “Stylish,” I draw out slowly, “is a nice leather shoe or a sleek-cut jacket, not—”

  “Nick, you do realize you’re getting wicked worked up over a piece of fake fur, right? You’re practically frothing at the mouth.”

  “I—” My jaw clamps tight, back molars cracking together. Scrubbing one hand over my lower face, I remind myself that I didn’t come here to battle it out with Mina on who can outwit the other. Although I’d be lying if I say that her feisty attitude and quick comebacks aren’t part of her draw. “How ’bout we start over?”

  “I’m not going back in the house, only to come out into the cold again. That’s cruel.”

  “I’m not that much of a jerk, Ermione.”

  “Says the man who insulted my pom-poms.”

  Grimacing, I open my mouth and promptly dig my grave: “They look like something my grandmother would wear.” At her furrowed brow, I hastily add, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. They’re . . .”

  “Stylish.”

  “Right. Stylish.” One curt nod that’s so formal I might as well just salute her and snap my heels together like a cadet. I don’t do either, and preemptively I keep my hands in my coat pockets before I can dig myself any deeper into dangerous territory. I do, however, give her my most charming smile before asking, “Do they come in men’s sizes?”

  Whatever she’s got on her mind must be troubling her pretty bad; she doesn’t laugh at my joke, though her expression does soften, and when she sidesteps me, it’s with a squeeze of my forearm. I curse my coat for blocking the heat of her gloved hand on my skin.

  “You’re ridiculous,” she tells me, already heading down the walkway to the sidewalk. “And I’m still going on that walk.”

  Stubborn. She’s so damn stubborn and it makes me want to drive her to distraction some other way, with my mouth molding over hers until the only comebacks I hear are those sexy whimpers of hers.

  “Mina, stop a sec.”

  Unexpectedly, she does, swiveling on the heels of her snow boots and crossing her arms over her chest. It’s her get on with it stance, and I’m not interested in doing her bidding. So, I study her without reservation, taking in her tight jeans and the sliver of skin peeking out between the hem of her shirt and her waistband. I glance up at the wild, curly hair, tamed by only the hat pulled down to her ears—I haven’t seen her hair natural like this since we were kids, long before she discovered the merits of a blow-dryer. I like it better this way, how it frames her face and hints at her rebel soul. Aside from the towering street lamp behind her, it’s pitch-black outside. But there’s enough ambient light for me to catch the fleeting expression on her face.

  And what I see there twists my gut.

  Restlessness.

  It widens her gaze and tugs her full mouth into a straight, uncompromising line. Her brows, always her most expressive feature—the woman does love a taunting brow raise—are furrowed, the crease between them rooted deep.

  Something’s wrong.

  Tilting my chin in the direction of where I parked, I rock onto the backs of my heels and force my voice to sound completely blasé. “How about a car ride instead?”

  She casts a quick glance over her shoulder, deliberating on the offer, and I hear her speak before she’s even turned back around. “I need to move, Nick.”

  Shit, the apartment.

  Ambling toward her, I rub my hand against the outside of my thigh, trying to warm up. Boston in February is seriously no joke, and this winter seems chillier than most years. “I know you’re wantin’ to head back home,” I tell her, deliberately pausing a foot away. Getting close but not too close, in case she needs space. “Vince and me, we’ve got you covered.” I don’t tell her that I brought in one of my temp guys to get the job done faster. Between overhauling the salon and taking care of my other clients, including the Victorian-museum demo, my hands are beyond full. They’re straight-up overflowing. “You’ll be back in by next week, at the latest.”

  “No, it’s not that. I—” With a quick shake of her head and a single, furtive glance at my face, she blows out a hard breath. It’s so cold that her breath immediately vaporizes. Damn. If she thinks I’m letting her walk in this weather—alone—she’s out of her goddamn mind. The only thing she’ll gain from wandering around tonight is frostbite. If she wants to “move,” whatever the hell that means, then she’s got a new partner-in-crime tonight. Me.

  “In the car,” I husk out, staring down at her upturned face. Fuck, I want to kiss her. Again. Until we either work this insane chemistry out of our systems or we . . . What? Date, for real this time? I squash the thought before it sprouts and takes roots like an unwanted weed. “You look like you’re ready to jump out of your skin, and I’m all for hashing it out with the heat blasting in our faces.”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  With a hand to the lush curve of her hip, I gently push her toward the car. “Then make me understand.”

  She must get the hint that I’m not budging on this, because she squares her shoulders and cuts around the hood of the car to wait by the passenger’s side door. “No company van tonight?”

  “Off the clock.” I push the unlock button on the key fob, then motion for her to jump in. “The joys of making my own hours—though you may have heard about my needy-as-hell client. A recent acquisition for Stamos Restoration.”

  I slide into the driver’s seat in time to hear her wry, “Needy, huh?”

  “The neediest,” I tell her after the heat’s blasting hot air in our faces and my fingers have thawed. “She’s got me working all hours of the day, kissin’ her smart mouth when I should be focusing on the job . . .”

  Mina huffs out a quiet laugh. “She sounds like a piece of work.”

  “More like trouble for my peace of mind.”

  Silence invades her side of the car. She reaches forward and twists the heat knob to the left, then plants her right hand on the dashboard. Her left arm she loops around the back of the headrest. “Nick, are you flirting with me?”

  I match her stance, wrapping my right arm around the driver’s headrest. My left elbow sits atop the steering wheel. Then, like I’m discussing the dreary weather outside, I drawl, “You got a problem with that?”

  The corner of her mouth tugs upward in a half-smile. “Anyone ever tell you that you like to have the last word?”

  Only every other day. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re gorgeous in a beanie hat?” Her hand flies off the dashboard to palm the side of her head, and, because I’m enjoying the hell out of having the last word—and seeing the flush creep over her olive-toned cheeks—I add, “And I’m all for the no makeup for purely selfish reasons.”

  She visibly swallows. Meets my gaze head-on when she demands, “And those selfish reasons are?”

  I don’t even bother to smother my grin. Demanding or not, there’s no missing the way her voice quivered when she spoke. Call me an ass, but I like that she’s nervous around me. It’s only fair, since she shakes me up like no other woman ever has. Mina might be all big talk, but she’s not nearly as unaffected by my presence as she wants me to believe.

  Check mate.

  I lean in, redistributing my
weight in the seat so that I’m half-leaning over the center console. I get as close as I can, given where we are, and press a soft, teasing kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I wanted to know the true color of your lips after all these years.”

  Her breath audibly catches. “And?” she whispers.

  Another kiss, this one to the other corner of her mouth. What can I say? I’m an equal opportunist—can’t leave one side hanging and risk it feeling jealous. “And what?”

  “Are they”—she swallows again, and then her fingers grow bold as they gently rake through my hair—“satisfactory?”

  In every single way.

  I give her the only answer that matters: my lips on hers.

  God, she tastes amazing. Like sunshine in the middle of winter and vanilla and something so sweet and uniquely her. Her taste consumes me—and as balls-freezing cold as it is outside this car, there’s nothing but combustible heat between us. It flames the fire and it arouses, and I graze my lips over hers, refusing to deepen the pressure. Not yet. Not until she’s begging and needy and demanding more. With iron-clad will, I keep the pace slow, teasing, seductive. A brush of my lips over hers, a sensuous glide of my tongue at the seam of her lips before I retreat and relish the way she whimpers at the loss. And then I do it all over again, torturing us both.

  My name falls from her mouth like a four-letter curse.

  I hold my ground, kissing her, antagonizing her with a more thorough sweep of my tongue and my fingers pinching her chin, keeping her exactly where I want her. She squirms impatiently in her seat. Almost desperately, her gloved fingers follow the curve of my skull, sliding down to the nape of my neck. “More,” comes her throaty demand, right before she yanks me closer. Her full lips nip at mine in a fight for dominance.

  Gentleman that I am, I let her have it.

  Right before I throw gasoline into the flames and slide my hand against that bare strip of skin. Cold against hot, she shivers at my touch and gasps into my mouth. So damn responsive. I shouldn’t be surprised, not the way she’s always baited me for a reaction. The nice-guy thing to do would be to keep my hand in neutral territory at the dip of her waist. It’s what she expects, and I’m not above proving her wrong.