Friends Without Benefits (Knitting in the City) (13 page)

“No one is going to kiss her.” Ni
co growled.

“Someone has to
.” Robert called over his shoulder from the buffet table. “It’s bad luck if you don’t, she’s standing directly under the damn thing.”

Nico’s eyes lifted briefly to the greenery above our heads then closed. I was rooted in place, holding my plate of scrambled eggs, manicotti, and melon. I watched him, the emotions that played over his features
—annoyance, frustration, exasperation. 

“Fine.”
Before I knew what was happening he’d already brushed a kiss against my cheek, his eyes avoiding mine. He turned away.

I swallowed what tasted like bitter disappointment. But it couldn’t have been bitter disappointment because I didn’t actually want Nico to kiss me.
I also noticed that I was sweating.

“No
.” Milo placed his hands on Nico’s shoulders and turned him to face me once again. “That wasn’t a kiss. If you can’t do it then, like I said, I volunteer.”

“
Fatti i fatti tuoi
[2]
, Milo,” Rose snapped happily at her son.

I heard Sandra laugh. I glanced in her direction. She was standing next to Rose. T
hey were both grinning at us—like foxes. If I’d had any doubts up to this point I now knew this was a setup. I narrowed my eyes at her, hoped to convey my disapproval. She answered my scowl by lifting an eyebrow and widening her grin.

A silent communication passed between us
in the span of a single second.

Me:
I can’t believe you did this.

Her:
Whatever. You know you like it. Mount that stallion.

Me:
You shouldn’t have put him on the spot.

Her:
Then you should just kiss him and get it over with
—
but use tongue or else you’ll have to do it again.

At this point everyone had stopped eating and talking and was staring at us. But these weren’t like the freakish stares of last night; these were people
—well, many of them—who knew us our whole lives and loved Nico. I noticed his sister, Christine, appeared to be debating whether or not to intercede.

Gritting my teeth, I faced Nico again. He was looking at my plate of food, his jaw was ticking like a bomb.

Someone needed to do something.

I could do this. I could kiss Nico, on the mouth, to everyone’s satisfaction, and
walk away unscathed. I could put on my big girl pants and just get it over with.

I swallowed, held my plate to the side,
gained a step toward him, tilted my chin upward, and captured his mouth with mine. He jolted, and I knew he hadn’t been expecting the contact. His mouth was soft and full, his bottom lip in particular. I lifted my head a fraction of an inch, and pressed my lips more fully against his. Abruptly, as though he’d just woken up, he took control, and my eyes drifted shut.

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 consequences. I couldn’t think of a single thing I’d rather do then kiss Nico Manganiello.

I wanted to kiss him for the rest of my life.

I wanted to sell all 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, answered his exploration with my own, 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 seen 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 us one or both of us moan.

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 while an involuntary, strangled yelp erupted from my throat. I gripped his arms; then, when I realized what I’d done, 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 at me. 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 living 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. “Oh, dear. Don’t worry about the plate.”

“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. A literal Angel and Devil perched on my shoulders and were hammering out a deal where they both got what they wanted. The Angel wanted to treat Nico well, with respect, keep his heart safe, not take advantage, 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 eyes a precarious mixture of hopeful wariness.

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 and covered in mess, and I needed a minute; therefore, I felt justified in escaping to the women’s room at the back of the restaurant. Once inside the small space I walked to the sink, rinsed my hands, then leaned heavily against the countertop.

I studied
my reflection momentarily; my image became blurry, and I ceased focusing on the mirror.

He was
. . . disconcerting. His willingness to be vulnerable with me was unsettling; the openness of his emotions, simmering just beneath the surface. I couldn’t recall him ever being like that in the past.

Or, maybe, as a kid and as a teenager
, I just saw what I expected. Maybe I never really looked at him. Maybe it was there, he was there all along, and I was just blind to it, to him. He, and our shared history, was suddenly something new.

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
,” I said.

S
taring commenced.

Unrequited love was typically my favorite kind of love. The nonreciprocal nature of it appealed to me in much the same way boy
bands appealed to me; it was theoretical love because it was untested—tragic in its one-sidedness yet tragically inspiring.

But 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, made me feel heavy all over. I still couldn’t swallow. I kept attempting to swallow, but instead just half-swallowed.

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.

S
taring recommenced.

My eyes drifted to his Adam
’s apple; I noted that he was trying to swallow and 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 I really, really liked it. And, I wanted to kiss him again, often. I turned, tossed my head to the side, and therefore my loose hair over my shoulder. Leaning against the countertop I crossed my arms and bravely met his gaze.

“Yes. I did
,” I said.

His eyes moved over me, narrowed with
palpable confused hopefulness. “Why did you do that?” Nico mimicked my stance—crossed his arms over his chest and braced his feet apart.

“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 is a hypocrite, but I was trying hard to be less of one.

I made my mind up, and I made one more attempt at swallowing. I succeeded. 

Bolstered by my swallow
success, I lifted my chin. “And I kissed you because I wanted to.”

He blinked at me again, 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, glanced at the mural of Tuscany on 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 arched, 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 short moment, 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 scoffe
d, 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 a 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.”

“And 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.

“D
o you understand how awful that was? How mean you were?”

His expression softened slightly, 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. He shook his head, his features were anguished. “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—”

“
Because of how you treated me. Because I never
knew
. I can honestly tell you I had absolutely
no
idea.” My voice wavered and I cleared my throat. “God, you were so awful.”

“I know, I know— I’m sorry.”
He shuffled closer, his eyes apologetic; he hesitated then pulled me against his chest. I didn’t resist, and I allowed him to hold me. “I’m so sorry.”

I blinked ag
ainst the stinging moisture and just allowed myself to be held. One of his big palms petted my hair from the crown of my head to the middle of my back.

When
I was certain I’d escaped the crying jungle of danger, I pushed against his chest. He released me from his embrace, but his hands loitered, still on my arms.

“This is nuts.” I sniffed, glanced at him. “This is completely nuts
!”

The corner of his mouth hitched
, and his eyes moved over my face. “It’s the truth.”

I shook my head. “
No, Nico.” I licked my lips, still tasted him there, tasted our kiss. “Nico, you may have felt something for me once, but that was a long time ago. Eleven years ago. Believe me when I tell you that I’m not the same person.” I shrugged out of his grip and stepped to the side. “I’m not the quiet, well behaved Elizabeth Finney that you remember.”

“I don’t
remember you ever being well behaved.”

I ignored him
. “I’m different and you,” I lifted my hand, motioned to his height, breadth, face, everything. “You are different.”

He leaned his hip against the counter and sighed. “I hope I’m different. I used to be a complete
dick.”

I laughed, sniffled again, wiped my nose with the back of my hand. “The point is, my point is,
you don’t know anything about me.” I shook my head. “You aren’t still in love with me.”

His gypsy eyes lost
their twinkle in favor of scorching intensity; likewise, his expression shifted, became serious. “You don’t get to say that or tell me what I feel. I was the one left behind.”

His words made me grimace even though they were spoken matter-of-fact
ly; they held no trace of accusation, just a statement of truth. I clutched my chest where his words pierced. “I know—”