Friends Without Benefits (Knitting in the City) (17 page)

He considered me fo
r a moment, his posture relaxed once again as he leaned against the wall; although the tightness in his features indicated that the topic was difficult for him to discuss; “Tina and I were close and I’m Angelica’s Godfather. She left my mom custody but I think Angelica needs a male role model too, a father figure.”

“But Robert, Manny, they all live in town and already have kids, know how to be a father. Wouldn’t it make more sense for them to be here?”

“No.” The corners of his mouth tugged downward, and the muscles at his temples ticked. Nico’s typical charismatic energy felt muted, restrained, and he looked like such a grownup. I was struck by how adult-like he seemed—responsible, trustworthy, thoughtful, careful; everything about him screamed, “I have my shit together.”

“But
you’re missing so much work and that can’t be good for your career not to mention the upheaval to your personal life.”

“Those things don’t matter.”

“But the burden—”

“I love her, Elizabeth.
I want to be here. She is not a burden, she is my family and I love her.” The rising heat behind his words and flashing of his eyes demanded that I drop my questioning.

My gaze slid to the infusion chair in the corner, mostly to avoid his. “
Okay,” I sighed, feeling repentant for pushing him, but still frustrated by my helplessness to ease his burden. “I’m just trying to understand you better.”

“Why?”

A smile pulled at my mouth, and I glanced at him through my lashes. “I guess because I feel like I don’t know you anymore and I’m curious.”

His expression mimicked
mine—albeit with a smaller, somewhat sad smile—and his gaze moved slowly over my features. “Elizabeth, I don’t think you’ve ever known me. Not really.”

His words were soft
, almost resigned, absent of any residual frustration from my meddling. And they were doing things to me—the sound of his voice more so than the actual words—things that made me feel both warm and adrift.

“That’s completely preposterous.”

His mouth hooked higher. “You’re blinded by stubbornness.”

“You’re just jealous that I’m always right.”

“Not always.”

“Mostly always.”

“There is no such thing as
mostly always
.
It’s either always or not always,” he said.

“Well, you mostly always
used to say things that made me blind with rage.”

“And now?”

“And now . . .” I allowed myself a brief moment to study him. His gaze was wary but betrayed interest. “And now I feel like I’m mostly always the one saying the wrong thing.”

He narrowed his eyes, searched my gaze,
before he whispered, “Not always.”

We engaged in another staring contest. The frequency of our staring contests was verging on ridiculous. But I couldn’t help it. I liked staring at him
, and I liked it when he stared at me. His eyes caused a delicious pleasure-pain to spike in my chest. I could see myself becoming addicted to the feeling.

This thought
, paired with an igniting heat behind his eyes, stirred me from my Nico-trance. We’d drifted closer to each other without me realizing.

I stiffened,
took a step back, and blurted, “The video.”

His brow
dipped into a V momentarily, as though both confused by the sound and meaning of my words. But then, as understanding arrested his features, a slow grin claimed his mouth. “Ah, yes.” He also shifted a step backward and had the decency to appear contrite. “The video.”

I tucked loosened strands of hair behind my ears then clasped my hands in front of me
; residual tinglings and longings and stars still buzzing around my head. I tried to mentally swat them away and focus; “So. The video. On YouTube. Of me. And you. Where I said that thing.”

He nodded again. “Yes.
I’m aware. I was there.”

“
Yes, of course. And I realize this is my fault. No one forced me to hop on that chair and yell crazy things at the top of my lungs.” I took a faltering step toward him. “And I know I have absolutely no right to ask you for help but, is there—do you think there is anything you can do to make these people back off?”

“Are people
bothering you?”

“
A bit.”

“What happened? Did someone approach you?” He advanced a half
-step, and we were again close enough to touch.

“Not really.”

“Not really? What does that mean?”

“Well there was a photographer taking pictures of me yesterday while I was eating lunch.”

“Damn.”

“
How did they find my phone number so fast? And my email account is completely full. Half the messages are from newspapers and bloggers I’ve never heard of and the other half are from crazy women who want to. . .” I grimaced and shoved my hands in my lab coat. “Well, let’s just say they wish their child were yours.”

He gave me a mirthless smile.
“Just so you know, I really appreciate—really appreciate—what you did. You’re right. You didn’t have to jump on that chair. But you’re also wrong, you do have every right to ask for my help.”

“Are you sure about that?” I didn’t agree with him. I truly felt I had no right. “Because, I wouldn’t blame you if you gave me the middle
-finger salute and walked out of here.”

Nico wrinkled his nose. “Why would you say that? Why would you even think that?”

“Because . . .” I searched his eyes, hoped to convey, without actually admitting, the internal frustration and the dissidence I’d been living with since he’d appeared last week; actually, perhaps even longer than that. “Because I saw a segment on
Showbiz Weekly
this weekend and they were crucifying you over what I yelled at our reunion, about you and me having a child. If I’ve caused you any problems, I can’t tell you how—”

Nico waved away my concern. “Are you kidding? I have fake baby drama all the time. Every month there is a blog or trashy newspaper claiming that I’ve left some poor woman abandoned with eight kids, my very own oct
omom. Don’t worry about it.” 

I wrestled with my guilt then finally blurted, “
I haven’t been very nice to you.”

His expression softened. “
Elizabeth, in your own misguided, crazy, PMSing-woman way, I think you’ve been trying to be nice.”

My mouth fell open. “Hey
!”

“You’re just not very good at being nice. It’s not
a strength of yours.”

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“You should work on it. You should compliment me more, tell me I look pretty.”

I hit him on the shoulder even as I laughed. “You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

I stopped laughing. I couldn’t look away from his eyes—and, believe me, I tried. I semi
-swallowed. “You can’t do that.”

“What?” His tone was soft, like
a stupid caress.

“You can’t say things like that
.” My hand waved through the air as I indicated to his general direction. “If we’re still going to be friends.” Realizing what I just said, what I’d implied—that I still wanted to be friends—my face and neck warmed with embarrassment but, thankfully, not a full-fledged blush. “That is, if you still want to be friends.”

“Did I say I wanted to be friends?” He assumed an expression of mock thoughtfulness, eye-twinkle alert level red.
“When did I say that?”

My heart fluttered, felt as though he’d yanked it toward him. “Yes
. . .” I cleared my throat, tried to subdue my silly heart. “It was last week. I believe you said:
I want to be friends, just friends
.”

“Ah yes. Friends without benefits, right?” His eyes narrowed, again with mock seriousness. “Do you still want to be
friends without benefits?”

I nodded my response
, because I didn’t trust myself to speak.

“Hmm
, okay.” His smile was small and sly. “What can’t I say? That you’re beautiful?” His voice was still soft, like a stupid caress.

The heat spread; I
wrestled like a Klingon with the urge to blush. “Yes.”

“You don’t tell your friends when you think they look nice?”

“It’s not the same—don’t—” I huffed. “Don’t do it.”

“What do you typically do with your friends who are girls?
Since you seem to eschew males from that circle.”

I needed to get control of this conversation before he had me wobbly legged and falling into his arms like an idiot.
“Talk about sex.”

He paused. His smiled widened. “Ok
ay. We could do that.”

“Really?”
The single word was a disbelieving squeak; my plan to obtain control officially backfired.

“Yeah. It might be nice for you to have a man’s perspective. What else?”

“Uh . . . we drink, cuss, and knit.”

“Well, I think I’m definitely down with the drinking and cussing but I’ll need your help with the knitting.” His full-fledged charming smile was back
, but he hadn’t lost the lingering appearance of a responsible adult male.

“You’re going to learn how to knit?” My eyebrows bounced upward again.

“No. Knitting is for girls. I’m going to learn how to crochet. But . . .” He dipped his chin to his chest and issued me a look that meant business. “Since we’re going to do this, I have a request of
my friend
.”

I stiffened.
“What’s that?”

“I’m going to give you music homework.”

I stared at him. “Say what?”

“I’m going to give you music to listen to, not
boy bands, lots of different artists and genres, and you have to listen to it.” He shrugged, hands still in pockets. “We can talk about it when we hang out.”

The request sounded benign. Almost too benign. “Fine.” I couldn’t think of a reason to object but didn’t want to appear to be t
oo accommodating. “Then I have a friendship stipulation.”

“Why do you get two?”

“It’s less of a stipulation and more of just a request.”

“Fine. Let’s hear it.”

“Will you please let me fire your security guards?”

He sighed, scratched his neck. His gaze was sheepish. “They are pretty bad.”

“I know someone who has a security company. He owns the building where I live—well, part of it, my floor anyway, and is engaged to my best friend. He has a division that provides private security and he’s kind of a badass wizard. They are very discreet and you don’t have to worry about your privacy at all. Please, will you just talk to him? You’ll like him. He’s really bossy, just like me, and mostly always knows best, just like me.”

Nico smiled but then quickly s
uppressed it. He shrugged again. “Fine. That’s fine. Give me his number.” Nico handed me his phone.

I released a breath I wasn’t aware I’d been holding, feeling relief down to my bones as I programmed Quinn’s number into Nico’s cell. I couldn’t stop my large smile. “This is great. And you will not regret it. You should call him today or I can call him.”

“I’ll call him.”

“You promise? You’ll call him today? If you don’t call him today I’ll find out.”

“Yes. Yes, today.” He rolled his eyes, but I could tell he was enjoying my bossiness. “Do you worry about me?”

I didn’t want to lie
, but I didn’t want to tell the truth either, so I settled for a statement that applied to all of humanity; “I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“Even me?”

My response escaped before I had a chance to disarm it. “Especially you.”

His eyes lit, burned brighter. “Why?”

Curses!

“Because
. . .” My brain was failing me. I flailed, resorted to making a few weird scoffing and
tsking
noises, raised my hands and lowered them, then said something true but not the entirety of the truth; so, once again, avoiding. “Because I really like Angelica. She seems like a sweet girl and has already lost quite a lot in her short life. I wouldn’t like her to lose you too.”

“Hmm
. . .” His expression betrayed his skepticism. “She likes you too.”

“She does?”

“Yes. She does. Why wouldn’t she?”

“Kids usually don’t. I’m not generally great with kids.
My friend Fiona’s kids call me
That Strange Lady
.”

“What a coincidence, that’s what Angelica calls you too.”

I gave him my very best
I am not amused
face. He, of course, thought this was hilarious. His laughter eventually became infectious, and soon we were both laughing.

“
Funny, funny guy.”