Friends Without Benefits

A long moment passed. Then he laughed lightly, his reply both sarcastic and defeated. “I guess nothing.”

I finally found the courage to lift my gaze to his, but he wasn’t watching me anymore. He was staring at the floor. His jaw ticked like a bomb.

“Well, now. That’s done.” His tone changed, became more The Face-like and less Nico-like; he glanced around the room, as though searching for something. He patted his pockets, scratched the back of his neck, and gained another step away from me. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go find Shelly Martin and get to work on plowing that field.”

He turned away from me, the sexual innuendo a blatant defense mechanism. He walked to the window.

I wanted to do something, but was truly paralyzed. He had one foot over the ledge and onto the roof before I stumbled, both figuratively and literally, toward him, “What—what are you doing? You don’t need to use the window. Why are you leaving out of the window? You’ll break your neck, would you please use the door—?”

He held his hands up and slipped out of sight, moving with fluid grace, jogging the length of the roof. I’d just reached the opening when he swung on to the largest branch of the oak tree. I held my breath as he picked his way down then landed like a cat on his feet.

I wanted to call to him, but didn’t know what to say.

So, I didn’t.

Instead I watched him walk away.

Chapter 8

Sandra was taking her time getting out of the car. She had the passenger-side mirror down, running her pinky finger along her bottom lip to smooth lipstick. I sat next to her with the driver-side door open; one foot was in the car, one foot was on the pavement. I used the opportunity to stare at the red brick building in front of us that held Manganiello’s Italian Family restaurant.

Nico was inside that building, and I had no plan.

I didn’t consider myself a control freak, but I always liked to be armed with a plan, especially when facing a boy—no, a man—who’d just declared his love for me the night before. And not only was it love, it was a lifetime of unrequited love.

“Hey—Elizabeth? Are you ready?”

My lashes fluttered; I was yanked from my contemplations. I nodded. “Yep. Guess we should get inside.”

I made no move to exit the car.

My father and I dined at Manganiello’s at least three times a week when I was growing up; it was the only time either of us ate a hot meal (as long microwaved leftovers aren’t counted), and the restaurant was one of my most favorite places on earth.

Sandra was watching me. I could feel her hesitate, study me. “Is there anything wrong?”

Weary was how I felt as I looked at the building now. Weary and worried. The big deucey Ws.

My heart raced at the thought of seeing him, of seeing Nico; it was pounding so hard I could feel the pulse and throb of blood rushing through my veins in the palms of my hands and at the back of my neck.

I shook my head. “Nope.”

That was a lie. Everything was wrong. Niccolò Manganiello was in love with me—or thought he was. I couldn’t fathom the concept of his proffered feelings, failed to comprehend how Nico could believe that he’d loved me all along. Reality tilted on its axis and everything in the world was now a different color. All of our previous interactions, all of his teasing, everything that made me avoid him while we were growing up required reassessment.

I had so many questions. The first of which was: how could he spend his childhood being so mean and spiteful to a girl he supposedly loved? How could he spend years goading me, needling me, bullying me if he cared about me?

“Is this about your outburst at the reunion last night? Are you embarrassed?” Shrink Sandra said.

I shook my head. “Nope.”

I wasn’t embarrassed about standing on a chair and yelling THE CHILD IS YOURS. I hadn’t even been embarrassed when I did it last night.

I was embarrassed about how I’d behaved when he told me he loved me. His confession of love reignited the guilt surrounding my abandoning him after we slept together and how I’d treated him after, how I’d basically cut him out of my life.

His confession last night further served to intensify the guilt. I didn’t know it at the time, but when I slept with Nico, when I gave him my V-card, he supposedly thought he was in love with me. If I’d known then, if I’d had any idea. . .

I shifted in my seat then sighed, narrowed my eyes at the red brick.

I didn’t want to see him. Well, I was pretty sure I didn’t want to see him. And I was certain we’d already spent more than enough time together over the last fourteen hours. Well, more or less enough time. I was planning to absolutely ignore him once we walked inside the restaurant. Well, absolutely ignore in the general sense.

Gah! Make up your mind.

I administered a mental kick to my backside and suppressed a growl, not wanting to raise additional suspicion.

“What did you and Nico talk about when you disappeared?” Shrink Sandra said.

“Stuff and things.” I shrugged. I didn’t want to talk to Shrink Sandra. I needed a friend, not a shrink. I needed to talk to Janie. But Janie was in Boston climbing all over her fiancé Quinn, and I was in Iowa avoiding confrontation.

Maybe I do need a shrink.

“He told me he has a stalker.”

Sandra flinched, opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. “He has a stalker?”

I nodded.

“Is he okay? Does he have security?”

I nodded again, but said, “His security sucks.”

“Obviously. Last night he was nearly mangled. I hope he plans to do something about that.”

“I’m going to try to talk to him about it today. Maybe. . .” I tapped my fingers on my thigh. “Maybe I can talk to Quinn, get Nico to switch security firms.”

Sandra sighed. “Sounds like a plan. Okay then, let’s go.”

I bit the inside of my bottom cheek for courage and led the way to the front entrance, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans.

As soon as I opened the door to the restaurant the smell of divinity enveloped me.

It was the restaurant that smelled like divinity; meaning, it smelled like what I imagined heaven would smell like: garlic, basil, and fresh baked bread. The smell was one I associated with my childhood. My nose was on sensory overload and I was forced to blink against the darkness when we stepped inside.

I heard Sandra’s immediate gasp then whispered—almost a moan—exclamation, “What is that heavenly smell? . . . and why is it so dark in here? I can’t see a thing.”

Before I could respond a booming voice swallowed all other sound in the room. “Because that’s what everyone wants to do on their day off, go to the place where they work and cook for fifty people. Yes—this makes complete sense.”

I recognized the voice as Nico’s oldest brother, Robert. I blinked again. The room was finally coming into focus, and I was in a time warp. Navy vinyl benches, gold carpet, silk flower arrangements that were just a little too big for the size of the dark wood tables, the jukebox that played only the Rat Pack; Frank Sinatra was currently crooning about his funny valentine.

I squinted, looked for and found a fresh ball of mistletoe tied just above the archway between the two dining rooms.

I hadn’t been to the restaurant in years, but everything was the same. I half expected an eight-year-old Nico to rush out and take us to our table; or, a sixteen-year-old Nico to ignore me in favor of chatting politely with my dad, only to pull my chair out too far when we got to the table ensuring I fell to the floor, landing on my ass.

Robert’s voice, still booming, cracked through my reflections. He exited the swinging galley door that led from the kitchen to the dining room.

“Because, if I were a secretary and my youngest brother came to town, I’d invite the entire family to the office, make them coffee, then clean up after they leave. Yay. Sign me up.”

“Robert.” Rose’s warning was sharp and, I noticed, immediately effective.

Neither son nor mother had noticed us yet. I could hear sounds of children and adults, pots banging and water running, emanating from the kitchen.

Rose appeared to be absorbed in reprimanding her tall son. “You don’t see your brother for three weeks and this is how you behave? Shame on you, Robert Vincenzo Manganiello. And I want us all to sit in the dining room, not back in the kitchen.”

“What? Why sit in the dining room? There is more than enough room at the kitchen table.”

“Because I want to do something nice for your brother, that’s why. And I can’t arrange it if we’re all back in the kitchen.” She reached up and pinched his chin. “Don’t question your mother.”

His big shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. “Fine, fine. I’ll go finish the manicotti.”

Sandra bumped her shoulder against mine and leaned into my ear. “Manicotti for breakfast?”

I nodded and shrugged. I couldn’t form an opinion about having manicotti for breakfast in my present state of panicked planlessness. I couldn’t even manage a full swallow, and I was pretty sure my eyes weren’t blinking in unison—the right one was on a split second time delay giving me temporary dystonia of the face.

Either Sandra’s question or my awkward movements alerted Rose to our presence. She glanced over, her smile was immediate; her eyes were large and excited, as though seeing something delicious.