Hold Me Today

by Maria Luis

  “With an arrow pointing straight to your crotch.”

  Nick snorts. “Nothing says classy quite like a dick tattoo.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  As one, we reach for the door handles to climb out of the car. I pause as I crank open my door, one foot planted on the cracked concrete. I look over my shoulder at the man who, in theory, should only be my best friend’s older brother but who is quickly becoming so much more.

  As though sensing my hesitation, Nick, already out of the car, drops down so he can peer through his open door at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Let me choose yours.” I say the words quickly, like I’m ripping off a thick bandage.

  Nothing in his expression so much as twitches. “My tattoo?”

  “Yes.” Nervous, I lick my dry lips and then drag my clammy hands over my jean-clad thighs. “You choose mine and I choose yours. Trust, both ways.”

  He considers me silently with one of his unreadable looks. Just when I’m certain he’s about to turn me down flat, he thumps his hand on the car’s roof. “Don’t make me regret this.”

  “Never,” I vow.

  24

  Mina

  Nick and I meet with two tattoo artists. We sit down separately, each detailing exactly what we want the other inked with, all while casting glances at each other from across the room. I’m careful to keep my voice low, except for when I boldly claim, “Yeah, we’re gonna need a bigger arrow than that.”

  Nick jerks in my direction, those pillow-soft lips (now confirmed for softness!) pulling to the side in a sexy smirk. Do it and die, he mouths.

  I toss him a kiss and turn back to the artist who’ll be working on Nick. Carefully, I explain to him my thoughts, going so far as to head to Pinterest on my phone and scope out a specific example. It has to be perfect, something Nick will look at years from now and always remember this night.

  Always remember me.

  “There’s a lot of detail work here,” says the bearded artist, Zach. He has ear gauges big enough for me to stick my finger through and dark, messy hair combed over to the right. He looks like the quintessential tattoo artist, save for the fact that he has no visible ink.

  I nod at his assessment. “I know. Do you think you can pull it off?”

  His rugged features crease with a wicked grin. “’Course I can. So long as your boyfriend here doesn’t mind it on his arm or ribcage. I need a good canvas to work with.”

  Boyfriend.

  I guess, technically, we are dating. According to the online world, at least.

  Still, the word elicits tingles I’d rather it not as I lean back on the rolling stool and shout at my boyfriend, “Any boundaries on your body off-limits?” When his gaze flashes with heat, I thrust a finger at him. “Anywhere else besides The Great One, I mean?”

  Nick throws his head back with a deep, rumbling laugh. “I’ll leave that one to you, koukla. I’m at your expense.”

  “Disposal.”

  He stares at me blankly.

  “The saying is ‘I’m at your disposal’ not ‘expense.’” I pause, then mutter, “You know what? Just add it to that book of yours.”

  Turning back to Zach, I plant my elbows on the table. “The ribcage will do nicely, I think.”

  Nick chooses script for me.

  After all my other tats, I recognize the familiar sensation of the needle treading back and forth in the shapes of letters. The more the machine buzzes, the less I feel much of anything, so I force myself to relax and loosen up.

  Flat on my back on a cushioned table, I’m sprawled out, topless, with my hands covering my nipples. Thank you for that one, Nick.

  The artist who’s working on my ink drags a damp cloth over my bra line. “You doin’ good?”

  His Boston accent is so thick, he’d give Mark Wahlberg a run for his money. His name tag reads Calvin. To be honest, I expected more of a Matthew or a Sullivan to match his red hair. Calvin works just fine, though.

  “All good,” I tell him, dragging my gaze up to the ceiling. “How many words are we doing?”

  Calvin laughs. “I’m under strict orders not to tell you anything.”

  Dammit. I think fast. “Well, what word are we on now?”

  He makes a point of rolling his lips shut, then gets back to work. I’ll give him another few minutes then make my next move.

  Tipping my head to the left, I search out Nick on the far side of the room. He’s posted up in a chair that’s positioned to face me. Hugging the back, he sits still while Zach works diligently to bring my vision to life. As Calvin needles my skin, alternating between swiping the damp cloth and ink away, I focus on Effie’s older brother.

  His dark hair is in desperate need of a cut, and I vow to trim it soon. But it’s not his hair that truly steals my focus—it’s his naked torso . . . and the other tattoos I see marking his skin. There are only two, one gracing his pec—a quote, it looks like, that I spotted when he first removed his shirt—and another on the underside of his left ribcage.

  I trace my memories with a heavy hand, trying to remember the last time I saw him shirtless. Back in high school, I think. And, boy, the years have made his already spectacular torso into a work of art.

  Ropes of muscle clench as he sits under the needle, his eyes squeezed shut—leaving me full room to drool over him. His shoulders and arms are all bulging power, no doubt thanks to lifting things all day for Stamos Restoration and Co. My face heats as I wonder what it would be like to be under all that bulky mass.

  “Do you need some water?” Calvin asks me, snapping me out of my daze. “You’re lookin’ a little pink.”

  Quickly, I shake my head, muttering “no,” and then return to my unbidden perusal.

  Nick Stamos is a catch. Why in the world would that girl Savannah Rose turn him down? Seriously, who in the world could trump a guy with so much heart and sex appeal? It doesn’t get better than him, that’s for sure.

  Flicking my eyes up to his chest, and then to his face, I startle when I realize he’s staring right back. And my hands . . . my hands are cupping my naked breasts. The flush on my cheeks spreads down, warming my chest and then, yes, lower still. I cross my legs at my ankles, careful not to move too quickly.

  He winks—winks!—and then mouths something that looks suspiciously like, Like what you see?

  Turning my face back to front-and-center, I stare up the ceiling and fight the smile threatening to burst free.

  Cocky, incorrigible man.

  He’s such a liar. He isn’t shy at all. At least, he isn’t with me.

  I spend the next hour on the table. Then spend the following one flipping through a magazine in the main area of the parlor. When my phone vibrates, I pull it out of my coat pocket to see that Effie’s texted me. Some of my happiness dims. She wouldn’t approve of any of tonight’s shenanigans, least of all our getting spur-of-the moment tattoos.

  A permanent mark on our skin for a temporary, fake relationship.

  I fidget in my chair. Hang my head in guilt. And then check my phone like any best friend ought to do.

  Effie: Good news!!!!!!

  Her enthusiasm is contagious as my fingers fly across the keyboard, not pausing to check for any possible typos before I shoot it off.

  Me: TELL ME. Did the Blades write that 5-star reveiw?

  Effie: I think so? Maybe?

  Effie: Actually, I think they did. Totally forgot to tell you about it. But that’s not my news!!!

  Me: Spill the tea, lady. I’m not getting any younger.

  Effie: This is not a drill. I repeat, THIS.IS.NOT.A.DRILL.

  Me: I just sprouted my first gray hair. Hurry it up!

  Effie: Only the first? LOL

  Me: Be glad I love you. Will you tell me already?

  Effie: . . . we got the thumbs up! From the adoption agency! WE’RE GOING TO BE PARENTS!!!!!!!

  Oh, my God.

  I jerk my gaze up from the phone, sending a wild glance around the parlor because, h
oly crap, I need to tell someone. My only option is a dude sprawled out on a bench across from me. He looks like he eats children for breakfast, then picks his teeth with their bones. The face tats really aren’t doing him any favors.

  “Hey!” I hiss at him, waving one hand when I notice he’s wearing earbuds. “Hey, mister!”

  He raises his head, eyes drowsily glancing over at me. “Sup?”

  I don’t even care about his lack of excitement. Holding up my phone, I thrust it toward him. “I’m going to be an aunt!”

  He waits a beat. Pauses for yet another. And then tucks his earbud back in. “Does it look like I give a shit?” he grumbles.

  Whatever. His loss, not mine. He has no idea how much of a badass aunt I’ll be. The best. I turn back to my phone and send off another text to my best friend.

  Me: Who is it? A boy? A girl? How old is my nephew or niece? Who am I going to spoil???

  Effie: LOL! We have no idea. All we know is that the adoption agency thinks we’ll be a good fit for some child out there and oh, my heart is FULL with all the possibilities!! We need to celebrate.

  Me: Yes. YES! This wknd? I’m so happy for you guys

  Effie: Works for me. Love you!!

  Me: Love you back. Give Sarah a hug for me!

  “That smile for me?”

  My head snaps up at Nick’s gravel-pitched voice. He’s back in his T-shirt—another Stamos Restoration variation—with his coat tossed over one arm. He looks a little green around the edges, and I jump up from my seat to cross to his side.

  “It can be,” I tell him as I pull the coat from his grasp, “but”—I lean in, standing on my tiptoes to get my mouth close to his ear—“Effie just texted me. The agency told them yes!”

  Nick’s gray eyes widen. “Holy shit. For real?”

  I grip his arm, my excitement bubbling over. “Yes!” And then, as though I have every right in the world, I hook a finger in the collar of his T-shirt and drag him down for a kiss. He stiffens under my touch for the briefest moment before squeezing my hip and nipping my lower lip.

  “You two ready to pay?”

  Oh. Oh.

  Lowering to the soles of my feet, I laugh awkwardly. “Oops, sorry, Calvin.”

  “No need, you two lovebirds.” He rolls his eyes, teasing us, before finishing up our joint transaction. Nick and I split the bill down the middle, and I do my best not to worry about the money. Sometimes you need to remember to live, to breathe. Plus, my stress levels feel nonexistent and I have zero urge to wander anymore tonight.

  Some people take Xanax to calm down. I take a dosage of Nick Stamos.

  Same results but the latter is a whole lot more fun.

  “Anyway,” Calvin goes on, “since you’re both determined not to look at those tats while you’re here, do me a favor and call in the morning. If there’s something you don’t like, we’ll fix it up for you.”

  We take our self-care brochures, along with the ointment they force us to buy—even though I have two tubes at home—and then we’re tromping outside to Nick’s car. The cold stings my face as I slide into the passenger’s seat.

  “My place?” Nick asks quietly, one hand on the steering wheel.

  I study his profile and feel myself nod. “I’d love to see where you live.”

  “Buckle up, then. One home tour on the way.”

  25

  Mina

  “This is the cutest neighborhood,” I say when we pull up to a tree-lined street twenty minutes later. Nick lives in a quiet spot in Wayland. The small town is picturesque, even at 9 p.m., with two-story Colonial-era houses dotting the side of the road, wide-open pastureland tucked behind short, wooden fences, and curvy streets that might as well be trademarked to New England.

  “I picked the house out right before I proposed.”

  Right. The proposal. I send him a forced grin he can’t see in the dark. “The first time?”

  “Smartass.” He says it affectionately and without an inkling of heat. “Yeah, the first time. Figured I was heading right into marriage with children coming soon after, and I thought I needed something big and showy.”

  It makes me wonder how he felt stepping into that big and showy house alone after his failed wedding.

  “I bet it’s beautiful.”

  “It is.” The car slows toward the end of the street, the headlights illuminating a gravel driveway that leads to a steep incline. As we head up to the house, Nick adds, “I did all the work on the house myself. Stripped out all the shitty shag carpet and brought in this amazing restored wood from an eighteenth-century mill that was being torn down over in Worcester. The back of the house overlooks a pretty big pond, and there was so much damage done to the wood that I actually put in—” He breaks off with a grumble deep in his chest. “Shit, sorry. You probably don’t care to hear—”

  Except that I do. “Don’t stop,” I tell him, and he doesn’t.

  I listen to him talk about some of the small details he incorporated—the parlor doors that separate the living room from the dining room he never uses; the six-burner stove he purchased from a restaurant in Somerville before they shut down; the beautiful, original trim work that he spent hours bringing back to life.

  I can barely keep my mouth shut when he parks the car.

  My nose presses to the window, and I fog it all up with my heavy breathing. “You live in a farmhouse!”

  Nick chuckles. “Circa 1782. It’s one of the oldest structures still standing in Wayland, though it’s not a historical landmark. Probably for the best, since I axed the back wall and put in a glass window—this way I can look at the pond and woods whenever I want.”

  I follow him out of the car but can’t quite bring myself to look away from the house. It’s beyond stunning. A fairy tale come to life. “Woods and pond, huh? You’re going to be a master at this Maine thing when we go.”

  He nudges me to the side when we step up to his front door, and he fits in a key before letting us in. “Lucky for you, I conduct training sessions for the uninitiated.”

  “Yeah? And what do these training sessions entail exactly?”

  His smile is all wicked masculinity. “Orgasms.”

  I burst into laughter. “You’re so full of shit.”

  One flick of a switch, and light floods the space. Immediately, I soak it all up.

  The ceilings aren’t particularly tall, maybe around seven and a half feet, but it’s . . . lovely. Eighteenth-century meets rustic farmhouse. It’s a style Nick has executed to perfection. Stonework takes up the lower half of the walls, painstakingly revealed during his renovations, I’m sure, whereas the upper halves are a solid plaster and painted the most exquisite Tiffany blue. Artwork hangs on the walls, featuring mostly landscapes and old architectural sketches.

  I’m so busy taking it all in that I don’t notice Nick toeing off his shoes. “Wine?” he asks.

  I say yes just because I want an excuse to see the kitchen.

  Trailing after him, I eye the rooms as we pass them by. Each has its own character and flair, some painted a light gray while one is a brighter yellow. Canary Yellow, maybe. The thought makes me grin. I so hope that once rehabbing Agape is over and done with, I’ll feel the same amount of pride Nick does as he walks through the halls of his home.

  The kitchen, not to be outdone by the rest of the house, is a stunner.

  I feel a little blessed to be standing in here and I don’t even like to cook.

  “Nick,” I murmur in awe, “this is just . . . gorgeous.”

  “Trust me, the rehab came with some headaches. Galvanized pipes were the least of my problems. Lead paint,” he grumbles, sounding put out even though I know he probably lived for every challenge this house threw at him, “lead paint everywhere.” He moves confidently over to a door nestled between the hallway and a stainless-steel refrigerator. “Red or white?”

  “Where does that door lead?” I ask, ignoring his question because, hello, this house is like a treasure chest of secrets. I’
m utterly enthralled with it already, although maybe that’s because I can sense Nick’s love for it. By default, my curiosity is at an all-time high.

  “This one?” He braces a hand against the wooden doorknob. “It goes down to the wine cellar.”

  My eyes practically bulge. “You have a wine cellar?”

  Flashing me a grin, he shimmies the knob. “On the scale of I’d-like-to-hug-you, what does a wine cellar get me?”

  Stomach doing that weird flippy thing at our little joke, I boost myself up on one of the stools lining the island. “At least a nine-point-five.”

  “Not a solid ten?”

  I shake my head. “I have the right to reserve perfect scores until I decide to dish them out. Also, you do realize we shouldn’t be drinking, right? I mean, unless you’re okay with thinning blood and a blotchy tattoo.”

  His fingers freeze, panic dashing across his handsome features. “Ah, gamóto. I didn’t even think about that.”

  He is way too cute when he gets all worried. It makes me want to give him a perfect 10.0 and wrap my arms around him. “I’ll take some water, if you have it on hand?”

  Thankfully, he catches onto my joke immediately. “That was bad, koukla. Real bad. I’ve got all the water you could want. Except for sparkling—no self-respecting man drinks that.”

  I tap my chin, faking a put-out look. “Well, damn. Sparkling is my go-to.”

  He reads me in an instant. Disregarding the wine cellar, he crosses over to me and leans in close to drop a heady kiss onto my mouth. His fingers rip off my beanie hat and toss it on the granite island, and then they’re in my hair, tugging on the strands in the same way he’s tugged at my heart for years now.

  God, yes.

  His mouth moves roughly over mine, and it’s so deliciously wicked that I push at his coat lapels until the heavy material is dropping to the floor at our feet. He wastes no time in returning the favor. My wool coat hits the marble flooring, and then he’s planting his big hands on my knees, urging them apart. I spread them on command, reaching forward to hook my fingers through the belt loops of his jeans.