Page 66 of Hold Me Today

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 haswhat-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’tmissher 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. Myyiayia, 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.”

Awalk? 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.”

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