Friends Without Benefits can be read as a standalone, is a full length 120k word novel, and is book #2 in the Knitting in the City Series.

There are three things you need to know about Elizabeth Finney: 1) She suffers from severe sarcastic syndrome, especially when she’s unnerved, 2) No one unnerves her like Nico Manganiello, and 3) She knows how to knit.

Elizabeth Finney is almost always right about everything: the musical merits of boy bands are undervalued by society, “benefits” with human Ken dolls are better without friendship, and the sun has set on her once-in-a-lifetime chance for true love. But when Elizabeth’s plans for benefits without friendship are disarmed by the irritatingly charismatic and chauvinistic Nico Manganiello- her former nemesis- she finds herself struggling to maintain the electric fence around her heart while avoiding electrocution or, worse, falling in love.

*  *  *

Chapter 1

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 shoulders 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 step 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 your 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 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; 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, 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 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.

He was Nico in person. But he was only The Face on TV.

The last time I saw Nico not in person was on the TV in the doctors’ lounge two weeks ago.

A group of—all male—surgeons were gathered around the TV set. They were watching a busty blonde and a sylphlike redhead Jell-O wrestle with a bare chested Nico on his Comedy Central show Talking with The Face.

He’d been dubbed “The Face” because he used to be a male model in New York before it was discovered that he actually had a brain and personality. Never mind the fact that both his brain and personality were used for evil. For that matter, so was his face. I had firsthand, secondhand, and thirdhand knowledge of how he used his face for evil.

Even though I avoided his show, I’d purposefully purchased and watched his stand-up special and had come face-to-The Face complete with advertisements plastered on billboards and the Internet. Regardless, I wasn’t prepared for an in-person encounter. In person he was real, present in a way that he wasn’t in a still-life picture or a video clip.

The fact that his mother was in the room, openly inspecting us as we reacted to each other, only served to crank up the awkward dial. Though, even if we’d been alone I wouldn’t have known what to say to him.

I could have tried:

“Hi—about deserting you after your best friend died, that was really shitty of me. Also, about disappearing that morning after I handed you my V-card and never returning your calls or reading your emails and letters, that was also shitty of me. In my defense, I’m pretty sure that one time we slept together meant more to me than it did to you as I was a grieving teenager who was frightened by my feelings for you and you’ve always had girls tripping over their panties in pursuit. I’m fairly certain that night for you was mostly pity sex. Furthermore, I’m sure you didn’t even notice my absence—what with all the poontang you must’ve been getting in New York as a male underwear model. Since you basically made my adolescent years hell, let’s just call it even-steven.”

I swallowed memories down, down, down along with all the recriminations that surfaced immediately afterward. I wasn’t at all proud of how I behaved, but it was a very long time ago; I’d just turned sixteen and he’d just turned seventeen. We were kids. He may have been my first, but I most definitely had not been his.

I knew that if he were still upset with me it probably had less to do with my abandoning him after sex and more to do with my abandoning him after Garrett’s death. And, for that, I still felt ashamed.

I commenced with an attempt at a smile and nodded my head in his direction.

“Of course. Hi. Good to. . . see. . . you.”

Full lips flattened. His frown deepened. He visibly swallowed. He didn’t respond.

He just looked at me, and his stare felt like a brand.

“Oh—and this is Angelica, my granddaughter.” Rose led me by my hand to where Nico held the small girl. Pride was evident in Rose’s voice, but so was a trace of sadness.

I used the movement as an excuse to shift my attention away from Nico and smiled at Angelica as I approached. She was dressed in a kid-sized hospital gown, and I knew better than to offer her my hand. Cystic fibrosis would make her extremely susceptible to pulmonary infection even though she was likely already on prophylaxis antibiotics.

Angelica smiled at me briefly then buried her face in Nico’s neck.

“It is nice to meet you, Angelica.” I kept my voice soft. “I’m actually here to talk to you and your-your-your dad about a research study which might help you feel better.”

Curses!

I didn’t know why I stuttered over “your dad,” but I did know I needed to pull my shit together before shit got everywhere and shit got crazy.

“Oh, Lizzybella, Angelica isn’t Nico’s. Nico is her uncle.” Rose leaned forward, and her whisper assumed a wavering, watery quality. “Angelica was my Tina’s.”

I nodded in dejected and horrified understanding. On the tragedy scale this news was an eleven. . . ty thousand; that’s right: eleventy thousand. Not only did sweet Angelica have a chronic life-threatening disease, her mother—Tina—was dead. Tina was Rose’s third daughter. My father told me of Tina and her husband’s death last year via freak car accident.

It was horrible and senseless, and I now felt the sudden need to drink scotch, brood, and read Edgar Allen Poe or the ending to Hamlet. Maybe I would top it all off with some YouTube videos of drowning kittens while listening to Radiohead.

“I see.” Was all I could say.

Again, without meaning to, my gaze sought Nico’s. I found him studying me. I tried not to fiddle with my stethoscope, hoped my eyes conveyed my condolences. Yet, I couldn’t help but feel foolish and inadequate. I wasn’t used to feeling foolish and inadequate, not any more, not since high school.

He made me feel foolish and inadequate.

At last Nico spoke. The sound of his voice—deeper than I remembered, raspy—made my spine stiffen in automatic response.

“We’re in Chicago to see a visiting disease specialist, but then came to the ER because Angelica had a fever this morning. She’s on the inhaled antibiotics since two weeks ago. I’m worried that—” he paused, his soulful eyes shifted from me to his mother then back. “We’re worried that they aren’t as effective and they did a chest X-ray downstairs, but we haven’t heard anything about the results.”

I motioned to the aptly appropriate depressing beige furniture and endeavored to slip into Elizabeth Finney, MD” mode; “Here—let’s sit down and I’ll take a look at Angelica’s chart.”

Rose sat next to Nico on the couch and Angelica moved from his lap to hers. I deposited the consent forms on the table then crossed to the mounted computer station on the wall; Angelica’s electronic medical record had two procedural tabs for April 1. The first was a full blood panel and the second was a chest X-ray. The actual image wasn’t yet available, but the radiologist’s report indicated that her lungs were negative for infection.

“Well, the good news is that the radiology report came back and it looks like Angelica’s lungs are—currently—free of infection. Her labs aren’t in the system yet, but the attending will be able to review them with you before discharge.” Unable to find a reason to loiter any longer with the electronic medical record, I crossed to them and chose the beige chair across from Rose. “The reason I’m here is to talk to you about a research study, which it looks like Angelica may be eligible for.”

Nico nodded. He leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees, his hands tented before him; “Yeah, the nurses downstairs said that you guys were doing a study and it might help, with the symptoms? Reduce the infections?”

The hope in his voice was heartbreaking. I tried to distance myself from my history with him, with Rose, with this family, and review the study and consent with measured impartiality, like I would approach any other family.

But, because I was unable to completely detach myself from the strength of memories and guilt—and, therefore, historical emotions—involving Nico, I kept my gaze fastened to Rose as I explained the study visits, risks and benefits.

“Results thus far are promising; increase in mucociliary clearance, improved digestive and pancreatic function. But the study isn’t yet fully enrolled. No definite conclusions can be made about long term benefits.”

Rose was staring at me as though I had three heads.

I reminded myself to slow down, use laymen terms, treat them like any other family. This was safe territory for me: current research trends, the study, risk analyses.

What was less than safe was the realization that I still had an unsafe territory where Nico was concerned. Since leaving high school, I was now used to venturing beyond the pale with abandon. I was not used to feeling like I needed to watch my words, where I looked, the inflection of my voice.

It chaffed. Each time I made a mental note to avoid his gaze my irritability increased. I didn’t like this feeling. I didn’t like the unresolved issues between us. What was unsaid choked me and, honestly, pissed me off.

All things considered, I felt I hid it well.

I started over. “This study is straight forward, but also extremely intense: twenty-eight days of infusions administered every eight hours. This means that Angelica will have to return here, to the clinical research unit, every eight hours for twenty eight days and receive medication via IV, in her vein, for a half hour. There are some documented adverse reactions. But, on the plus side, the study is not placebo controlled; this means that all patients will be receiving treatment.”

Rose nodded her understanding, held Angelica tighter.

“You should take some time to read the forms and discuss.” I studied Rose for a moment as she held her granddaughter to her chest. According to Angelica’s chart the little girl was four. She was very small for a four year old. She was also very shy and continued to look away every time I attempted to draw her out with a smile.

Rose sighed. It was a heavy, distracted, helpless sigh. “I just don’t know. . .” She turned to Nico, “What do you think?”

Nico held his mother’s gaze for a moment then glanced at his hands, studied them as though they might answer the question for him. He lifted his eyes to mine and targeted me with a pointed stare. Another stabbing pain in my heart. If he saw me wince he didn’t make any outward sign.

He lifted his chin a notch, “What do you think we should do?”

“Read the study materials and take some time to think about it.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” Nico’s eyes moved between mine and I was startled by the trust and vulnerability I witnessed in his gaze. “Will you be her doctor?”

“I-uh—” My head shook before I knew it was shaking. “No. The research nurses administer the infusions and conduct the study visits. And, this is my last week in research rotation. It is a mandatory six week rotation for all emergency medicine residents and this is my last week. But the study Principal Investigator—Dr. Botstein—is a world renowned pediatric pulmonologist. He is really excellent. He will be the doctor assigned to Angelica.”

Nico frowned, the earlier trust and vulnerability morphing into something like exasperated desperation. He glared at me through his thick, black lashes then drew his top lip between his teeth and chewed for a moment. His left leg started bouncing. “Couldn’t we request you?”

What??

My head shake increased in speed. “No. Listen, you don’t want me. Really. You want Dr. Botstein.”

“No, Elizabeth.” He said my name slowly, stubbornly. His eyes narrowed for the briefest of moments then he leaned back against the cushions of the pitiful beige sofa. “I want you.”

I set my expression to rigid, holding Nico’s challenging glower, determined to win this staring contest.

I spoke first. “You’re not thinking about this clearly—”

“Whereas you’ve won awards for clear thinking?”

“No.” I gritted my teeth. “No one is perfect.”

“Even you?” His tone was bitter, and his indisputably handsome face was marred by an ugly sneer.

“Especially me.”

“That’s not how I remember it.”

My face flushed at the double-entendre and his eyes ignited with satisfaction. Some of the sneering ugliness was replaced with smug male arrogance. Even as I internally eye-rolled, I hoped Rose wouldn’t pick up on his complisult (compliment + insult)

I understood that he had every right to be angry with me. I was still angry with myself. But the timing of this conversation, his timing, was exceedingly not cool. This situation was not about him or us or what happened eleven years ago between two grieving teenagers.

He was engaging in machismo asshattery, and I would have none of it.

I forced casual steadiness into my voice and redoubled my resolve to resist participating in his bait-fest. “You knew me a long time ago.”

“I’ve known you all my life. We pulled pranks on my brothers, we had a monopoly game that went on for three years, we built a tree house in your backyard, our dads took us to our first Cubs game together.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“We used to have sleepovers. . .”

I flinched, said nothing.

“I know you better than anyone.” His words were a suggestive whisper and patently false.

“Not for the last eleven years.”

“Well—” He spread his arms out; his voice deceptively calm. “There’s no time like the present. Let’s get reacquainted. We can start with you treating Angelica.”

“I’m not the doctor you want.”

“You are the doctor I want.” He grew adamant, louder, like someone who was used to getting his way by raising his voice.

“I’m not the doctor Angelica needs.” I pressed my palm to my chest, held it there because my heart was once again hurting.

“You don’t get to make that decision.” His adamant became obstinate.

“In this case you should listen to me, I know what I’m—”

“I don’t have to do anything. We’ve already established that you’re not perfect.” His obstinate became pigheaded. Usually I didn’t mind a good old yelling match, but I had no desire to scare the four-year-old little girl in the room.

“N-Nico,” his name felt strange on my tongue, because my voice was quiet, but I wanted to yell at him; I stuttered as my frustration peaked, “E-everyone makes mistakes.”

It was his turn to flinch, and I thought I saw something resembling pain paint a shadow over his features; his voice increased further in volume until it was a booming shout, “Well one person’s mistake is another person’s—”

“Niccolò!” Rose’s sharp warning was whispered, but it was enough to keep him from finishing the thought.

He clamped his mouth shut and shot to his feet, pulled both of his hands through his hair then drummed on his leg with restless fingers. His eyes flickered to mine then to the door.

“I need a cigarette.” He mumbled.

He was gone before I registered he was even moving, and the door shut behind him.

The room felt quieter, calmer without him in it. The beige didn’t seem so dull. The fluorescent lights didn’t seem so dim.

He’d always been a larger-than-life presence. Growing up in our small town it seemed everyone was drawn to him. Everyone but me. When we were kids and we played together he unsettled me, made me self-conscious. He was too. . . magnetic. Even then I didn’t trust myself around Nico, because I had difficulty saying no to him. I couldn’t compete with his restless energy, and I didn’t like being overwhelmed by it.

We’d just spent twenty minutes together, and already I was exhausted.

I rubbed the space between my eyes with my index and middle fingers. Frayed nerves began to mend, and I released a cleansing breath.

I didn’t realize I’d been staring at the door until Rose interrupted my meanderings.

“It’s so good to see you.”

I blinked at her. “Ah, thank you, Rose.”

“Are you Rapunzel?” A small voice sprung from Angelica’s hidden face. Only her eyes and mop of brown hair were visible from behind the blue blanket.

My hand automatically lifted to my long, thick braid; my smile was automatic and immediate. “No, Angelica. But that was a very nice thing to say.”

“Are you coming home anytime soon?” Rose cleared her throat, bringing my attention back to her. “Your father must miss you.”

I nodded. “Well, yes and no. I’ll be in town next weekend for the reunion, but my dad will be out of town. He and Jeanette are going on a cruise.”

“Reunion?”

“Uhhh. . .” I cringed inwardly and outwardly and tried to stall by tucking loose strands of hair behind my ears; “You know, the high school reunion. It’s been ten years.”

Rose opened her mouth in understanding, but no sound came out. She closed it. Opened it. Closed it. Then said, “Nico didn’t say anything.”

I shrugged. “He’s probably not going.”

“Why wouldn’t he go? He should go.”

I cringed again. There were some very good reasons why Nico shouldn’t go, the most glaring of which was that he didn’t actually graduate high school. The other obvious reason was: why would he?

He was a famous—albeit crude—and successful stand-up comedian with his own show. Why would he want to go to a high school reunion in Iowa?

I glanced at the door again.

Seeing Nico had been difficult. A great deal more difficult than I’d anticipated.

Yes, he was different than before—older, bigger, famous—yet he was still fundamentally the same. He was still the same boy who branded me with the horrid nickname Skinny Finney when I was ten. He was still the same boy who broke every heart in high school and always somehow found the time to make me miserable.

But then, he was still the same boy who held my hand at Garrett’s funeral. He was still the same boy who climbed into my window night after night the summer after Garrett’s death. And I still didn’t understand him.

“He’s not usually like that—with other people. He’s not usually so. . . so abrupt.”

Again she caught me staring at the door. “What’s he usually like?”

“Well, you know, like. . .” She visibly swallowed. She was stroking Angelica’s hair; “He’s always trying to make people laugh. But he can be intense with some people.”

My mouth twisted to the side, and I offered good-naturedly, “Maybe I just have that effect on people.”

She glanced at me and lifted a single eyebrow. “Conosco i miei polli.”

I gave her a small smile. Growing up, Rose had a habit of responding to me in Italian at random intervals. I waited for her to translate, but, when she did, I had the impression that the Italian did not match the English.

“Not people, just Nico.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t take it personally.” I nodded my head to indicate Angelica. “I’m sure this is stressful for him.”

“It is. . .” Rose began, stopped, her eyes moved over my face. “It is hard on him. But you still might want to take it personally. You know—” Then the fox smile returned. “—just in case.”

 

 

Chapter 2

Must. Focus. On. Dr. Botstein.

“. . . third time we’ve had to have this conversation, Dr. Finney, and I do not know how much clearer I can be about the severity of this situation. . .”

Must. Not. Think. About. Nico.

“. . . can’t prove it was you, but switching the colonoscopy training with a porn tape was extremely unprofessional . . .”

Must. Not. Think. About. Nico’s. Face.

“. . . seriously considering a formal reprimand for misconduct. And, honestly, that would be a shame, a waste of your talent and a disservice to the hospital . . .”

Must. Not. Think. About. Nico’s. Exasperating. Hands.

“. . . believe in your abilities, your skill with diagnostics, your passion for your patients. This has to be the last time. I’m warning you . . .”

Must. Not. Think. About. Nico’s. Maddening. Voice.   

“. . . if I get the slightest indication that you’re planning any more of these pranks then, despite my personal feelings about the matter, I will be forced to request . . .”

Must. Not. Think. About. Nico’s. Infuriating. Body.    

“Have I made myself clear?”

Must. Appear. To. Be. Contrite.

“Yes, sir.” I nodded once.

Dr. Botstein exhaled through his nose in a way that reminded me of a horse. I had to bite the inside of my cheek.

Must. Not. Compare. Dr. Botstein. To. A. Horse.

He shook his head, his voice abruptly and unexpectedly adopting a softer, paternal tone. “I don’t understand why you do it, Elizabeth. Your attitude mystifies me. I’ve never seen someone—with so much talent, who works so hard, who is so well respected and admired by staff and faculty—just want to throw it away like you seem to.”

All at once I didn’t have to appear contrite, because I felt contrite, ashamed. My gaze dropped to the floor. “I’m sorry.”

He waited until I met his glare again; his eyes searched mine. Abruptly, he leaned back in his desk chair and flicked his wrist, dismissing me with an impatient, irritated wave. “Leave.”

I didn’t wait to be told twice and closed the door to Dr. Botstein’s office as softly as I could. Once safely in the hall I closed my eyes and released a frustrated yet quiet growl. I couldn’t understand how Dr. Botstein ended up with the exploding latex gloves.

But, if I were honest with myself, the other reason for my frustration was that Nico didn’t come back to the clinic room before I left. I was paged and had to leave Angelica and Rose before he returned. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye, and it was likely the last time I’d see him in person. I was perturbed.

Furthermore, I couldn’t stop thinking about Nico Manganiello and his beautiful face, voice, and body. And his eyes. And his lips. And his—

“How’d your meeting with your mentor go?” A voice that resembled nails on a chalkboard, only worse, sounded from my left. I contemplated pretending that I didn’t hear her. However, almost immediately, I dismissed the idea. She was the type to pick and nitpick and prod until noticed.

“Hello, Meg.”

“Hello, Elizabeth.”

Meg was odious; nevertheless, we had a few things in common. Like me, she was younger than most second year residents. Also like me, she was fumbling through the concept of becoming a responsible adult at the age of twenty-six. Again—like me—she was trying to find her way outside the comfortable and safe confines of academia. Additionally, like me, she was medium height, had long, golden blonde hair and blue eyes.

Otherwise we were polar opposites in just about every regard.

Where she was polished and stylish, I was messy. Where she was meticulous with every blonde tendril and perfectly plucked eyebrow, I was haphazard and messy. Where she embraced and wielded her inner femme fetal with practiced proficiency—batting eyelashes and casting about comehither mojo—I just threw it all out there, wore a slutty dress, and was messy.

Putting it in Star Trek Voyager terms, I was the B’Elana Torres to her Seven of Nine.

I waited for a moment then opened just one eye. “Are you still here? No kittens to drown? Children to frighten? Can’t locate that eye of newt you need?”

“Ha ha, very funny, Dr. Finney. One would think you’d be a bit more repentant after getting your ass chewed out.”

I opened my other eye then proceeded to squint at her. “What do you know about that?”

Her smile was wicked, as usual, and I knew. In that moment I knew—Megalomaniac-Meg had been the one to rat me out.

I breathed through my nose in a way that reminded me of a horse. “How did you know?”

“I saw you take the box of gloves into the room, it’s April Fool’s day, the clinic room was assigned to Dr. Ken Miles. Honestly, Elizabeth, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out you were planning a prank.”

“What did you do?”

She shrugged. “I switched Dr. Botstein’s clinic room assignment with Ken’s.”

I closed my eyes again, my head falling to the wall behind me. “Go away.”

Dr. Ken Miles, my intended April Fool’s Day victim, and I had been flirting for two years. He was very bad at it. His attempts usually ended with me flinching. He also had the habit of picking his nose when he was fairly certain no one was watching. He also drank coffee with a lot of cream and sugar or combined with ice-cream.

None of these were deal breakers, because I didn’t want to date the guy. I wanted to hit that. Actually, I just wanted to hit something and soon.

I’d recently made up my mind and committed an unrepentant HIPAA violation when I scanned his last physical. He was disease free and had healthy cardiac and pulmonary systems. We would have a symbiotic and mutually beneficial relationship. It would suit me quite well.

“Oh, don’t be a poor sport. You wanted to play an April Fool’s Day joke on Ken—and, believe me, I completely get that—but I just couldn’t pass up a chance to make your life uncomfortable.”

“Why are you here?” I covered my face with my hands, rubbed my eyes. I decided my original plan of ignoring her held merit.

“I’m here because . . .” I heard her shuffle her feet, clear her throat. Finally, she continued, “So, I’m starting my research rounds next week.”

I remained motionless, but opened my eyes; I didn’t want to miss a moment of her discomfort.

She huffed. “I was told that a VIP patient came in today for the infusion study and that you met with them? Some kind of celebrity? Is this true?”

I shrugged noncommittally.

“Damn it, Elizabeth, will you just tell me who it is?”

I barely withheld a snort at her question. I fully admitted, when I scoffed I snorted. I felt strongly that scoffing should be accompanied by a sound that was scoff-worthy and, for me, snorting was that sound.

Her request for information—after openly admitting to me that she’d switched the clinic rooms—was very Meg-like. She didn’t seem to comprehend the obvious, that her evil-doer admission would color my response.

“Ah-ah-ah. That would be a breach of patient confidentiality.” I knew saying these words made me a hypocrite in light of my Dr. Ken Miles HIPAA violation, but I couldn’t help it. She brought out the worst in me.

No way in hell or heck was I going to tell Meg about Nico. She would probably ask for an autograph or request a picture or propose a three-way. The way she spoke about celebrities was just strange. She called them by their first name, talked about what they did as though she knew them personally. It was weird.

“Oh, please.” She rolled her blue eyes, crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m just going to find out next week. Why not just tell me now?”

I pushed away from the wall and faced her, my shoulders squared. “Aw, gee, Meg. I just can’t pass up a chance to make your life uncomfortable.”

My pager chose just that moment to buzz at my hip. It was one of those perfect-timing moments, where I’d just said something witty and lasting. With a smirk on my face I glanced at my pager and immediately frowned.

CRU rm 410 asap; VIP peds cg1605 cf iv

I stared at the message.

Roughly translated, the message meant: please come to the Clinical Research Unit, room number 410 as soon as possible. A VIP pediatric patient has arrived for protocol number 1605, cystic fibrosis infusion study.

It was exactly the same message I’d been paged with earlier in the day, just before I walked in on Nico, Rose, and Angelica. My heart skipped two beats.

“What?” Meg’s eyes moved between me and pager. “What is it?”

I didn’t bother responding. Instead I turned away and walked in the direction of the staff elevators. I could feel her shooting daggers at my back.

~*~

Nico was the sole occupant in the room; Rose and Angelica were gone. He turned as I entered, and I stalled just inside the entrance. If being in a room with Nico—with his mother and niece as witnesses—was terrifying, then being in a room alone with Nico was alert level red.

Automatically I took a half step back, my wide eyes met his.

He spoke first. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I held my breath, pointed over my shoulder with my thumb. “Do you want me to get one of the nurses?”

Confusion flickered over his features. “What for?”

“I . . .” I held my breath again, searched my mind for an excuse to call in one of the research staff. “I thought that—I mean, it might be helpful, for your decision about the study, if you talked to one of the nurses who administer the infusions.”

He shook his head, stuffed his hands in his pockets. “No. I want to talk to you.”

My eyebrows shot upward. I’m sure I looked as dumb as I felt. “Me?”

“Yeah.” He nodded slowly. “Come in. Shut the door.”

Shut the door? Is he out of his mind?

I didn’t move. I stood paralyzed with a Vulcan death grip on the door knob. We stared at each other.

Him—waiting for me to behave like a normal human being.

Me—waiting for him to evaporate and this nightmare to disappear.

“Elizabeth . . .” His mouth quirked to the side, his brow furrowing at my immobility; “Are you going to come in?”

“Yes.” I didn’t move.

Nico’s smile widened, just a teasing of teeth behind divine lips, and he crossed the room until he stood directly in front of me. He reached for the door knob; his hand closed over mine. It was warm and sent a shock wave of awareness coursing up my arm. Through his movements, our hands together pushed the door closed.

“Come in.” His voice was barely above a whisper. He was standing so close I could see the flecks of black and silver in his green eyes.

“Okay,” I said. Panic caused by his proximity was enough to spur me into action. I averted my gaze from his and pulled my hand from the knob and his grip. I walked around him, gingerly choosing my steps so that I wouldn’t accidentally make contact with his body.

Once I arrived in the middle of the small space I felt lost. Should I sit? Stand? Lean? Cross my arms? Some combination? I turned and found him advancing slowly. I backed up. My thighs met the arm of the sofa. I sat on it, endeavored to make the near-trip appear intentional.

“So . . .” I crossed my arms, uncrossed my arms, feigned nonchalance, and winced a little at the tight unnaturalness of my voice. “You must have questions.”

He nodded. “I do. I have a lot of questions.”

“Well, that’s to be expected.” I patted my lab coat, looking for a brochure. “I have a pamphlet on side effects associated with the study drug that might help.”

He halted some four feet from my position and, once again, stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I don’t have questions about that, not about the study.”

“Oh?” My voice cracked.

The oh shit heartbeat was back. I held perfectly still and forced myself to meet his gaze. Eleven years of avoiding him—avoiding thinking about him, his show, that summer, that night, our history—caught up with me all at once.

He openly surveyed me, his eyes appraising, from my feet to the top of my head then back to my face. “You look the same.”

“I do?” I glanced dumbly at the front of my scrubs then back to him. I didn’t think I looked the same. In fact, I was pretty sure I looked completely different. I narrowed my eyes at him. For the first time since entering the room my panic-fog began to clear, and, if he didn’t want to discuss the study, I wondered what he wanted.

“Except . . .” He motioned to my hair. “Except your hair. You used to have shorter hair.”

Automatically my hand lifted to the braid. “Yeah, well, I don’t have anyone trying to cut my hair during nap time so it finally grew out.”

The corner of Nico’s mouth lifted just slightly at my small barb. “I’d forgotten about that.”

“I hadn’t.” I responded flatly.

“How old were we?”

“When you cut my hair? You were five.”

His face warmed with a smile. “You were four. I remember now.”

The fact that he was smiling at the memory of cutting my hair awakened an old, long buried injury. I did not return his smile. In fact, as I watched him silently reminisce, other memories from our teenage years turned my blood abruptly cold. I no longer felt flustered by his presence. I felt annoyed by his arrogance.

Furthermore, I realized that—notwithstanding his perplexing kindness the summer after Garrett’s death, my resulting guilt, and all these years of separation—part of me still simply saw him as the boy who bullied me in school. Disliking, distrusting Nico was an instinctual response.

“What do you want, Nico?”

His eyes flickered to mine, and I witnessed a shadow of surprise pass over his gaze, likely caused by the sudden somberness of my tone. He studied me for a moment. Then, he said something entirely unexpected.

“I wanted to apologize.”

I stared at him. Really, we stared at each other. I inclined my head slightly forward, sure I’d misheard him. “You what?”

“I want to apologize. I’m sorry for my rudeness earlier. Seeing you was . . . unexpected. I was caught off guard. I reacted badly.”

I endeavored to shrug. “It’s okay. I know you must be under a great deal of stress with your niece.”

“Yes, but no more than usual. I shouldn’t have snapped at you, and I definitely shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry. Do you forgive me?”

I frowned, felt abruptly hot, uncomfortable. I couldn’t swallow. “Of course,” I croaked.

We stared at each other again. His eyes darted over my face as though committing me to memory. The attention, the focus of his gaze made me feel like protozoa under a microscope.

I stood. It was an abrupt movement. I cleared my throat. “Well, if that’s everything.”

“No. I also . . .” Nico’s eyes moved between mine. He rocked forward on his feet. “I have a proposition for you.”

At his words my stomach tensed; instead of running from the room screaming, I stood my ground and responded with a much more refined: “What’s that?”

“I’d like to know you again. I think we should be friends.”

My eyebrows met my hairline. “You want to be friends? With me?”

“Yes.”

“Uh . . .” I looked at the door behind him, the wall above his head, the linoleum floor. It all looked real, and I was pretty sure I was awake. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

Nico pulled his hands from his pockets and held them out between us. “If we decide to do this study, for Angelica, I’ll be in town quite a lot.” He watched me expectantly. When I didn’t respond, his hands dropped. “I’d like to see you. Maybe . . .” He cleared his throat. “Maybe we could go out?”

I’m sure I looked completely befuddled. I felt completely befuddled. Why would Nico The Face Moretti—or Nico Manganiello—want to be friends with me? “I don’t understand,” I repeated and, because my brain was on befuddlement-autopilot, I asked, “You mean like friends with benefits?”

. . . did I just say that? Or did I think that? Judging by the amused expression on his features I guessed that I said it.

Out loud.

I grimaced. “I mean, not that you—I mean I just don’t—”

“No, Elizabeth . . .” His gaze swept over me once more; the movement was quick, as though it were an involuntary reaction to my question. “Friends without benefits. Just friends.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean . . .” I huffed so that I would stop talking and promptly leaned against the sofa arm again. I examined him from behind my lashes; he appeared to be earnest. Nothing in his expression hinted that this was a joke or that he was trying to make a fool of me. Nevertheless, my eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Just friends?”

“Yes.”

I shook my head. “Men and women can’t be just friends. Haven’t you seen every romantic comedy ever?”

“I have female friends.” His face relaxed a bit, but his eyes were still guarded.

“I’m sure you do.”

“I do.” He lifted his chin a notch. “There is a clause that if the man grows up with sisters—and I grew up with three—then he is capable of having female friends.”

I considered him, the strangeness of his request. In fact, our entire interaction was verging on Twilight Zone levels of absurdity. Nico Manganiello didn’t ask people to be friends, and he certainly never asked me for anything.

“Okay.” I shrugged my surrender, because I didn’t know what else to do. I felt overwhelmed by him, his request, the gentleness of his voice, the sincerity of his words, the entire situation. It was weird and, as usual, he had an uncanny ability to discombobulate me in a few short moments. Since I couldn’t think of anything else to say, I responded, “We can be friends.”

He nodded once, but didn’t smile. “Good. That’s good.”

And, for the third time, we stared at each other. The moment was the most surreal of my life. I watched his chest rise and fall with each breath. I noted that his eyes hadn’t quite lost all their hostility despite the candor of our conversation. Although, I surmised, my expression likely wasn’t warm and fuzzy either.

I doubted that we could be friends.

I watched as Nico took a deep breath, as though preparing to say something of great importance. He got as far as “Elizabeth, I have to—” before my pager buzzed at my waist.

I pulled my attention from him and focused on the message. It efficiently told me that the ER was expecting seven trauma victims within the next five minutes, all with severe injuries. This typically meant a car wreck of epic proportions.

I frowned first at my pager then at him. “I have to go. There’s been an accident and I need to help.”

“Okay.” He nodded, pressed his lips together in a tight line, his soulful eyes tinged with a shadow of emotion I couldn’t place.

I walked past him in a rush, but paused at the door. I felt like I’d left my stomach and a few select other organs still leaning against the arm of the couch. I glanced over my shoulder.

He stood just where I’d left him, his back to the door.

Click here to download the entire book: Penny Reid’s Friends Without Benefits>>>