Nick’s rough timbre cuts through the silence of the mountains. “DaSilva, man. Can I be honest?”
Another snowball comes my way, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s a distraction for him: think about packing snow instead of whatever thoughts are running through his head.
Finally, he says, “Fuck it, go ahead.”
“I think you need a permanent change of scenery,” Nick says, right before he nails Dom in the shoulder with a snowball.
Caught in the crossfire, I dart out of the way and drop to my shins, quickly packing snowballs to launch one after the other. One smacks Dom in the middle of his back. Another I manage to aim at Nick’s hip, but he’s too limber on his feet and he dances out of the way—only to tackle me into the snow.
His sudden weight pumps the air right out of my lungs, and I come spluttering up. I hear Nick’s deep laughter just as I feel his damn nose collide with mine, his cold lips kissing me on the mouth. Familiar heat spirals through me, shaking off the chill of the mountains and the snow. I wrap an arm around the back of his neck, keeping him close, and it’s only when I pull back for air that I catch Dom off to the side.
He watches us with a somber expression, the rough edges that usually grace his aura now softened and sad. I recognize it all in a heartbeat—everything that he is was me before a crazy deal happened with the man sprawled on top of me.
“I promised you a fire.”
Lifting my chin from the bed, I fix my gaze on Nick kneeling before the fireplace, stoking the tiny flames. We opted against another night of shenanigans, and instead picked up dinner from the B&B’s onsite restaurant and ate in our room.
Whether the food was any good is beyond me—I spent most of my time trying to win my hand at UNO against Nick, who does not play fair. No sooner would he drop a Draw Two on me before slapping me with a Draw Four. By the end of the game, I had two stacks of cards because I couldn’t hold them all at once.
I prop my chin on top of my fist. “I’m glad we came this weekend.”
“Couldn’t have survived it without you, that’s for sure.”
His words make my pulse launch into a sprint even as they make my heart fill with dread—because under the teasing glint is a whole lot of hope, and I can’t get my mom’s words out of my head. They weigh me down like a sack of too-heavy barbells.
My parents’ relationship has always been so one-sided, and hearing her tell me that I need a man to take care of me—to keep me propped up like some rag doll who can’t handle her own business—sparks the restless panic within me. Are Nick and I lopsided? Are we balanced like Sarah and Effie or like his mom and dad? Or are we like my own parents, who, more often than not, are nothing but two souls coexisting in the same house?
Softly, I ask, “Do you think Dom will get over Savannah Rose?”
Lowering onto his butt, Nick uses the fire poker to shift around the logs. The light from the flames flickers across his face, casting his handsome features in a haunting, red shadow. “He will.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it’s what he’s done his entire life.” Nick puts the poker back in its wrought-iron stand. “He’s a foster kid, Mina. Dom’s spent his entire life bouncing from one safety net to another, and then when he was in the NFL, he exchanged foster homes for teams.” He scrubs one hand over his jaw like he finds the words themselves distasteful. “One of the things they did on the show was force us to reveal one big, deep, dark secret, and that was his. It’s a TV manipulation tactic, something I didn’t really think about until they were forcing me to talk about Brynn.”
“Oh. What did you . . . what did you tell them?”
With the fire crackling, I have to strain my ears to hear the low pitch of Nick’s voice when he speaks next. “Maybe you should ask me what I didn’t tell them.”
I slip off the bed, down to my knees on the thin carpet. I keep my voice as soft as his. “What didn’t you tell them?”
“That when I was laying in that bed with you, I felt nothing but relief.”
My heart skips. “Relief that you didn’t marry Brynn?”
Slowly, he shakes his head. “Relief that when I was at my lowest, I wasn’t alone. You were there. I don’t even know why you came to my room or how you knew that I needed you.”
To open up now would bare my soul in a way that I never have before—not with anyone. And I hear the words escaping me, as though my heart and mind are on two separate wavelengths, one seeking to protect me and the other to expose me. “I was leaving the ceremony when I saw you dart up the stairs.” Embarrassment clogs my throat, and I cough into a balled fist to clear it. Here goes nothing. “I followed you up to where the choir plays because I liked you. You called me out on it weeks ago, and I won’t deny it. I followed because I cared more than I should have. You didn’t cry but you looked so . . . broken.” I stare down at my hands, unable to look him in the face. “I decided that I’d go to your room later. You needed a friend and I figured that, through my friendship with Effie, I was good enough to do the job.”
A bent finger hooks under my chin and lifts, so that I have no choice but to meet Nick’s gaze. “You were more than good enough for the job. I only wish that my grandmother hadn’t busted in—I don’t even know who she had to bribe to get the key—and turned shit completely backward for you.”
I force a grin. “I’ll have you know that I once thought about selling Bad Girl Mina T-shirts. I would have made a killing.”
Nick groans, his arms reaching out to pull me against him. Burying his face in my neck, he heaves out a heavy breath. “All these years, I wasted my time lookin’ elsewhere, koukla.”
Like sludge, guilt thickens in my veins until it’s hard to draw air into my lungs. Nick thinks he knows me, but the truth is I don’t even know myself. Do genetics really make a difference? I’ve always thought so, but Nick brought up a good point. Dominic DaSilva was raised in foster care—does that make him any less of who he is? I see a confident man who’s down for a good joke, even at his own expense. Yes, there’s a sadness to him—but who doesn’t have that?
I am who I am out of sheer will and determination to do more than what my parents ever expected of me. I’ve made mistakes, like the rest of the population, and I’ve celebrated triumphs and drowned my tears in cheap vodka. I’m no different, no worse off, than any other person combatting their own struggles.
“Can I show you something?” I voice the question into Nick’s bulky shoulder, and I mentally pat myself on the back for not sounding timid and scared.
He lifts his head. “What is it?”
“My own deep, dark secret.”
I clamber off his lap and crawl over to where I left my suitcase propped open. Sifting through my clothes, I search for my last-minute addition—my notebook from senior year of high school. I want to burn it, but I think, I need to show it to another person first.
35
Nick
“I’d like for you to read this.” At my curious stare, Mina’s honey eyes grow like saucers and she throws up a hand. “Not all of it, obviously. We don’t have the time—okay, we do, but it’s really not necessary. A lot of it is redundant, actually, though I guess that’s like saying that I’m redundant, which honestly . . . I’m not putting any of this well. Sorry.” She huffs out an awkward chuckle before mumbling, “I can point out the right dates to read. If you want.”
I take the notebook from her grasp, letting my fingers purposely brush hers. Holding the book close to the fire, I watch as the words flicker across the lined page. “If this tells me anything about you, Ermione, then I want to read it. Trust me.”
Her whispered, “I do,” stokes the heat curling around my heart. This woman could tell me to put on a unicorn costume and dance in the middle of Copley Square and I wouldn’t think twice. Or maybe I would, but only to make sure she’s dressed as a unicorn right along with me.
Partners-in-crime and all that.
Lifting the notebook, I skim the edge with the pad of my thumb. “Tell me where to start.”
And she does.
Once I find the first entry, I angle the notebook to catch the moonlight filtering in through the window. I barely manage to read the first line before Mina’s voice diverts my attention. She speaks softly, like she’s uncertain if I’ll be willing to listen, and keeps her gaze rooted on her socked feet.
“I didn’t know that I was any different as a kid. I’m sure my teachers told my parents that I was a late bloomer or something, but at some point, the excuses wear thin.” Those honey eyes of hers flick up to stare into the crackling flames, with a look so heartbreakingly lonely etched in her features that it nearly destroys me. Muscles flexing at my need to go, hug her, love her, I gather every shred of discipline to sit my ass still and give her room to pour her heart out. “I was six when Baba let it slip that I wasn’t his. I didn’t understand, obviously—genetics aren’t something a six-year-old really gets. I sure didn’t. Mama was crying and apologizing to him, because he was angry and yelling at me, and somehow her infidelity was my fault. I stood in the center of the living room, still wearing my school uniform, and all I remember is feeling confused.”
The notebook’s pages crinkle in my grip.
I wasn’t his. I wasn’t his. I wasn’t his.
Mina’s words loop around like a broken record in my head. How did I miss it all these years? How did I not notice Yianni Pappas’s reluctance to show any hint of affection for his eldest daughter?
Except that Mina isn’t his eldest daughter.
Christ.
I study her features, the notebook all but forgotten in my hands, and mentally compare her to the Pappas clan. Warm brown eyes instead of cool seafoam green like her siblings. Darker sun-kissed skin than Yianni or Katya or Dimitri. Mina is downright beautiful, but it doesn’t change the fact that—