Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
His hands lifted to my waist, pulled me firmly against him.
Nico’s fingers gripped my body with a building force that echoed the pressure of our mouths.
He tilted his head to one side and tasted my top lip.
I think I went a little insane in that moment and everything—the restaurant and everyone in it—ceased to exist.
It was the kind of madness that peaks all at once. It crashes like a tidal wave, leaving no time for thought of the past or future or of consequences. I couldn’t think of a single thing I’d rather do than kiss Nico Manganiello.
I wanted to kiss him for the rest of my life.
I wanted to sell all of my worldly goods and spend all waking hours with his hands on my body and his mouth on mine.
When I parted my lips in response to his teasing and answered his exploration with my own, and when I nipped his—let’s just face it—incredibly juicy bottom lip, his tongue swept into my mouth.
He was delicious. I tasted intense need, and I endeavored to press closer.
The muscled torso I’d watched a dozen times on television was hot and hard against my stomach and chest. One of his hands fisted in my hair and I stood on my tiptoes; the friction of the movement made one or both of us moan—I can’t remember which—but I didn’t care.
And then I dropped my plate.
The loud crash of the dish hitting the floor made me jump. Both Nico and I turned toward the sound and an involuntary, strangled yelp erupted from my throat. I gripped his arms; then, when I realized what I’d done, I covered my mouth with my hand.
I turned my wide eyes to Nico. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the plate on the floor; his gaze was unfocused, his breathing heavy. One of his hands was still gripping my waist; the other had released my hair and rested on my mid-back.
“Well…that was one hell of a kiss.” Milo’s voice seemed to rouse Nico. He blinked at the floor then gazed at me, his eyes searching mine. His hands fell away; then he pulled one through his hair, leaving it adorably tousled and askew. He took a step backward.
But I didn’t want him to take a step backward. I wanted him to kiss me again. I wanted to wrap myself around him and hold him close and tousle his hair, and the realization of this want scared the ever-loving crap out of me.
I gasped. My cheeks heated. I diverted my eyes to the broken plate and mess of manicotti on the floor. I knelt next to it and tried to clean it up with the paper napkin I’d also dropped.
Rose tugged at my elbow. “Don’t worry about the plate, dear.”
“I’ve made such a mess.” I tried to focus all my attention on cleaning as wild thoughts bounced around my brain.
I was bargaining with myself as if I had an angel and a devil perched on my shoulders, hammering out a deal where they both got what they wanted. The angel wanted to treat Nico with respect, keep his heart safe, not take advantage of him, and not lead him on.
The devil wanted to watch Nico unbutton my pants with his teeth.
“Let me help you.” Nico bent down to assist, and my gaze flickered over him. He was watching me intently, his soulful eyes a precarious mixture of hope and weariness.
Two other sets of hands made quick work of the cleanup; I was about to volunteer to grab a wet towel from the kitchen but someone was already there—one of Nico’s nephews—wiping up the lingering bits of tomato and cheese.
“I’ll just go wash my hands,” I muttered to no one in particular, and made a dash around the circus of Manganiellos.
I was sweating and my hands were shaking; I needed a minute to myself. I felt justified in escaping to the women’s room at the back of the restaurant. Once inside the small space, I rinsed my hands then leaned heavily against the countertop.
I studied my reflection, but in my mind’s eye, all I saw was Nico.
He was so…disconcerting. His willingness to be vulnerable with me was unsettling. The openness of his emotions, simmering just beneath the surface, was something I couldn’t recall ever seeing in him in the past.
Or, maybe, as a kid and a teenager, I just saw what I expected. Maybe I never really looked at him. Maybe the real Nico was there all along, and I was just blind to him.
The sound of the door opening yanked me back to the present. Nico slipped inside and slid the lock behind him; our eyes tangled in the bathroom mirror.
“Hey….” He said.
“Hey.”
Staring commenced.
Unrequited love was typically my favorite kind of love. The non-reciprocal nature of it appealed to me in much the same way boy bands appealed to me; it was theoretical love because it was untested—hopeless in its one-sidedness, yet tragically inspiring.
Being faced with Nico’s presumably real feelings for me forced me to reexamine my affinity for unrequited love.
His love—or, rather, my knowledge of it—hung like a winter coat around my shoulders, tight around my neck, and it made me feel heavy all over. I still couldn’t swallow. I kept attempting to swallow, but instead I could only manage a half swallow.
Maybe I was coming down with something.
“I didn’t know that she was going to do that.” He said, breaking the silence.
“I know. I believe you.” I said.
Staring recommenced.
My eyes drifted to his Adams apple. I noted that he also seemed to be experiencing swallow fail.
Maybe we were both coming down with something.
“You kissed me,” he said.
I pressed my lips into a line and rolled them between my teeth to keep from licking them.
I had kissed him. I glanced at the counter. I’d kissed him and really, really liked it. I wanted to kiss him again, and often. I turned and tossed my loose hair over my shoulder. I leaned against the countertop and crossed my arms, and bravely met his gaze.
“Yes. I did,” I said.
His eyes surveyed me, narrowed with palpable confused hopefulness. “Why did you do that?” Nico mimicked my stance.
“Because we were standing under the mistletoe.”
He blinked, rocked backward on his feet. “No other reason?”
I considered lying. I considered telling the truth.
Lying would be easier, less messy, and not at all who I was anymore, at least not who I wanted to be. Telling the truth would likely cause one or both of us a measure of difficulty ranging from awkward to painful.
But hadn’t I spent the last ten years becoming a person who embraced confrontation instead of running from it? Hadn’t I passed advice to others proffering the merits of problematic honesty over an easy path paved with avoidance and half-truths?
I wasn’t a hypocrite—well, everyone was a hypocrite, but I was trying hard to be less of one.
I made one more attempt at swallowing and succeeded.
I lifted my chin and said, “I kissed you because I wanted to.”
He blinked at me again, and this time he rocked forward on his feet. “You wanted to?” I watched him try to swallow again, unsuccessfully. I made a mental note to check his lymph nodes. “Does this mean….” He sighed then glanced at the wall. “Did you think about what I said last night?”
I nodded. “Yes. I’ve thought about it. And I think you’re wrong.”
He stared at me, his eyebrows suspended on his face. I witnessed the exact moment his expression changed from confusion to frustration. “Wrong? I’m wrong?”
“I think you just think that you’re in—in love with me.
” I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, summoning courage; the words were difficult to say.
“I think it’s misplaced and you’re confused, and you think this way because you never got over your best friend’s death, and I’m the closest thing to Garrett. ”
He scoffed then frowned. Frustration morphed into something resembling fury. “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I just don’t understand how it could be possible. I think you’re misremembering…things.”
“I’m misremembering being in love with you since before I can remember?” His voice was lethally low, as though it was a great burden to keep from shouting.
“Nico, come on. You were always so mean to me. You teased me every time I saw you.”
“Yes, you’re right, of course. Boys never pick on girls they like.”
“Well, it wasn’t just teasing—it was mean teasing, hurtful teasing. You cut my hair, gave me the nickname Skinny Finney, told new students that I was a boy, pushed me into the boy’s bathroom and-”
“Yes. I remember doing all of that.” His words were an impatient whisper; he rubbed the space between his eyebrows with his index and middle finger.
“Do you understand how awful that was? How mean you were?”
His expression softened slightly, and he took a step forward. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”
“Then what were you doing? If you had this great big love for me, then why did you bully me?”
He appeared to be genuinely pained. “I didn’t bully you….” He released a tortured sigh. “I didn’t mean it to be bullying. I was a kid who liked a girl, and the girl wouldn’t even give me the time of day.”
“That makes no sense.”
“You wouldn’t talk to me unless I made you angry.” His frustrated growl echoed against the mirror and tiles.
“I thought you hated me.” This comment was said mostly to myself. Apparently, I was feeling suddenly introspective.
“I never hated you…I never….” Nico closed the rest of the distance between us; his hands lifted to my shoulders then slid down my arms. His features were anguished when he shook his head and said, “I’m sorry.
That’s not true. I did hate you. I hated you because you wanted to be with Garrett instead of me, and I wanted you so badly.
” His fingers flexed on my arms. “But I was a kid. I was a stupid kid.”
“Nico, I. . .” My vision blurred, and I realized that tears were gathering in my eyes. “You make it sound like I chose Garrett over you. You’re wrong. You’re so wrong. Don’t you understand? You were never an option.”
Nico winced as though struck, his hands tightened on my arms as his eyes dimmed. “Why? Because you couldn’t—because you can’t-”