Friends Without Benefits (Knitting in the City) (28 page)

“Or, the world is coming to an end.” I felt his hand close over mine where I held it guarded in the crook of my elbow, and he pulled it toward him, held it in both of his, waited until I opened my eyes before he continued. “You can level with me. Is the world ending? Is the apocalypse upon us? If so I propose we forget my no benefits rule and start humping like rabbits.”

“
Stop!” Through my chortling and laugh-snorts I attempted to pull my hand from his, but he continued to hold it hostage.

“No, no, forgive me. Not like rabbits, like
Shaw's jird. Did you know they try to copulate two hundred and forty times an hour?”

“Oh my god, where did you pick up that lovely tidbit?”

Nico tugged my hand until I was upended from my seat. I lost my balance, crashed into him, landed on his lap. “If you watched my show you would know these things. We cover all sorts of educational items.”

“Educational for whom?” I tried to right myself even as he tried to arrange my legs so that I was straddling him. “Educational for
rodents?”

“No.
Educational for students of animal behavior.” One of his big hands gripped my hip, pressed me down, held me over his lap; his other arm snaked around my waist. I tried to stand and succeeded only in pressing my boobs against his face.

He nipped at my chest
, and I pulled back, out of the reach of his mouth, but stopped my half-hearted struggle. “Oh. Animal behavior, huh?”

As was our habit, we stared at each other for an extremely tense moment, both breathing perhaps a bit too hard given the briefness of the struggle. His hands relaxed, one perilously close to my bottom. I could feel through
my thin cotton scrubs that our short wrestling match had left him a lot hot and bothered. His chin and mouth were about two inches from my chest and he gazed at me with intent.

Kissing intent.

I gazed deeply into his eyes. My fingers moved to the back of his neck. I licked my lips. His eyes followed the movement.

And then I
pulled his hair. Hard.

“Ow!” He winced. His hands flew to the back of his head
, and I took the opportunity to escape.

I stood and quickly put the table between us. He also stood, stull rubbing the back of his head. “Hey. That hurt.”

I lifted my chin and issued my frostiest glare. “I hope so.”

“
Why? What did I do?”

“Nothing.”
Everything.

“
Are you mad about something?”

“Yes. No.”
I crossed my arms then decided to put them on my hips instead. “I don’t know.”

“Well,
when you figure it out, I’d like to know.”

We stood across from each other, the big dining table between us
, and I fought to find the source of my fury. Almost immediately I knew the answer: I was jealous of girl B. I was jealous of his dancers. I was jealous of the one he’d dated, girl C. I was jealous of the obvious respect he shared with the others, of the time they shared with him, of the years, the friendship.

I was jealous.

I was worried he would guess the truth, I didn’t know where to look. After a long moment I sighed, shook my head, and glanced over his shoulder.

“Look. I’m not mad at you. I’m just jumpy because of earlier and low on sleep because
somebody
keeps me up at all hours talking on the phone.”

I peeked at him. He was gently grinning. “Ok
ay then.” He clapped his hands. “Off to bed with you. I’ll take you home.”

“No! I can
take myself. I don’t need any more friendly kisses.” I walked to the door, heard him follow behind me.

“I can give you a non-friendly kiss if you want.”

“No thank you. No kisses, please.”

“Suit yourself.”

I turned as I exited, found him behind me leaning against the door. His four glasses of wine left him delightfully hazy, softly smiling, and looking at me like I was next on the menu.

I swayed forward then caught myself, fist
ed my hands at my sides to keep from touching him, and averted my eyes. I stomped to the elevator.

“
Sweet dreams, Elizabeth!” he called after me.

I didn’t respond. Because, in my jealousy fueled foul mood, I would probably say something nasty or, worse, something
honest.

~*~

My wonderful mood lasted through the day Tuesday. And, by wonderful mood, I mean raging jealousy. I tried to ignore Nico in the morning during Angelica’s 6:00 a.m. infusion. I did my best to be coolly polite during the 2:00 p.m. hospital visit.

But he knew and I knew—something was up.

I knew that he knew that I knew that he knew that something was up.

And I hated it. I hated that I felt like I was play
ing games. I didn’t want to play games. I wanted to be honest.

But I couldn’t be honest.

If I were honest then I would tell him that I liked him, that I wanted to be more than friends. I would tell him that I wanted to be more than friends with exclusive, full-time, 24/7 benefits. I would tell him that I thought about him night and day and that thinking about him had become a second full-time job.

I’d worked myself up into an irritation tornado. Therefore, when a pissy
Dr. Ken Miles decided to pitch a fit one hour before my shift was over, he was quite lucky I didn’t stab him in the neck with a wooden tongue depressor.

“Well?”
he said bitchily, hovering at my shoulder.

That’s right,
bitchily
.

I was charting in the ER alcove, halfway finished with a discharge summary. I glanced at him, rolled my eyes, and paused the recording.

“What do you want, Dr. Ken Miles?”

He huffed then snorted. “Really? You’re irritated with me?”

I set the phone down on the desk, mentally preparing myself for a lecture on my childish behavior or some such nonsense. “What? What is it? What did I do now?”

“Our date is in two days!”

“I told you, it’s not a date. And, about that, I need to cancel—”

“Whatever,
you said we’d be exclusive.” He leaned in to whisper, “And then Meg shows me your boyfriend on TV talking all about your ‘
relationship
.’” He air-quoted this last part.

Add air
-quoting to the list of things that annoyed me about Dr. Ken Miles.

I stared at him blankly because his words made no sense. “What are you talking about?”

“Like you don’t know.”

“I don’t. What are you talking about?” I was
seconds from finding that wooden tongue depressor.

He blinked, his pretty features marred by a severe frown that morphed into confusion then incredulity. “You don’t know.” It was a statement.

“No. I don’t know. So, please stop speaking in riddles. What. Are. You. Talking. About?”

Dr. Ken Miles
pulled out his cell phone and grabbed my hand. I paused a minute to hang up the transcription line and collect my chart then I allowed myself to be led away from the alcove to the doctors’ lounge. He fiddled with his screen a bit then shoved a video clip in front of my face.

“Here.
Watch this.”

I stared
at the stalled YouTube clip for a moment, about to tell Dr. Ken Miles that I didn’t have time for this, but then the video finally started. It was a clip from an entertainment news program. A hot, leggy reporter was laughing with Nico, and I squinted, tried to hear the muffled audio.

And, as I watched it, I felt my temperature rise to near lava levels. When it was over I shoved Dr. Ken Miles’
s phone back in his hands and swiftly left the lounge and the hospital.

I decided that the rest of the charting would have to wait. I needed to either
go kiss or kill a hot Italian comedian.

I changed my mind maybe one hundred and seventeen times on the ride to my apartment.

String him up
or sex him up?

Or both
 . . .?

At last, I decided that I would let my knitting group help me decide what to do. I wasn’t operating in my right brain anymore. I needed some perspective from an unbiased audience.

However, when I arrived home, under the impression that I would find my friends—unbiased friends—knitting harmlessly and swapping a few raunchy stories; instead I found Nico.

Freaking Nico
Manganiello.

He was on the couch next to Janie; they were huddled together, their heads a few inches apart like they were sharing a secret. She was frowning at something in his hands
, and he was smiling at her confusion. They looked adorable, and I was boiling over with jealousy.

“What are you doing here?”
I didn’t try to hide the sharpness of my tone.

Everyone paused, mid-conversation, mid-row, mid-stitch, and glanced at me—unhurried, unworried, unperturbed. It was maddening.

“Oh, hey, Elizabeth. Nice to see you too.” Nico flashed me a just unbelievably brilliant smile. His eyes weren’t twinkling, they were electric.

“What’s going on? Why is he here?”

“Nico and I are learning how to crochet.” Janie held up a crochet hook; a long chain stitch dangled from one end.

I looked from the chain
, to Nico, to Janie, then to the rest of the knitting group. They were all smiling at Nico approvingly.

“Can I speak to you please
” I pointed at him then the hallway that led to my bedroom. “In the other room?”

Nico’s smile was slow and deliberate
and full of sensual intention. “Yeah. Sure.”

I
ignored the rapid pace of my heart while I led the way, held the door open to my room. I waited for him to enter—which he did while whistling.

I closed the door and spun to face him, one hand on my hip the other pointing at him with what I hoped would be perceived as serious business. “What is this? What are you wearing?”

He glanced down at his black suit, white shirt, askew skinny tie. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

I stalked toward him, sniffed. Just as I suspected, cologne. “Suit? Tie? Cologne?”

“Yes. This is a suit,” he said as he lifted one of his lapels. “And this is a tie.” He pointed to the tie. “And that magical scent filling the air, that is cologne. Men wear these things. It’s not a mystery, Nancy Drew, it’s clothes and fragrance.”

“But why are you wearing them? To knit night? And why are you at knit night?”

“I was invited by your adorable friend Janie.” He smiled, his gaze strayed to my bed. It was unmade and a few underthings were scattered about including some of the pink-and-black lingerie from my last panty party. I fought the urge to clean up the disaster.

“Janie is engaged. You’ve met her fiancé, right? He’s the big, scary guy who used to be a criminal, probably still is.”

“Hey.” He held his hands up. “I’m not interested in Janie. Well . . . that’s not true. I think every heterosexual guy with eyes and a working penis is interested in Janie, but I like Quinn and have no intention of stepping on his gorilla-sized toes.”

“Then why are you dressed like that? And why were you out there flirting with Janie?” I sounded jealous.
Grr.

Nico smoothed his tie and tugged at the wrists of his jacket
. “I’m dressed like this because I’m taking your knitting group out to dinner tonight. You’re invited too, if you want to come.”

“You are?”

“Yes. If you’d looked around the room instead of jumping to, frankly, fascinating conclusions, you would notice that everyone is dressed for dinner. And I wasn’t flirting with Janie. She and I are learning how to crochet.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it?”

“Yes. I understand that there can be some animosity between knitters and crocheters, but I think if we all recognize our shared love for fiber and yarn then we’ll be able to get along just fine.”

“Fiona says that all the time. You just quoted Fiona.”

“Yes I did. She is very wise.”

“Stop changing the subject. I’m upset with
you.”

“Really?” He did a very good impression of pretending to look surprised. “Why? What did I do?”

“I saw your little interview!”

“Oh? Did you? Did you see that?” He appeared to be unconcerned. In fact, he appeared to be elated.

“Yeah, I saw that . . .” I waited for him to apologize or explain. When he continued to just look at me—twinkle, twinkle little star—my temper hit the roof. “What did you think you were doing?”

“What are you talking about? I was giving an interview—”

“You insinuated that you and I had a relationship when we were teenagers.”

“We did have a relationship.”

“No we didn’t.”

“Yeah, we kinda did.”

I glared at him. He glared at me. He had a point. We kinda did. “Well, I—okay, okay. Fine, we kinda did. But then you told the reporter that you and I are ‘
just friends
.’” I used air quotes with as much sarcastic flourish as possible.

He continued to glare at me. “We are ‘
just friends
.’”

“But you didn’t say it like we
are
just friends, you said it like:
I’m going to tell you, Ms. Sexy Reporter Lady, that we’re just friends, but really there is more going on and I’m not going to be honest with you about it. I’m just going to sit here and eye-twinkle at you and say we’re just friends, but we’re not
.”

He considered me for a moment, trying to suppress a grin. He bit his top lip, obviously to keep from laughing. “I eye
-twinkled at the reporter?”

“Yeah. You eye
-twinkled at the reporter—in fact, you are eye-twinkling right now and I would really appreciate it if could cease and desist—” He lost the fight against the smile and the laughter, and I couldn’t help but join him as I neared the end of my tirade, “cease and desist with the—the eye-twinkling—for the time being . . .” A reluctant smile split my face. “. . . That would be fantastic.”

“Al
l right.” He nodded solemnly, placed his hand over his heart. “All right. I’ll see what I can do.” Nico sighed, suddenly becoming serious. “But, you do know that my eyes are insured by Lloyds of London, right?”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “The network insured them for two million dollars.”

I studied him. “Really?”

He nodded again, his face a picture of sincerity. “Yes. Well, actually, not the eyes themselves, but the twinkle within them.”

My eyes narrowed. Behind his impressive poker face was a Mona Lisa smile. I hit him on the
shoulder. “Oh my god, I can’t believe I almost fell for that. You are such a jerk!”

Nico burst out laughing again, he
clutched his stomach. “You should have seen your face.”

I swatted him a
gain as I echoed his laughter.

Now his eyes were
shining, radiant, resplendent, irresistible.

“
Listen, okay, I’ll do my best. No more twinkle.” He held his hands up. His eyes were still shining as bright as the North Star. He really was making no effort.

“Please.” I shook my head in exasperation. “Please do that. So, back to the real issue, which was what did you think you were doing on that interview talking about me at all?”

“Elizabeth, if I don’t answer their questions it will only make things worse. They will continue to badger you. What I was trying to do was alleviate some of the pressure you’ve been under.”

“But you didn’t. In fact, it
made things worse. And, what about you? Did you stop to think how this is going to impact you?”

“
No. I didn’t. I’m really just concerned about you right now. And they’re not going to leave you alone. You stood on a chair and told a room full of people that you and I had a child together.”

“Yes. I did that. I was trying to be nice. Obviously, that didn’t
go according to plan.” I bit the inside of my cheek and glanced over his shoulder. Nothing was going according to plan these days.

“Let me do something to make it up to you.”

“You don’t need to do anything to make it up to me, it’s not your fault. It’s my fault. In fact, I should be apologizing to you. But—at the very least—could you stop giving interviews where you tell people that we’re
‘just friends’
in a way that makes it sound like we’re really playing
hide the salami
? Could you do that for me?”

Nico tilted his head to the side, a small smile
lighting his expression. “I haven’t heard that, hide the salami, since my dad was alive. You got that saying from my dad, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I got it from your dad. I think it’s hilarious.” I gave him a sideways glance. “Your dad was really funny.”

“Yeah . . . Yeah he was.”

“Just like you.” I tapped a finger against his shoulder
, and we gave each other mirrored smiles.

A staring contest ensued; it was the kind where we began with smiles and good feelings then—over a period of several seconds—it transitioned into
different kinds of good feelings and the room becoming too hot. He wasn’t smiling anymore, and neither was I. In fact, I was pretty sure I was frowning.

Nico studied me, frowned at my frown, then he turned and glanced around m
y room. He strolled over to the bed, picked up my discarded black-and-pink lace bra and rubbed his thumb over the material.

“So, are you coming with us out to dinner?”

I shrugged, though my attention was focused on where his fingers slipped over the cup of the bra. “I don’t know. I’m pretty tired and I need to be back at ten for Angelica’s treatment.”

He lifted the bra slightly. “This is
the one you were wearing during your panty party, right?”

“I don’t know. I guess so.
” That was a lie. I did know. Watching him finger the fabric was doing delicious things to me. He needed to stop. “You can unhand my bra now.”

“It is the same one.” His eyes narrowed as they studied the slip of material. “Where are the matching panties?”

My stomach tightened. Nico Manganiello should not be allowed to say
panties
. “I don’t know. What an absurd question.” That was a lie. I did know. They were in the top drawer of my dresser.

“You should wear them, and this, tonight.”

“Ha . . .” My attempt at nonchalance came out more like a breathless choke. “How would you feel if I dictated your undergarments?”

He met my gaze directly, his expression and tone serious. “I wouldn’t object.”

Another staring match. My heart quickened. I suddenly could not stand the fact that he was holding my bra, his thumb drawing circles over the center of the cup with a reverence the material didn’t deserve. I deserved that touch, and I was jealous of my underwear.

I
needed
him to stop.

“Stop doing that. Put it down.” I charged over to where he stood and reached for my brassiere.

He held it above his head and to the side. His eyes watched me with a scorching intensity as I reached for the undergarment again, bumped against him as I clawed at his arm. I didn’t realize at first, but he’d turned slightly and was backing me up. By the time I successfully reached and held the bra, he was emphatically filling every molecule of my personal space, and I was trapped, my back against the closet door. I was also breathing heavy. My chest touched his with every rise and fall.

He was looking at my mouth
, and he licked his lips, slowly, drawing the full bottom one—the one I often thought of as juicy—between his teeth and sucking, biting it before releasing it. My eyelids felt heavy. In fact, I felt heavy all over.

And I felt hot. I felt hot and heavy all over.

He was so close I could count the individual eyelashes that fanned against his cheek.

Nico leaned forward
, and I thought, just for a spare second, that he was going to kiss me. If he kissed me I was planning to kiss the hell out of him. Instead his mouth moved to my ear, and his knee moved between my legs, his thigh against my center. He tasted the tip of my ear, his hot breath fanning against my neck, and I shuddered.

“Elizabeth
 . . .”

I whimpered in response
; his leg shifted, the movement causing a delicious friction between my thighs. I automatically gripped his shoulders to steady myself.

He trailed hot, tender kisses from my ear to my neck. I lifted to my tiptoes
; my fingers found their way into his hair, and I pressed him closer, arching against him.

I needed to kis
s him. Like,
needed
to kiss him. I needed his mouth, and I needed to bite his bottom lip, and I needed to feel the wet warmth of his tongue against mine. But, before I could make my need my reality he pulled away, turned away, and walked away. He left me, back against the door, gasping for breath and with the worst blue bean of my life.