Page 12 of Hold Me Today

The door swings open a heartbeat later, and I open my mouth to greet Nick—only to realize that the person standing there isn’t Nick at all but rather a guy around my age. His blond hair is a rumpled mess, which is in no way outdone by his wrinkled clothing, the scruff on his jaw (though his upper lip is as smooth as a baby’s bottom), and half-tied shoelaces.

If I’m the Hot Mess Express, then this man is the conductor leading us all to our inevitable doom.

His eyes widen at the sight of the coffee. “You must be Ermionehh,” he says, greedy hands reaching for the Dunkin’s. He plucks one out of my grasp and brings the plastic lid to his nose, inhaling like an addict. “Damn, now that smells like heaven.”

Actually, it smells likemyheaven.

I look from the cup now clutched in his big paws to the one still in my possession. This morning I’d hobbled out of bed, ignored my Keurig, and tumbled into the shower and then into clothes. I’m half-awake, in desperate need of caffeine and—

I’m not looking for a reason for Nick to throw me out on my rear end. Pissing off his employee won’t earn me any brownie points, so I offer the coffee thief a big ol’ grin, ignoring the screech of my heart that’s shoutinggive it to us!like Gollum himself has taken up residence in my chest, and mutter, “There’s milk and sugar in that one.”

Angling my body past him, I step inside Nick’s place of work for the very first time. Call me crazy but it feels like I’m about to see him in an all new light. I’ve known him for my entire life: as my best friend’s older brother, as my teenage crush, as the man who drives me up a wall with his sly wit and quiet reserve.

But I’ve never seen him in a professional setting, and something about that has me . . . eager.

With the sole coffee-left-standing pressed to my diaphragm, I take in the room before me. It looks more like an architectural exhibit at a museum than an office. Miniature wooden structures stand on short, ankle-high tables. I spot a Victorian mansion painted in eggshell blue and trimmed with lavender over to my right, and then, on the far side of the room, what looks to be a church with a half-built spire. More pieces are littered throughout the space, each as intricate and intriguing as the one before it.

Did Nick make these?

For a moment, I let that image settle in, visually projecting him sitting behind the incomplete church. His rough hands molding the wood, his face a mask of concentration as he toils away the daylight until the afternoon sun kisses his olive skin and he breathes out a sigh of contentment. I can only imagine the hours needed to complete each structure, miniature or not. If patience is a virtue, then Nick is the most virtuous one of us all.

Feeling more rattled than I’d like to admit, I spin on my heel to face the coffee thief. “You can call me Mina, by the way. It’s easier.”

“Mina.” The guy’s face sags with relief. He takes a swig of coffee and doesn’t even flinch at the heat. “Thank God. You know how many times I practiced Ermionehhin the mirror this morning? Had to have the boss-man audio record it for me over the weekend ’cuz it was either that or, well, ya know.”

Compared to Nick’s fluent Greek tongue, this guy pronounces my name like his mouth has been stuffed with cotton. Each syllable is all wrong, but I give him a big smile anyway. “I appreciate the effort.”

“I’mallabout the effort, Mina.”

He doesn’t wink, but I get the feeling he’s doing it in his head but trying to stick to whatever rulebook has been shoved up his butt from day one. Nick’s a stickler for certain things.

Like buying two bags of popcorn and never letting a woman notice that he’s checking out her cleavage.

“Anyway,” Coffee Thief goes on, “Boss-man’s just wrapping up a meeting, so I’ll bring you in there. As a head’s up, his office looks like my grandma’s after aFamily Feudmarathon.” At my side-eye, he shrugs, all nonchalant. “Steve Harvey really gets her worked up. Point is, Nick’s office is a disaster since he’s playing catch-up now that he’s back from that dating show or whatever.”

Hold up.

Pause.

Rewind.

My stride careens to a stop as I shoot a wild glance over at CT. “I’m sorry, did you say that Nick was on adatingshow?” I refuse to believe it. Nick—mypredictable, safe Nick—would rather walk into a room full of clowns than subject himself to TV. And reality television at that. “Was itThe Bachelor?”

Oh. My. God.

Is Nick engaged?Married?

My head swirls with the endless possibilities and I’m suddenly grateful to CT for taking hold of at least one coffee because I’m seconds away from pulling a Tower of Pisa and going down, face-first. I talked about foreplay with him.Nick. And hand-tangoing! And I may or may not have prayed for his penis to be leaf-coverage tiny.

No wife deserves that sort of discovery, and I instantly regret the insult, even though it never left my head. And even though I know it’s not true.

I’m going to be sick.

“You okay, Ermiona?”

I don’t even bother to correct CT.

Though I hate black coffee, I bring Nick’s cup up to my mouth and take a hearty swig of the java. For self-preservation. Fortitude. And because I need to do something with my hands besides stand here with my mouth agape and my eyes the size of saucers. The coffee burns on the way down, like a bitter truth bomb that I’d rather not be forced to swallow.

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