Page 34 of Hold Me Today

And then my brain rewinds her words and locks on only one: dyslexia.

I didn’t even know she had dyslexiaat all, although . . . it makes sense. All those years of listening to her struggle in Greek school, of her coming to our house on the weekends and quietly asking for my mom to help her with the words, and the writing, and the reading.

Why had she never asked her own mother?

The question slams into me, and I mentally drop it in a box and close the lid. It’s none of my business.

“What can I do for you?” I watch her expression for any sign of discomfort, then question my own motives. Helping with the renovation does not extend to helping herfeel better. But I don’t move away from the bed. If anything, I trail my gaze over the shape of her arm under the comforter. She’s tapping her fingers even now, and her knuckles create tiny tents beneath the red fabric. I settle my hand over hers, squeezing her fingers. “Would caffeine help?”

She shuts her eyes but doesn’t move her hand away. “Sometimes. Yeah.”

“You got any coffee?”

A quick nod on her part, and I stand.

In the kitchen, I set about getting the miracle java going. As the coffee brews, I take a small tour of her main living area. Aside from the sofa and TV, she’s got very little in the way of furniture or personal items. A picture of her and Effie sits on the little kitchen island that doubles as a table. Next to that one is another of her and her siblings at Katya’s college graduation party from a few years back.

Mina’s hair is still bright pink in the photo. Her smile is wide, her lips stained a dark plum that matches the shade of her dress and heels. She looks confident, edgy, and completely different than the woman currently huddled in her bedroom and hiding from the world.

I send a quick text to Vince that I’ll be down in thirty, but that I’m handling a family emergency upstairs.

Pouring the coffee into a mug I found in one of the cabinets, I add milk and sugar, just the way she likes it. Quickly, I sponge down the spoon I used, and tuck it back into its drawer. I do the same with the bowl that’s in the sink and a tall glass. The last thing she needs when this migraine bites the dust is a load of dishes that still need washing. I put them up, then head back to Mina’s room. I knock once on the door, just to give her a head’s up, then shoulder my way inside. The room’s exactly as I left it—moody, dark, with walls painted a godawful green that would make even the Joker cringe—but Mina . . .

I slam to a halt, my heart crashing against my rib cage, and I draw in a sharp breath through my nose.

In the time that I left, she tossed the comforter to the side and sprawled out on her stomach. No pants, only panties.

A thong, if we’re being specific about it.

Holy. Fuck.

Her T-shirt rides up her back, exposing her bare ass to me and to God and to anyone else who cares to take a look. And, in that moment, I care. A lot. More than I should. About the lush curve of her ass, the nip of her waist, thetattoothat covers her right butt cheek.

Holy.Fuck.

Mina’s never made it a secret that she likes her ink. I’ve noticed the delicate tattoo on her inner wrist and the other one, on her rib cage, I recall from seeing a picture of her in a bikini on Facebook two summers ago. But this one . . . I blink slowly and feel heat stir low in my groin.

“Coffee?” she rasps from the bed, lifting her head just far enough so she’s not talking into the pillow.

Eliminating the distance between us, when she’s practically naked from the waist down, doesnotseem like a good idea.

No, it doesn’t, Saint Nick.

Fuck the sainthood. I’m dying for a closer look.

What, exactly, does she have inked on her ass? And whythereof all places?

I step close, gaze glued to bare, tan skin, and brush the backs of my fingers over her shoulder when I stand next to the bed. Her head is turned away from me, but the right half of the mattress is pressed flush with the wall, leaving me no room to stand over on that side, even if I wanted.

Unless I crawl onto the bed.

Get close to that tattoo and her warm skin and—

“Oh.”

Every muscle in my body goes taut at the shocked vibration in her voice, and I fix my attention on her face. Only to find thatherattention isn’t on my face.

No, she’s looking at my crotch.

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