Chapter 5
Chapter Five
“Wait, wait, wait….” Sandra held her hands up and catapulted a slightly hostile glance in my direction.
“You mean that hot guy on Comedy Central, who has that show where he tries to talk celebrities into getting naked, but mostly he just gets naked and they end every show with him Jell-O wrestling with hot ladies? You went to high school with that Nico Moretti?”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t get a chance.
“It’s actually Nico Manganiello, but I changed my last name when I moved to New York.”
Startled by his voice, I instinctively half twisted toward the velvety sound.
The first thing I noticed was that his unshaven stubble from last week had grown into a haphazardly-trimmed, close-cut beard.
Looking like sex on a stick—if sex were Italian, and the stick had an unhealthy amount of charisma—he sauntered toward us.
His smile was big, open, and warm, but his eyes were shuttered and cold. Furthermore, they were focused squarely on me in a way that was all too obvious.
I experienced a head-on collision of involuntary sensations and recognized the strongest one for what it was: intense attraction.
My chest swelled, my stomach flipped, my knees locked; my organs were competing in the lust Olympics.
At the same time, I was immediately repulsed by the uncontrollable reaction of my body.
I could only stare at his infuriating, omnipresent magnetism.
I was annoyed that I noticed how exceptionally fine he looked in a black suit, white shirt, and skinny black tie. His black hair was mussed with scientific precision. It was Hollywood-quality postcoital hair.
“Oh! OH!” Stephanie exclaimed with undeniable vigor. Then she giggled.
The sounds of her female-flail were enough to snap me out of my haze. I straightened my spine and turned completely to face him, my chin lifted a notch. One of his eyebrows arched as though he was amused, and his smile shifted into a smirk.
He nodded at me once. “Hi, friend.”
Sandra’s head swiveled Exorcist style when she heard him greet me in such a familiar tone.
“Nico.” I suppressed a Marge Simpson growl of frustration, and instead returned his single nod with an air of what I hope passed for cool detachment.
Awareness of his closeness made the surface of my skin hot beneath my curtain of hair from my neck down my back.
I felt cold everywhere else. I fought the urge to shiver.
Ever the socially adept one, Sandra rolled with it and stuck out her hand. “Hey there, big guy, I’m Sandra.”
Nico’s eyes slid away from mine, and he gathered Sandra’s small white hand in his olive-toned, much larger ones. He didn’t shake it. He just held it.
He was such an ass.
“Hi, Sandra.” He bit his bottom lip, which made his smile crooked, small, and completely charming. He kept his voice low, intimate. I could practically hear seduction in it. “It’s really nice to meet you.”
Sandra gave a breathy laugh and glanced at me with suppressed glee. I fought the urge to roll my eyes.
“What are you doing here?” My voice was accusatory because I meant it to be. It didn’t make sense. He had no reason to be there, in Iowa, at my high school reunion. I narrowed my eyes. Maybe he would look less appealing and edible if I narrowed my eyes.
In truth, I didn’t want to deal with him and my Nico-guilt; I wanted to be petty and childish instead.
He was a reminder of my historical immaturity.
His presence made me feel less justified in my self-indulgent endeavor to wow the graduating class with my perceived impressiveness.
He deflated my bubble of adolescent angsty vengeance. This left me feeling silly and adrift.
One eyebrow lifted slightly higher in an attractive arch. “Well, I did go to school here….”
“But you didn’t graduate.” I cringed as soon as the words left my mouth. It wasn’t my intention to be rude, but, likely, the blurted words would be interpreted as a slight.
“No. I didn’t graduate.” His mouth twisted to the side. A flicker of what looked like bitterness burned beneath his cool gaze. “Some of us don’t need to graduate three times in order to feel successful. Some of us don’t need to graduate at all.”
It was exactly like old times. We were standing in the hall of our high school trading insults and throwing hateful glares like grenades.
I blinked and flinched then opened my mouth to say something nasty, but Sandra interrupted just in time.
“I’m such a fan of your show, but you must hear that all the time. I especially love it when you have the girls do that game show skit, “Are You Smarter than a Bikini Model?” It’s always fun when they make those guys look like idiots.”
“Well, all the girls on the show are really smart and, honestly, the guys usually are idiots.”
“I never miss it. Debbie is my favorite. I love that she leg wrestles; she’s so strong. Thank you for the show.”
His eyes twinkled. I’ve never seen anyone able to eye twinkle on cue quite like Nico. I suspected he must have perfected eye twinkling in front of a mirror at a young age.
“No, thank you. I never get tired of meeting fans. I love fans of the show.”
I quietly snorted. It was a scoff-snort, but it must have been loud enough for him to hear because his eyes returned to mine as he released Sandra’s hand.
“Do you watch the show, Elizabeth?”
I shook my head, disliked the way he said my name, looked everywhere but at his aggravatingly handsome face. I tried to sound bored instead of irritated. “Nope, can’t say that I do, what with all the graduating I’ve been doing.”
I felt his gaze on me for a very brief second. Then he said something entirely surprising and yet—for Nico—not at all shocking. “Right. Why would you? You’ve already seen everything up close.”
Oh…my…God.
I heard Sandra’s small intake of breath at my side.
My eyes widened and met his. Again, a spark of triumph was smoldering in his glare.
Nico was trying to bait me into a fight. He always used to do this in high school—the unkind nickname repeated at every opportunity, insults flung down the hall at my back, knocking books and folders out of my hands, introducing me as a boy to new students.
He was trying to get a rise out of me. He was always trying to get a rise out of me.
Freaking Niccolò Manganiello.
He’d been tormenting me from the moment he put a dead and road-flattened toad down my dress in Sunday school when I was four. Despite our mothers’ close friendship and the time we spent playing together as children, my aggravation with him—and therefore avoidance of him—increased yearly.
In kindergarten, he cut one of my braids during naptime, leaving me with long hair on the left and short hair on the right.
In third grade, he gave me what I thought was vanilla pudding, but it turned out to be mayonnaise.
Of course, I didn’t realize it was mayonnaise until after I had a huge spoonful in my mouth and, of course, I couldn’t spit it out because we were at his parents’ restaurant for dinner.
I still hated mayonnaise with an unholy fire.
In fifth grade, he gave me the nickname Skinny Finney, which stuck with me until college.
Worst of all, in sixth grade he became best friends with Garrett.
And through it all—the baiting when I was a kid and the persecution when I was a teenager—I couldn’t seem to force myself to loathe him like he’d apparently despised me.
I was so confused—his outburst at the hospital, then later his apology, followed by his request to be friends, and now his flirting with Sandra as well as the arrogant and flippant retorts. I had Nico-mood-swing whiplash.
I clenched my jaw and glanced over Nico’s shoulder toward the door of the gym. I was officially flustered. I wanted to scream at him, indulge my instincts, give in to the spiteful verbal sparring match—as was our typical pattern. Instead I clamped my mouth shut.
I was determined to let the old habit die. I didn’t want to be that person anymore.
My voice was a bit higher pitched than normal as I tried to literally and figuratively avoid the minefield of his last statement.
“Well, Sandra and I are going to head in, so…see you later.”
I stepped to the side, hoping to walk around him, but he mirrored my movements, effectively causing me to collide into his chest. His hands lifted to my bare shoulders, and he held me in place. It was one of those moments where my body ceased listening to my brain.
My brain said, Step away from the naughty hottie.
My body said, I like cookies.
“Wait, where are you sitting?” He dipped his head such that only eight to six inches of air separated us. “Where’s your table?”
Nothing is more frustrating than being attracted to someone who is a complete jerk—except for maybe also caring about that person despite continued abuses. I was such an idiot.
I cleared my throat, and my eyes—the traitors!—focused on his mouth. “We’re, uh….”
Oh my God, you smell fantastic.
“We’re at table ten…I think,” I stammered.
“You should sit with me—with us.”
Sandra and I responded at the same time, talking over each other.
Me, shaking my head: “No, no, we’re not supposed to switch tables, so….”
Sandra, nodding her head: “Yes, we’d love to. What table are you?”
Nico smiled warmly at Sandra. They both pretended I hadn’t spoken. Matters weren’t helped by his thumb dancing little sweeping caresses over the exposed skin of my shoulder, rendering me mute.
“I’m at table two, right next to the dance floor.”
“Well then, we’ll just see you inside.” Sandra hooked her arm through mine, pulled me out of Nico’s grip, and propelled me toward the gym. “But first we’re going to go to the ladies room so we can talk about you.”
The sound of Nico’s laughter followed us only as far as the inside of the gym, where it was swallowed by loud chatter and dance music.
Sandra leaned close to my ear and semi-shouted. “Where is the bathroom? Lucy! You have some ‘splaining to do.”