Friends Without Benefits (Knitting in the City #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

I recognized him instantly, even though the last time I had seen him in person he was seventeen, naked, and asleep. I was sixteen, haphazardly dressed, and sneaking out his window.

Niccolò (aka Nico) Manganiello.

Nico.

Freaking Nico Manganiello!

Rooted in place—one hand holding the informed consent forms and patient brochures, the other hand clutching my chest—I could only gape in abject horror, but also in wonder and, much to my infinite frustration, feminine appreciation.

I was entirely unprepared for this.

Everything about this Tuesday had been perfectly normal until now.

I arrived to work at 4:30 a.m. for my shift.

I argued in the locker room with my nemesis, Dr. Megalomaniac Meg.

I planted an unopened gag box of lotion-exploding latex gloves in Dr. Ken Miles’s ER clinic room for my annual April Fool’s Day prank.

I worked through the backlog of charting I’d left the day before.

And, finally, I was paged to the fourth floor clinical research unit to discuss a research study with a family.

Freaking Niccolò freaking Manganiello.

He was shorter than I expected, but taller than I remembered. He looked different in person than he did on TV, and older. On his show, he always towered over his guests, but looking at him now, I guessed his height at about six feet or six feet one.

His hair wasn’t brown anymore, but had matured into raven black. His face was more angular and strong, as were his shoulders. Even from this distance, I knew his eyes were the same jade green.

Nico was standing in profile, his muscled arms crossed over his chest, leaning against the arm of the couch and speaking in hushed tones to an older woman.

I instantly recognized the woman as his mother Rose, who was sitting on the beige sofa.

A little girl–who I did not recognize–was on her lap. The child was clutching a blue blanket.

Blood rushed to and pounded between my ears. It ushered away my ability to hear, and replaced it with a steadily increasing rhythm that seemed to chant oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

The spike in adrenaline diminished just enough for me to realize that my mouth was agape in dismay, my wide-open eyes were staring in stunned disbelief, and no one was aware that I’d entered the room.

I gulped mostly air and closed my mouth, and then I turned noiselessly to exit unseen and find Megalomaniac Meg. She would be delighted to administer the study’s informed consent forms if I told her a hot celebrity was in the room.

I managed two steps before Rose’s voice called out to my retreating back. “Oh, nurse—can you help us? We’re waiting for Dr. Finney.”

I stopped, my shoulders bunched. Before I could nod and grunt then run off in a mad dash, I spotted a very stern-looking Dr. Botstein—my research mentor, and somewhat of a stodgeball—rounding the corner of the fourth floor clinical research unit.

My eyes flickered to the object in his fist. He was holding a box of latex gloves, and he was covered in white lotion.

I groaned.

It was the most epic-fail, no-win situation in the history of forever.

My choices were obvious yet odious.

I could step into the hall and take Dr. Botstein’s berating in full view of everyone—and by everyone, I really meant Nico Manganiello—or I could step back into the encounter room, and confront the most monumental mistake of my life.

Botstein wouldn’t interrupt my administration of the consent.

As impatient as he was, he would likely get tired of waiting and leave, and I could deal with his berating later.

A confrontation with Dr. Botstein usually wasn’t such a big deal, but when I thought of Nico observing it, I was sixteen again.

It was times like these when I wished for invisibility superpowers or a diagnosis of insanity.

Dr. Botstein’s weighty scowl-stare was the deciding factor. My gaze dropped to the linoleum at my feet, and I took a reflexive step backward into the room.

“Nurse?” Rose called out behind me.

“Uh….” I tucked a long, loose strand of hair behind my ear and reached for the door. I closed it as though that had been my intention all along. “I’ll be right there. Just let me shut this door.”

I didn’t glance up as it swung shut. I was certain that Dr. Botstein’s dark expression had remained the same or possibly increased in severity and menace. But I had no time to dwell on his level of enragement. I would feel his wrath later.

The full weight of my decision, to close myself in a clinic room with Nico, landed like an anvil in the pit of my stomach. I gathered a deep, steadying breath and held it in my lungs for a brief moment. I tried to still my shaking hands by tightening them into fists.

He is just a guy…a guy you slept with once…the guy who took your virginity…the guy who tops your list of people you never want to see again.

My frayed nerves took a back seat to my survival instinct, and I mortared a smile on my face before turning. Rose was still sitting on the couch, the small girl on her lap, and I met the older woman’s green eyes directly.

“Hi, Rose.” I scored myself a point for the steadiness of my voice.

The decision to focus solely on Rose was calculated, as was my decision to avoid trying to pronounce her last name.

I still couldn’t pronounce Manganiello correctly, even after going to school with Nico from preschool to high school.

I easily pronounced trastuzumab and hematopoetic and tranylcypromine, but I tripped over Manganiello, always putting the emphasis on the wrong syllable or mixing up the placement of the g.

Rose’s confusion lasted for a full ten seconds.

The fact that I looked quite different from the girl she knew was likely the reason for her prolonged bewilderment.

I was still five feet four, but my blonde hair was now long and in a thick braid down my back.

I’d also filled out—which was a very good thing because it meant having boobs and hips and a girl shape.

I no longer tipped the scale at eighty-nine pounds.

My face and features had also filled out.

My lips in particular were a source of pride; a previous conquest of mine once referred to them as pouty.

In short, despite the ambiguity of the baggy scrubs and large lab coat I wore, I no longer looked like a twelve-year-old boy.

Finally, her green eyes focused on my blue ones, and confusion gave way to recognition and astonishment. This lasted only a split second, then morphed into delighted excitement. “Oh, my God! Oh, my dear Lord, Lizzybella! Oh my goodness, come here and give me a hug!”

My cement smile softened. Rose struggled to stand with the child in her arms. At five feet one, the only two things that were big about Rose were her personality and her expectations for her children—all eight of them.

“Oh, for God’s sake—Nico, snap out of it and take Angelica. Help your poor mother.”

I noticed in my peripheral vision that Nico turned when I spoke, but now he was standing perfectly still. Holding steady to the resolve to keep my attention affixed on Rose, Nico’s face was out of focus, and I couldn’t read his expression.

I didn’t want to read his expression.

Even trapped in a room together, I was avoiding him.

I never avoid anything or anyone anymore. I am proud of my lack of avoidance. I am many things, but I am not a coward.

…unless Nico is involved.

This reminder further aggravated my mood.

He stepped forward wordlessly and took the girl from his mother’s arms. I noted as Angelica was passed between Rose and Nico that the child had big green eyes, brown hair, and olive skin. She looked like a Manganiello.

Rose crossed the room with her arms open and wide, and she forcefully embraced me. “Oh, Lizzybella, I didn’t even think—when they said Dr. Finney would be coming in, I didn’t think it would be you. I should have realized, but I thought you would have changed your name when you got married.”

Rose pulled back, her emerald eyes lighting with a familiar hint of mischief.

She knew I wasn’t married. I noted that for as much as I’d changed, she was basically the same—in looks and in temperament.

Her long hair was still black, and her makeup and attire were impeccable and stylish.

Despite the fact that her family owned and operated the best Italian restaurant in our hometown, her figure was svelte and lissome. She was beautiful.

I gave her a closed mouth smile and prepared to answer her unasked question. “I’m not married, Rose.” Another thing that hadn’t changed about her—she was still foxy like a fox.

Her eyebrows jumped. “Ooh! Well…” Rose paused, looked over her shoulder—presumably at her son—then back to me.

Her eyes traveled up my form, no doubt absorbing the baggy scrubs, the oversized lab coat, the long length of blonde hair in a haphazard braid, no makeup, no nail polish, and no fancy accoutrements.

I’d been on the receiving end of Rose Manganiello’s scrutiny before. It never seemed to get easier.

She pressed a purple-painted fingertip to her chin and her head lolled to the right.

She gazed at me through narrowed eyes. “Well, you know—I just assumed you must be married now, at your age. But your father should have told me that you were here. The last time I spoke to him was ages ago. He said you were a doctor in Chicago, but ever since he started dating that girl, he never comes to the restaurant….”

“Ma….” Nico’s voice was low and rumbly with warning. I couldn’t help—despite everything—that their interaction made me smile. My insides still felt full of lead, but now it was slightly warmed lead.

“Well, she is a girl. She’s what—thirty?” Rose reached for one of my hands and held it between her own, patting the knuckles. “How are you doing with all of this?”

I tried to flatten my smile. “Well, first of all, she’s forty-three, so she’s only ten years younger than my father. And, it’s none of my business.”