Chapter 2 #2
“Elizabeth…” his mouth quirked to the side, his brow furrowing in obvious confusion at my immobility. “Aren’t you going to come in?”
“Yes.” I didn’t move.
Nico’s smile widened, just a teasing of teeth behind divine lips.
He crossed the room until he stood directly in front of me.
He reached for the doorknob, his hand closed over mine.
It was warm and sent a shock wave of awareness coursing up my arm.
Through his movements, our hands together pushed the door closed.
“Come in.” His voice was barely above a whisper. He was standing so close that I could see the flecks of black and silver in his green eyes.
“Okay.” I said. Panic caused by his proximity was enough to spur me into action. I averted my gaze from his and pulled my hand from the knob and his grip. I walked around him, gingerly choosing my steps so that I wouldn’t accidentally make contact with his body.
Once I arrived in the middle of the small space, I felt lost. Should I sit? Stand? Lean? Cross my arms? Some combination of the above? I turned and found him advancing slowly. I backed up. My thighs met the arm of the sofa. I sat on it and hoped the near-trip seemed intentional.
“So…” I crossed my arms, uncrossed my arms, feigned nonchalance, and winced a little at the tight unnaturalness of my voice. “You must have questions.”
He nodded. “I do. I have a lot of questions.”
“Well, that’s to be expected.” I patted my lab coat, looking for a brochure. “I have a pamphlet on side effects associated with the study drug that might help.”
He halted some four feet from my position and, once again, stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I don’t have questions about that, not about the study.”
“Oh?” My voice cracked.
The oh shit heartbeat was back. I held perfectly still and forced myself to meet his gaze. Eleven years of avoiding him—avoiding thinking about him, his show, that summer, that night, our history—caught up with me all at once.
He openly surveyed me; his eyes swept from my feet to the top of my head, then back to my face. “You look the same.”
“I—I do?” I glanced dumbly at the front of my scrubs then back to him.
I didn’t think I looked the same. In fact, I was pretty sure I looked completely different.
I narrowed my eyes at him. For the first time since entering the room, my panic-fog began to clear.
If he didn’t want to discuss the study, I wondered what he wanted.
“Except…” he motioned to my hair, “except your hair. You used to have shorter hair.”
Automatically my hand lifted to the braid. “Yeah, well, I don’t have anyone trying to cut my hair during nap time, so it finally grew out.”
The corner of Nico’s mouth lifted just slightly at my small barb. “I’d forgotten about that.”
“I hadn’t.” I responded flatly.
“How old were we?”
“When you cut my hair? You were five.”
His face warmed with a smile. “You were four. I remember now.”
The fact that he was smiling at the memory of cutting my hair awakened an old, long-buried injury.
I did not return his smile. In fact, as I watched him silently reminisce, other memories from our teenage years turned my blood abruptly cold.
I no longer felt flustered by his presence. I felt annoyed by his arrogance.
Furthermore, I realized that—notwithstanding his perplexing kindness the summer after Garrett’s death, my resulting guilt, and all these years of separation—part of me still simply saw him as the boy who bullied me in school. Disliking and distrusting Nico was an instinctual response.
“What do you want, Nico?”
His eyes flickered to mine, and I witnessed a shadow of surprise pass over his gaze, likely caused by the sudden somberness of my tone. He studied me for a moment, and then he said something entirely unexpected.
“I want to apologize.”
I stared at him. Really, we stared at each other, but then I glanced at my feet and inclined my head slightly forward, sure I’d misheard him. “You what?” I asked, my voice slightly raised as I lifted my eyes to his.
“I want to apologize. I’m sorry for my rudeness earlier. Seeing you was…unexpected. I was caught off guard. I reacted badly.”
I attempted to shrug. “It’s okay. I know you must be under a great deal of pressure with your niece.”
“Yes, but no more than usual. I shouldn’t have snapped at you, and I definitely shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry. Do you forgive me?”
I frowned, felt abruptly hot, uncomfortable. I couldn’t swallow. “Of course.” I croaked.
We stared at each other again. His eyes darted over my face, as though committing me to memory. The focus of his gaze made me feel like protozoa under a microscope.
I stood. It was an abrupt movement. I cleared my throat. “Well, if that’s everything, then….”
“No. I also…” Nico’s eyes looked directly into mine. He rocked forward on his feet. “I have a proposition for you.”
My stomach tensed, but instead of running from the room screaming, I stood my ground and responded with, “What’s that?”
“I think we should become friends.”
My eyebrows met my hairline. “You want to be friends with me?”
“Yes.”
“Uh…” I looked at the door behind him, the wall above his head, the linoleum floor. It all looked real, and I was pretty sure I was awake. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”
Nico pulled his hands from his pockets and held them out between us. “If we decide to do this study for Angelica, I’ll be in town quite a lot.” He watched me expectantly. When I didn’t respond, his hands dropped. “I’d like to see you. Maybe….” He cleared his throat. “Maybe we could go out.”
I’m sure I looked completely befuddled. I felt completely befuddled. Why would Nico the Face Moretti— or Nico Manganiello—want to be friends with me?
“I don’t understand.” I repeated and, because my brain was on befuddlement autopilot, I asked, “You mean, like friends with benefits?”
Did I just say that, or did I think it? Judging by the amused expression on his features, I guessed that I had said it.
Out loud.
I grimaced. “I mean, not that you…I mean I just don’t….”
“No, Elizabeth.” His eyes swept over me in a quick movement, as though it were an involuntary reaction to my question. “Friends without benefits—just friends.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean….” I huffed to stop talking, and promptly leaned against the sofa arm.
I peered at him from behind my lashes. He seemed to be earnest. Nothing in his expression hinted that this was a joke or that he was trying to make a fool of me.
Nevertheless, my eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Just friends?”
“Yes.”
I shook my head. “Men and women can’t be just friends. Haven’t you seen every romantic comedy ever?”
“I have female friends.” His face relaxed a bit, but his eyes were still guarded.
“I’m sure you do.”
“I do.” He lifted his chin a notch. “There is a clause that if the man grows up with sisters—and I grew up with three—then he is capable of having female friends.”
I considered him and the strangeness of his request. In fact, our entire interaction was verging on Twilight Zone levels of absurdity. Nico Manganiello didn’t ask people to be friends, and he certainly never asked me for anything.
“Okay.” I shrugged my surrender because I didn’t know what else to do.
I felt overwhelmed by him, his request, the gentleness of his voice, the sincerity of his words, the entire situation.
It was weird and, as usual, he had an uncanny ability to discombobulate me in a few short moments.
Since I couldn’t think of anything else to say, I responded, “We can be friends.”
He nodded once but didn’t smile. “Good. That’s good.”
And for the third time, we stared at each other. The moment was the most surreal of my life. I watched his chest rise and fall with each breath. I noted that his eyes hadn’t quite lost all their hostility, despite the candor of our conversation. Although, I reflected, neither had mine.
I doubted that we could be friends.
I watched as Nico took a deep breath, as though preparing to say something of great importance. He got as far as “Elizabeth, I have to—” before my pager buzzed at my waist.
I pulled my attention from him and focused on the message. It efficiently told me that the ER was expecting seven trauma victims within the next five minutes, all with severe injuries. This typically meant a car wreck of epic proportions.
I frowned—first at my pager, then at him. “I have to go. There’s been an accident, and I need to help.”
“Okay.” He nodded, then pressed his lips together in a tight line. His soulful eyes were tinged with a shadow of emotion I couldn’t place.
I walked past him in a rush, but paused at the door. I felt as if I’d left my stomach and a few select other organs still leaning against the couch. I glanced over my shoulder.
He stood just where I’d left him, his back to the door.