Friends Without Benefits (Knitting in the City)
Read Friends Without Benefits (Knitting in the City) Online
Authors: Penny Reid
Friends Without Benefits
An Unrequited (yet still smart) Romance
By Penny Reid
http://reidromance.blogspot.com/
Caped Publishing
Legal Stuff:
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.
Copyright © 2013 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.
Caped Publishing
Made in the United States of America
1
st
Edition
e
BOOK EDITION
FORE
WARD
I’ll keep this brief (which is a rather difficult task for me as my books tend to be in the hundreds of thousands of words).
Two characters in this book are diagnosed with a pediatric rare disease. For the last eight years my (day) job has been focused on biomedical research; specifically, research into the (accurate) diagnosis and treatment of pediatric rare diseases. I felt it appropriate that a percentage of the profits of this book go to pediatric rare diseases foundations which are dedicated to helping the children (and their families) of this underserved and underfunded population. Therefore, at least 10% of the profits from every ebook sold will go to one of these foundations.
Every month for the next year (October 201
3 – October 2014) I will be highlighting a different rare disease research foundation on my blog.
http://reidromance.blogspot.com/
Proceeds for that month will be sent to the highlighted research foundation.
If you’re interested in learning more about rare diseases research and the collaborative efforts currently afoot, here are some great resources:
http://rarediseasesnetwork.epi.usf.edu/
(clinical research network with sites all over the world, studies focused on rare diseases)
http://rarediseases.info.nih.gov/
If you downloaded this book for free, but really liked it, please consider purchasing a copy for a friend!
See, that wasn’t so long
/bad. Sincerely, Penny
DEDICATION
To my
new computer: I don’t care if it is compudultery, I love you more than my old computer.
To the fans
/readers of
Neanderthal Seeks Human
: This book is as much because of you as it is because of my insomnia.
Thank you.
Table of Contents
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. Paired with the horror was also wonder and, much to my infinite frustration, feminine appreciation.
I was entirely unprepared.
Everything about this Tuesday had been perfectly normal until this moment. 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 a lotion-exploding, unopened gag box of latex gloves in Dr. Ken Miles’s ER clinic room for my annual April Fool’s day joke. I worked through the backlog of charting I’d left the day before. And, finally, 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, older. On his show he always towered over his guests, but looking at him now I guessed his height at about six foot or six foot one.
His hair wasn’t brown anymore
; it had matured into raven black. His face was more angular, strong, as were his shoulders. But, 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; he leaned against the arm of the couch and spoke in hushed tones to an older woman. I instantly recognized the woman as his mother, Rose; she was sitting on the beige sofa and 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, ushering away my ability to hear and replacing 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 to allow me to recognize that my mouth was agape in dismay, my eyes were widened in stunned disbelief, and no one had yet realized that I’d entered the room.
I gulped mostly air
, closed my mouth, and turned; I hoped that I could exit unseen and find Megalomaniac Meg. She would be delighted to administer the study informed consent 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 shou
lders bunched. Before I could nod or 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 s
tep into the hall, meet Dr. Botstein’s comprehensive berating in full, plain view of everyone. And, by everyone, I really meant Nico Manganiello.
Or I could step
back into the encounter room, confront the most monumental mistake of my life, then leave to take the Botstein reprimand on the chin at some point later. Botstein wouldn’t interrupt my administration of the consent; as impatient as he was, he would likely get tired of waiting and leave.
Usually the confrontation with Dr. Botstein wouldn’t have been such a big deal. But the thought of Nico observing it
. . . and I was sixteen again.
It was times like these 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’s voice sounded 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 were my intention all along. “Let me just shut this door.”
I didn’t glance up as it swung
closed. I was certain Dr. Botstein’s dark expression remained the same or else 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; 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. Just a guy you slept with once. Just the guy who took your virginity. Just the guy who tops you
r list of people you never want to see again.
My frayed nerves took a backseat to 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 decisi
on 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
; however, 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 foot four, but my blonde hair was now long and in a thick braid down my back. I’d also put on weight—which was a very good thing because it meant 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. “Ah, o
h 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 foot 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 noted in my peripheral vision that Nico turned when I initially spoke
, but was now standing perfectly still. Since the resolve to keep my attention affixed to Rose held steady, his 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 was proud of my lack of avoidance. I was many things, but I
was not
a coward.
.
. . unless Nico is involved.
This
reminder served to further aggravate my mood.
Wordlessly he stepped forward and took the girl from his mother’s arms. I noted
as she was passed between Rose and Nico that the child, Angelica, had big green eyes and brown hair, olive skin. She looked like a Manganiello.
Rose crossed the room once her arms were
liberated, now held open and wide, and 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—but I should have. 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; her makeup and attire were impeccable, stylish. Despite the fact that her family owned and operated the best Italian restaurant in our hometown, her figure was svelte. She was beautiful.
I gave her a closed
mouth smile, prepared to answer her unasked question. “I’m not married, Rose.” Another thing that hadn’t changed; she was still foxy like a fox.
Her eyebrows jumped.
“Oooooh! 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, 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, rumbly with warning. I couldn’t help it; despite everything, 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 is, 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
subdue 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—”
“Oh, Lizzy, you’re
his daughter.”
“—
but even if it were my business, I’m really good with it. If she makes him happy, and she seems to, then I’m happy for him.” And I was. My father’s relationship with Jeanette Wiggins—bakery owner in our hometown and all around nice lady—didn’t bother me.
It didn’t bother me because
his relationship with Jeanette was irrelevant. I knew my father would only ever truly love my mother. My mom was his first and only love; if he wanted to have some fun then who was I to judge? I was guilty of the same type of behavior.
However, I understood Rose’
s apparent dislike of Jeannette. Rose and my mom had been best friends. My mother died when I was nine from breast cancer, and I think she took the loss almost as hard as my father and me.
Also, Jeannette had the audacity to make
and sell cannoli at her bakery downtown.
“You’re a saint.”
Rose’s smile was sweet. “And you’ve grown up and become a beautiful doctor.” Her hands cupped my cheeks. “A profession any mother could be proud of.”
Nico’s sigh was audible.
“Ma. . .”
“It’s nice to see you too, Rose.”
And, surprising myself, I meant it. Just her presence reminded me of home: family dinners at Manganiello’s Italian Restaurant; my mother and father kissing under Rose’s ever present mistletoe in the main dining room.
Her hands dropped from my face and reclaimed my hand.
Rose’s smile widened, like a fox.
“And Nico? Is it nice to see Nico too?”
Without meaning to, my eyes—the traitors!—flickered to where he stood and met his gaze for the first time since I’d entered the room.
A sharp stab of pain pierced my chest
, passed through my body, jarred my teeth. The uncomfortable heart palpitations that accompany guilt and dread; it felt like a stake to the heart or a branding iron inserted into my aortic valve. I held my breath.
His wide eyes were
haunted by a lingering emotion I couldn’t quite place—something like wistful nostalgia or reluctant admiration—as well as a shadow of surprise. He was obviously trying to neutralize his expression, although with little success, and this made him look somehow severe. Mussed black hair and likely twenty-four hours since his last shave added to the harshness of his appearance; but neither, I noted with annoyance, detracted from his good looks.
It was
decidedly not the laissez-faire, roguish, cheerful face he wore on his show. Or the unrepentantly flirtatious and unscrupulous face from publicity photos.