Page 33 of Hold Me Today

And again.

“Ermione!”

Another meeting of my fist on the pale blue door, and then it’s swinging open and I’m glancing down and—

“Jesus,” I grunt when I catch sight of her, “you look like hell.”

She’s wrapped up in a comforter, bundled tightly from neck to calf as though the heat’s gone out in her apartment and she’s on the verge of turning into Olaf fromFrozen. Her cheeks burn a bright pink, the same color as the whites of her eyes. And her hair . . . her hair is a mess atop her head, piled high in a bun that’s seconds away from coming undone.

She swipes her tongue over her bottom lip like she’s parched for nourishment. “Nick,” she whispers, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it, “what are you . . . what’re you doing here?”

Hell if I know.

Ten minutes ago, I was ready to chew her ass out for turning into a flighty mess and forgetting that we planned to meet.

And now . . .

Without an explanation, I nudge her back into the apartment, my hands closing in on her shoulders. Or, well, the comforter that’s swallowing her frame. I grab a handful of fluff and polyester, but it’s enough to fill my palms as I twirl her around. Kick the door shut behind me. “It was our first day on the job, remember?”

There’s a minute pause and then her head droops forward in defeat. “Crap, crap,crap. I’m so sorry”—she licks her lips again, and I inhale sharply, tearing my gaze away—“I-I woke up this morning and . . .” She sways slightly, and before I can change my mind, I’ve got her hefted up and in my arms. “Nick. Nick, put me down.”

As if she could make it another five seconds on her feet.

I lift my chin, giving her room to duck her face into the crook of my neck. I cradle her like I would a lover, one arm looped under her knees, fingers flirting dangerously with the curve of her ass—over the comforter, of course—and the other nestled behind her back. I guess it’s a good thing we’re exchanging favors nowadays: sheisdating me, after all.

Somewhat.

In theory.

“Bed,” I mutter under my breath, scanning the apartment’s tiny layout. A small kitchen sits off to the right and the living room is nothing more than a loveseat and a TV perched on top of an ancient stand. There’s nothing about the space that screamsMina Pappas. It lacks all of her creativity, all of her flair. “Is it the flu?”

She shakes her head, one of her arms coming up to hook around my neck. “Migraine. I get them . . . a lot.”

Worry pierces me as I carry her down the short hallway, passing a bathroom on the right that doesn’t look big enough for a shower, let alone a tub, and then to the only other door. Assuming it’s her bedroom, I nudge it open with my shoulder and spot her bed. The sheets are in disarray, a pillow sits on the floor, abandoned, and the blinds are pulled shut over the window.

It feels like a prison.

After growing up in a tiny third-floor apartment in Cambridge with the smallest, most inconveniently sized windows, I’m a guy who needs natural light, and a lot of it. Within a month of buying my house, I knocked out the back wall and put in all glass. Mina’s apartment reminds me of my childhood home—and that’s not a compliment.

I set her down on the bed, then nab the pillow off the floor and stuff it behind her head, along with two others that are strewn in the far corner of the mattress.

Mina releases a soft moan at the sensation of me pulling the comforter out from around her body. She reaches for the blankets immediately, muttering about how cold she is, and I do my best to simply break her cocoon and lay the comforter flat across her without pulling it away from her skin.

“I hate them,” she whispers, kicking her feet beneath the sheet.

Against my better judgment, I sit next to her. Plant one hand down next to her hip as I lean forward and press the back of my hand to her clammy forehead the way Vince did to me not even thirty minutes ago. “You hate the sheets?” I ask, trying to tease her. I should probably let her know that we picked her lock and technically broke in, but I figure it’s best to leave that for later, when she’s not looking like misery run over.

She burrows deeper in the blankets, turning her face away from my hand. “The headaches.”

Ah. I pull back, curling my fingers into a fist that I dig into the mattress next to my ass.Don’t touch her. It seems ironic that I need to remind myself of that, but I’ve never enjoyed seeing her sad. Not back when I taught that douchebag bully a lesson. Not on her prom night, when not a single guy had asked her to go, and she flipped the script to hide her hurt. She’d set up shop in my mother’s living room, doing the hair of all the girls going to the dance. Effie acted as her bookie, collecting payment, while Mina curled hair and created up-dos and showed off her entrepreneurial spirit. But I’d seen the hurt in her eyes, the loneliness, and I would have done pretty much anything to make her smile.

Except kiss her when she clearly wanted it.

My knuckles crack as I shift my weight on the mattress. “I don’t remember you getting headaches all that often as a kid.”

Blearily, she peers up at me. Long, spiky lashes. Pink cheeks that speak to being ill and not a reaction to having me in her bedroom. It’s been six years since we sat on a mattress together, and yet it strangely feels like no time at all. Finally, she edges out, “Older.” She squeezes her eyes shut, then tries again. “They got bad in my twenties. Symptoms of dyslexia.” The snort she lets out should sound sarcastic—I’m more than positive she meant it that way—but it strikes me as sad.

Resigned.

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