Friends Without Benefits (Knitting in the City #2)(23)
Author: Penny Reid

I heard Sandra laugh. I glanced in her direction. She was standing next to Rose. They were both grinning at us—like foxes. If I’d had any doubts up to this point I now knew this was a setup. I narrowed my eyes at her, hoped to convey my disapproval. She answered my scowl by lifting an eyebrow and widening her grin.

A silent communication passed between us in the span of a single second.

Me: I can’t believe you did this.

Her: Whatever. You know you like it. Mount that stallion.

Me: You shouldn’t have put him on the spot.

Her: Then you should just kiss him and get it over with—but use tongue or else you’ll have to do it again.

At this point everyone had stopped eating and talking and was staring at us. But these weren’t like the freakish stares of last night; these were people—well, many of them—who knew us our whole lives and loved Nico. I noticed his sister, Christine, appeared to be debating whether or not to intercede.

Gritting my teeth, I faced Nico again. He was looking at my plate of food, his jaw was ticking like a bomb.

Someone needed to do something.

I could do this. I could kiss Nico, on the mouth, to everyone’s satisfaction, and walk away unscathed. I could put on my big girl pants and just get it over with.

I swallowed, held my plate to the side, gained a step toward him, tilted my chin upward, and captured his mouth with mine. He jolted, and I knew he hadn’t been expecting the contact. His mouth was soft and full, his bottom lip in particular. I lifted my head a fraction of an inch, and pressed my lips more fully against his. Abruptly, as though he’d just woken up, he took control, and my eyes drifted shut.

Chapter 9

His hands lifted to my waist, pulled me firmly against him. Nico’s fingers gripped my body with a building force that echoed the pressure of our mouths. He tilted his head to one side and tasted my top lip. I think I went a little insane in that moment and everything—the restaurant and everyone in it—ceased to exist.

It was the kind of madness that peaks all at once. It crashes like a tidal wave, leaving no time for thought of the past or future or consequences. I couldn’t think of a single thing I’d rather do then kiss Nico Manganiello.

I wanted to kiss him for the rest of my life.

I wanted to sell all my worldly goods and spend all waking hours with his hands on my body, and his mouth on mine.

When I parted my lips in response to his teasing, answered his exploration with my own, nipped his—let’s just face it—incredibly juicy bottom lip, his tongue swept into my mouth. He was delicious. I tasted intense need, and I endeavored to press closer. The muscled torso I’d seen a dozen times on television was hot and hard against my stomach and chest. One of his hands fisted in my hair, and I stood on my tiptoes; the friction of the movement made us one or both of us moan.

And then I dropped my plate.

The loud crash of the dish hitting the floor made me jump. Both Nico and I turned toward the sound while an involuntary, strangled yelp erupted from my throat. I gripped his arms; then, when I realized what I’d done, covered my mouth with my hand.

I turned my wide eyes to Nico. He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the plate on the floor; his gaze was unfocused, his breathing heavy. One of his hands was still gripping my waist, the other had released my hair and rested on my mid-back.

“Well, that was one hell of a kiss.” Milo’s voice seemed to rouse Nico. He blinked at the floor then at me. His hands fell away; then he pulled one through his hair, leaving it adorably tousled and askew. He took a step backward.

But I didn’t want him to take a step backward. I wanted him to kiss me again. I wanted to wrap myself around him and hold him close and tousle his hair and the realization of this want scared the ever living crap out of me.

I gasped. My cheeks heated. I diverted my eyes to the broken plate and mess of manicotti on the floor. I knelt next to it and tried to clean it up with the paper napkin I’d also dropped.

Rose tugged at my elbow. “Oh, dear. Don’t worry about the plate.”

“I’ve made such a mess.” I tried to focus all my attention on cleaning as wild thoughts bounced around my brain.

I was bargaining with myself. A literal Angel and Devil perched on my shoulders and were hammering out a deal where they both got what they wanted. The Angel wanted to treat Nico well, with respect, keep his heart safe, not take advantage, not lead him on.

The Devil wanted to watch Nico unbutton my pants with his teeth.

“Let me help you.” Nico bent down to assist and my gaze flickered over him. He was watching me intently, his eyes a precarious mixture of hopeful wariness.

Two other sets of hands made quick work of the cleanup; I was about to volunteer to grab a wet towel from the kitchen, but someone was already there—one of Nico’s nephews—wiping up the lingering bits of tomato and cheese.

“I’ll just go wash my hands.” I muttered to no one in particular and made a dash around the circus of Manganiellos.

I was sweating and my hands were shaking and covered in mess, and I needed a minute; therefore, I felt justified in escaping to the women’s room at the back of the restaurant. Once inside the small space I walked to the sink, rinsed my hands, then leaned heavily against the countertop.

I studied my reflection momentarily; my image became blurry, and I ceased focusing on the mirror.

He was. . . disconcerting. His willingness to be vulnerable with me was unsettling; the openness of his emotions, simmering just beneath the surface. I couldn’t recall him ever being like that in the past.

Or, maybe, as a kid and as a teenager, I just saw what I expected. Maybe I never really looked at him. Maybe it was there, he was there all along, and I was just blind to it, to him. He, and our shared history, was suddenly something new.

The sound of the door opening yanked me back to the present. Nico slipped inside and slid the lock behind him; our eyes tangled in the bathroom mirror.

“Hey. . .” he said.

“Hey,” I said.

Staring commenced.

Unrequited love was typically my favorite kind of love. The nonreciprocal nature of it appealed to me in much the same way boy bands appealed to me; it was theoretical love because it was untested—tragic in its one-sidedness yet tragically inspiring.

But faced with Nico’s presumably real feelings, for me, forced me to reexamine my affinity for unrequited love.

His love—or, rather, my knowledge of it—hung like a winter coat around my shoulders, tight around my neck, made me feel heavy all over. I still couldn’t swallow. I kept attempting to swallow, but instead just half-swallowed.

Maybe I was coming down with something.

“I didn’t know that she was going to do that,” he said, breaking the silence.

“I know. I believe you,” I said.

Staring recommenced.

My eyes drifted to his Adam’s apple; I noted that he was trying to swallow and also seemed to be experiencing swallow fail.

Maybe we were both coming down with something.

“You kissed me,” he said.

I pressed my lips into a line and rolled them between my teeth to keep from licking them.

I had kissed him. I glanced at the counter. I’d kissed him, and I really, really liked it. And, I wanted to kiss him again, often. I turned, tossed my head to the side, and therefore my loose hair over my shoulder. Leaning against the countertop I crossed my arms and bravely met his gaze.

“Yes. I did,” I said.

His eyes moved over me, narrowed with palpable confused hopefulness. “Why did you do that?” Nico mimicked my stance—crossed his arms over his chest and braced his feet apart.

“Because we were standing under the mistletoe.”

He blinked, rocked backward on his feet. “No other reason?”

I considered lying. I considered telling the truth.

Lying would be easier, less messy, and not at all who I was anymore, at least not who I wanted to be. Telling the truth would likely cause one or both of us a measure of difficulty, ranging from awkward to painful.

But, hadn’t I spent the last ten years becoming a person who embraced confrontation instead of running from it? Hadn’t I passed advice to others, proffering the merits of problematic honesty over an easy path paved with avoidance and half-truths?

I wasn’t a hypocrite—well, everyone is a hypocrite, but I was trying hard to be less of one.

I made my mind up, and I made one more attempt at swallowing. I succeeded.

Bolstered by my swallow success, I lifted my chin. “And I kissed you because I wanted to.”

He blinked at me again, this time he rocked forward on his feet. “You wanted to?” I watched him try to swallow again, unsuccessfully. I made a mental note to check his lymph nodes. “Does this mean. . .” He sighed, glanced at the mural of Tuscany on the wall. “Did you think about what I said last night?”

I nodded. “Yes. I’ve thought about it. And I think you’re wrong.”

He stared at me. His eyebrows arched, suspended on his face. I witnessed the exact moment his expression changed from confusion to frustration. “Wrong? I’m wrong?”

“I think you just think that you’re in-in love with me.” I squeezed my eyes shut for a short moment, the words were difficult to say. “I think it’s misplaced and you’re confused and you think this way because you never got over your best friend’s death and I’m the closest thing to Garrett.”