“What? No.”
Heat seeps into my limbs, hope dogging its tail. “Just a suggestion, Ermione.”
“I’m not a fan.”
Taking a risk, I step forward. Half a foot at most, nothing more. A way to test the waters. I may have heard almost everything she said while I was camped out in the kitchen like a voyeur, but I’m not about to push my luck unless she gives me the go-ahead with blaring sirens and obnoxious confetti cannons.
I’m playing the long game here. Anything less won’t do.
Cutting my gaze up from her stained sweatshirt to her face, I rest my weight on my left foot. “What are you a fan of, then?”
“You, Nick.”
Well, damn.
I blink, then blink again, then do the very manly thing of coughing to keep from showing that I might—maybe—like that statement of hers a little too much.
She matches my step with one of her own, the hem of her sweats dragging along the hardwood floor. “I need to tell you something, and I need you to be patient with me . . . even if it takes me a few tries to get it out the way I want.” She pauses, and the mask of pleasantry slips from her features to expose a desperation that matches mine. “Can you do that for me?”
Yes.
If this ends with her in my arms, I’ll do anything she fucking wants.
“Go ahead.” I tip my head in a small nod, my voice nothing more than grit and want. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her shoulders freefall with a relieved exhale that feels like a breeze kissing my skin. “This is . . . I want to—” She closes her lids, and I watch her mouth move to form the words, You can do this. Her silent encouragement to herself kicks my pulse into overdrive. “The first time I saw you, you were building a blanket fort in your old bedroom. I peeked inside when you were putting on the final touches. You asked if I wanted to join, and I remember how badly I wanted to say yes.”
Mouth dry, I roll my lips together and regret leaving the water glass in the kitchen. I feel parched, but I’ve got a feeling that has more to do with the woman in front of me than actual dehydration. She turns me inside out. “You crept into my room once Effie fell asleep.”
“Yeah, I did.” She gives me a wobbly, tremulous grin. “We were in middle school when you started walking Effie and me home. Do you remember? The days when she stayed late for soccer practice were my favorite. We argued, as always, but I-I lived for those moments when I was so sure we were about to hold hands.” Visibly swallowing, she moves closer. Only one step, but I feel the new proximity like a fiery brand to my skin. “But nothing compared to those summers in Greece. I—God, I can’t believe I’m about to admit this.”
Blood thunders in my head. I’m unaware of my feet moving, carrying me forward until my chest is inches away from hers. When she inhales sharply, I feel it, too. When her fingers curl in tightly, I put my hope on the map and slip my hand into hers. And then I repeat the words that she holds close to her heart: “Nothing you say will make me look at you any different.”
Because I love you.
“Do you remember that day on the beach when I lost my bikini top?”
I give a low laugh. “How could I ever forget?” Against all better judgment, my dick had a different perspective view on the situation—particularly when I awoke each morning from wet dreams of a topless Mina and my hand gripping my dick like my only mission in life was to get off.
Mina tugs on the hem of her sweatshirt with her free hand. “I was embarrassed, obviously, but more so because of how much I wished you had made a move.”
“If I remember correctly,” I drawl, “I almost died in the riptide.”
“Your memory is faulty.” She rolls her eyes—there’s that sass of hers I love so much. “You came up for air within ten seconds.”
“Longest ten seconds of my life when I was robbed of the opportunity to keep staring at your tits.”
Mina throws her head back with a laugh. “After that comment, I feel better confessing how that was the first time I ever . . . you know what.”
Fuck. Me.
Cheeks flushing, she presses her palms to the sides of her face. “Yup, okay I just said that. Moving on.” I have no interest in moving on, now that I know Mina spent years playing with herself to fantasies about me, but she plows forward, clearly determined to air out all her deep, dark secrets. “The point of all of this is, I’ve always liked you, Nick. The night of your wedding, I felt so torn—stuck between wanting to do the right thing and offer only comfort and thinking maybe you’d finally realized that I was the girl for you all along.”
“Mina, I—”
Severing our connection, her hands come up and she shakes her head. “But there’s a difference between liking someone you think you know and loving someone who matches you in every way.” She snaps her gaze up to mine. “You match me, Nick, like no one else. And I’m so sorry for letting lifelong insecurities get in the way of us. I let three little words, that have always come with conditions, influence my reaction. I’ll never forgive myself for letting you think, even for one second, that I don’t adore you. That I don’t wake up every morning and wonder if I’ll see you or if you’ll make fun of me for having pom-poms on my snow boots.”
“Koukla,” I rasp, emotion clogging my throat, “I’m gonna be makin’ fun of those pom-poms of yours until we’re old and gray.”
“I hope that’s a promise.”
For the first time in my life, words fail me. I stand there, mute, my heart on a platter—and she knows it.
“Hold on,” she whispers, leaning over the back of the sofa to reach for something. My gaze unapologetically slips down to her heart-shaped ass in those baggy sweats before meandering north again in time to see her pulling an object out of her purse. If I’m not mistaken, it’s antler bone. The frame is sleek, not bulky, and then she grazes her finger over the back end and a blade pops free. A small, shy smile curls her mouth. “I bought this at the outdoor store in Bethel when you went to the bathroom. The owner told me this one is the best for whittling wood, and I . . .” She snaps the blade shut. Then, with hesitation gripping her features, she hands me the pocketknife, handle first. “I wanted you to think of me while you worked.”
Heart racing, I study the face I’ve known for years—this woman, my sister’s best friend, who can obliterate every wall just by saying my name. I skim my thumb over the inlay of the whittling knife. It’s a stunning piece of work with detailed carvings bordering each side of the silver blade. The fact that it was Mina who thought to get it for me? “I love it, koukla. Thank you.” I squeeze it once, feeling the weight and texture of the bone, before slipping it into my jeans. “It’s my turn now.”
Her nod is clipped.
Christ, man, do not cry.
I summon up every bit of self-control that I’ve got in the reserves. “I’m gonna put this as eloquently as possible—I’ve never been one for pigeonholing people, Ermione. I don’t give a fuck if you’re all Greek or half-Greek, if you speak the language fluently or only know how to properly curse me out.” Eliminating the last remaining inches between us, I spear my hands through her wild hair. I love that it’s untamed and curly and impulsive today. Tipping her head back, my hands cupping the base of her skull, I meet her gaze. “Those things make up one small part of who you are, but they aren’t what make me stop in my tracks and know that I’m one lucky son of a gun.”
Closing my eyes, I brush my mouth over her forehead. “I love how you go for what you want at full-speed. I love that you’ve got dreams—big dreams—and you reach for them with all that you are.” I kiss my way down to her cheek, then over to the shell of her ear, which I nip gently. “But, selfishly, I love that you make me feel alive. You challenge me. You push me to step out of my shell when I’ve spent years keepin’ everyone at arm’s length.” My mouth glides to the right, to hover over hers, and I flick my gaze up to look her in the eye. “I’m done playing at temporary longings, agape mou. I want you, in my life, by my side, in my bed—and I’m gonna push a hard bargain, Mina, because I want you forever.”
A fat tear rolls down her cheek that I catch with the pad of my thumb. “S’agapo,” I confess roughly, “and you can take all the time you need to say it back—”
Mina hooks her hands at the base of my neck and yanks me down, my mouth colliding with hers. She kisses me the way she lives her life: bold, reckless, impulsive. Her tongue tangles with mine. Her fingers, rebels that they are, reach down to hook into the loops of my jeans. Her hold on me keeps her steady on her toes, especially when she tears away, panting heavily, and gifts me with the brightest smile I’ve ever seen. “I love you, too, Nick. And thank you.”
My hands palm the curve of her ass. “For what?”
That smile of hers wavers, a show of sweet vulnerability, and then she whispers, “For making me feel like I’m finally home.”
Ah, gamóto.
I crane my neck back, staring up at the ceiling, and do my fair share of blinking.
“Are you crying?” Mina demands, tugging on my shirt.
“Óxi.” Fuck, man, make them disappear. I squeeze my eyes shut, then press my tongue to the roof of my mouth—only for gentle hands to clasp either side of my face and make me look down, so that all I see is her.
“You’re such a romantic, Nick.” Though her tone is teasing, she uses the fabric of her sleeves to press to my closed lids. I feel her rise up on her tiptoes before soft lips kiss the underside of my jaw. “S’agapo. You can cry all you want and that’s not gonna change. I know you’re a man’s man deep down inside.”
I laugh, the sound gruff. She’s busting my balls again, and I wouldn’t change a damn thing about it. Hauling her up against me, my hands cupping her ass, I crash my mouth down over hers. The kiss is frantic, needy, and she gasps against my mouth as I stalk her backward until the backs of her thighs are colliding with the sofa and I’m lifting her up, propping her on top of it, and spreading her legs so I step in close. Her fingers push at my sweatshirt, tugging it off and—fuck, yes.