As soon as I saw her trying to hide her body—from Nico—behind a pair of throw pillows, I knew something major was amiss. As I watched her interact with Nico, I realized she was drowning in a kerfuffle sea of self-imposed angst and neuroticism.

I’d never seen her so discombobulated, and I’d definitely never seen her make such an overt and violent attempt at modesty. She’d never been modest, not as long as I had known her.

We needed to talk.

“Nico. Mr. Manganiello.” I said. “He’s nice.”

“Yeah. He’s nice.” She sighed, appeared to be lost in a labyrinth of thoughts. Abruptly she asked, “When did you get back from Boston?”

“Just today, this morning actually. Nico called Quinn last night and made arrangements to meet us today, to arrange private security, and that’s when I suggested his family move into the second penthouse.” I walked to her phone, scrolled through the selection of boy band albums. I was stalling because I was trying to find a way to steer the conversation back to Nico. “Have you abandoned your plans with the Dr. Ken Miles?”

Dr. Ken Miles was the latest guy Elizabeth was fooling herself into sleeping with. She hadn’t slept with him yet, but this was her modus operandi ever three years or so. Since college, I’d watched as she forced herself to become interested in a guy, usually someone who was hot as Hades but lacked depth: a Gooch.

Predictably, she’d sleep with Mr. Random Gooch then lose interest. I came to understand that she only pursued men who were shallow Gooches because then her feelings would never grow beyond shallow.

But Nico was not shallow. And if Elizabeth had feelings for Nico, then she was probably freaking out.

“No, not really. Not yet. Maybe. I don’t know.” Her non-answer fueled my suspicion.

I waited for a moment, unsure how to proceed, then blurted, “Nico seems like a really nice person.”

She cleared her throat. I could feel her staring on me. “You already said that.”

“Yes. I just wanted to reiterate the fact that he is a really nice person.”

“And why do you want to reiterate that fact?”

I turned, met her eyes, and debated how much to say. I believed Nico when he said he loved her. I also, as I may have mentioned already, liked Nico. Elizabeth’s history would make it difficult for them to move beyond the hurdle of his depth of character and real feelings.

I’d been so preoccupied with Quinn and me and the wedding planning that I hadn’t even noticed the change in Elizabeth. She’d been there for me, without fail, since we met. She’d counseled me, guided me, given me advice, allowed me to talk through my weirdness and work through my issues. Yet, she’d never really needed the same from me in return.

I was determined help.

I finally settled on, “Because I’m ninety-seven percent certain he is in love with you.”

She continued staring at me, her anxiety clearly evident as she said, “Why ninety-seven percent?”

“A three percent confidence interval is standard.”

“Why would you think he’s in love with me?” Her tone was defensive, as though she felt guilty.

“You know what I’m talking about,” I said, wanting her to stop pretending that she didn’t know.

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. He’s the guy. He’s the guy from Iowa, Garrett’s best friend. He’s the one that you were friends with as kids, then hated, then didn’t hate, then lost your virginity to. I just met him this afternoon, and I, the queen of missing the obvious, couldn’t help but notice. He talked about you basically nonstop, Quinn found it irritating, but I thought it was charming. Also, he looks at you like he wants…well, like he wants.”

My tirade only served to make her breathless. “What did he say?” she asked, looking more alarmed with each passing second.

I thought about telling her that he flat-out admitted he was in love with her, but decided against it.

I wanted to help Elizabeth, not frighten her away from someone who so obviously cared about her and so obviously was worthy of her care in return—obvious even to me.

“He talks about you like you invented penicillin. Like you—like you’re an angel. It’s rather disconcerting, to be honest.”

She frowned; it was a very sad frown. “Because I’m so awful?”

“No. You’re not awful; what a ridiculous thing to say.” I’m sure I was scowling, and my annoyance was obvious. I was annoyed by her assumption, but I was also annoyed with myself. Instead of being there for Elizabeth, I’d been planning a wedding I didn’t even want.

Eventually I said, “It’s disconcerting because he’s so smitten, and you don’t—well, you know. You don’t have relationships, after what happened with Garrett.”

She covered her face with her hands like she couldn’t stand anyone looking at her. “Oh, Janie, I don’t know what to do.”

This behavior worried me. I walked to where she sat on the couch and sank down close to her, placing my hand on her back. “What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?”

“No, but I’ve really missed you.” She sniffled like she was going to cry.

My heart twisted in my chest at the sadness of her tone.

Thank goodness I’d come to my senses and thrown the bet to Quinn by depantsing him on the plane. Thank goodness I’d chosen to be happy now instead of postponing my happiness indefinitely. Thank goodness Katherine seemed content to take the wedding reins away from me, because I needed to focus on what was important.

Like living and working through real struggles with Quinn, not manufacturing stress.

Like forming lasting relationships with my in-laws.

Like enjoying giving and receiving support from my friends.

And, right this minute, Elizabeth needed my support.

“I’m here now,” I said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

And that’s when Elizabeth started to cry.

CHAPTER 20

Quinn was running on the treadmill when I got home. This was unusual as he normally ran outside when the weather permitted it. I gave him a questioning look, and he held up three fingers. This was his sign that he had three minutes left.

I blew him a kiss and was pleased to see the barely-there smile claim his features as a result.

Since we’d gone to the restaurant directly from the airport, I decided I would take advantage of the next three minutes by unpacking my luggage. However, when I moved into the bedroom I found the bustier, panty, and stocking set from the night of the (still-unknown charity) ball laid out on the bed with a note that said Wear Me.

I squinted at the note.

Struck by sudden inspiration, I crossed to my side table, withdrew a scrap of paper, wrote Wear Me on it, then affixed it to one of his ties. I still wanted to talk to him about his irrational display of manners—always ordering for me, opening doors without fail like I was an invalid, never allowing me to pull out my own seat—and felt like my clever table turning using his tie would be an excellent segue into the discussion.

I was just placing it on the bed next to my prescribed outfit when he walked into the room.

I turned, smiling to myself, but did a double take because he was shirtless and sweating, leaning against the door frame, watching me with his trademark quiet Quinn intensity.

My first thought was that I couldn’t wait for him to release oxytocin into my system. My second thought was that even the tie was too much clothing.

“Hey, Kitten,” he said.

I think I also said hey, but maybe not. I might have purred or grunted…or meowed.

Whatever I did put a small smile on his face. His eyes moved up and down my outfit, but I got the impression he wasn’t looking at my clothes.

“Did you have fun with Elizabeth?”

I nodded, the question and the topic a life preserver, allowing me to climb out of my lust fog. “Yes. I’m trying to be a good friend, and I’m looking forward to getting back to things that matter.”

“Instead of…?”

“Instead of planning a wedding neither of us wanted.” I gave him a wry smile. “You were right about that, and it’s important to me that you know that I know that you were right.”

His eyes squinted as he tried to follow the train of my thoughts. “Thank you…I think.”

“You’re welcome.” I gathered a breath as I smoothed my hands over my skirt, lifted my chin, and prepared to broach the subject of antiquated manners. “And, while we’re on the topic of things that matter, I want to talk to you about something.”

“The Parduccis,” he said.

I frowned. “The Parduccis?”

“Yeah, the private account I mentioned last night.” Quinn stepped away from the door and moved to where his laptop sat on the table in our room. While he crossed to his computer, he towel-dried sweat from his chest and neck.

I watched him and was mesmerized by his movements. This happened to me whenever he was shirtless, and also when he was pantsless, or really all the time regardless of the amount of clothing he had on. He mesmerized me witless, every time.

I began to mentally recite the numbers that followed the decimal point of pi in order to keep my head above Ida’s influence.