Friends Without Benefits (Knitting in the City) (3 page)

“
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 inter
rupted 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, h
e 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
[1]
.”

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.”

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. Bo
tstein. 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; h
is 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 chalkboa
rd, 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 mut
ually 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.

N
o 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.

“Ok
ay,” 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.