Soon our foursome was joined by more members of the swim team; Sandra was flirting with a local farmer while I was reacquainting myself with people I used to hate, but now couldn’t remember why. I was talking to Daniel—the class valedictorian, now a software engineer in Palo Alto with three kids and one more on the way—when I felt a warm hand close around my upper arm.

I turned toward the owner and found Nico standing next to me, studying me.

A hush fell over our small group and Nico’s attention drifted from me to the rest of the faces. All eyes were on him. Everyone was smiling expectantly, eagerly. No one said anything.

It was eerie. Like, now that Nico was there, he was expected to perform, provide witty conversation and entertainment.

Dance, monkey, dance.

“Hi everybody.”

“Hi Nico.” In unison.

“Is everyone having a good time?”

“Yes.” In unison.

I frowned at Sandra, looking for someone with which to share unspoken communication, but found her to be under the same spell as the rest of the group. My frown deepened.

“I was hoping someone could tell me how I got here.”

Crowd: Grin, grin, grin.

“I mean, one minute I’m in New York eating a hot dog and holding a brunette.” Then, as though speaking only to himself, “Or was that holding a hot dog and eating a brunette . . .”

Nico: Comedic pause.

Crowd: Chuckle, chuckle, chuckle.

Nico: Head shake.

“And the next minute,” He slid his arms around my waist, pulled my back to his chest. “I’m in Iowa holding a blonde, but I’m still hungry.”

His hands moved with familiarity, resting on my stomach. If he’d been anyone else I would have stepped out of the embrace. But, for some reason, he seemed to have all of us under some kind of hex or enchantment or sexy Italian voodoo mojo.

My brain told me it was the celebrity cloud. My heart told me it was just Nico being Nico.

“What I really want to know is . . .” He leaned close to my ear and glanced over my shoulder; I could tell he was looking down the front of my dress. “What happened to the hot dog?”

Crowd: Laugh, laugh, laugh.

It wasn’t so much what he said, it was how he said it. He possessed showmanship, swagger, confidence, and just the right shade of weirdly laudable chauvinism.

And I was a prop. I felt my face flame, and I tried to step forward, out of his arms.

“Whoa—you’re not going anywhere until you return my hot dog.”

“That’s what she said.” Sandra supplied, indicating her chin toward me, and the whole group roared with laughter.

I felt the reverberations of Nico’s laugh at my back and knew his intent before he turned me to face him. He didn’t look at me as he tucked me under his arm and led me away from the group. They all seemed satisfied with his little performance and happy to have basked in his witty shadow, even for a short time.

I clenched my jaw and willed my feet to stop.

Brain: Stop, feet.

Feet: . . . I like cookies.

My feet kept moving.

I was equal parts mortified, annoyed, and confused. Nico’s hold on me was not entirely related to the strong arm over my shoulders. Nonsensically, I knew I still felt guilty about my behavior as a sixteen year old and, due to years and mountains of remorse, I felt indebted to him. I felt I owed him.

I hated it.

So I allowed myself to be led past his table to the dance floor just as the first notes of “True” by Spandau Ballet drifted out of the speakers. I struggled against an eye roll.

Slow dancing in my high school gym with the most popular guy in school, I was suddenly the protagonist in a 1980s Jon Hughes movie.

Chapter 6

Nico placed my hands behind his neck and skimmed his long fingers down my bare arms to my waist, sending shivers and goose bumps racing over my skin. He pressed my body to his tall, lean form, and we swayed to the music.

I swallowed.

He smiled at me. It was an irresponsible, dreamy, devastating sex on a stick smile.

I swallowed again.

Nico was a good dancer. I never danced with him while we were in school, but I remembered watching him dance with other girls at homecoming or our high school prom. He was one of those guys whose rhythm and corresponding movements fused effortlessly with the music, like the music took its cue from him and not the other way around.

I was at a loss. Part of me—the part that endured a half-decade of merciless teasing—wanted to glance around the room and feign boredom. Another part of me—the part that was held every night for four months—wanted him to hold me close, stroke my back, tell me I was forgiven for treating him so shamefully.

Both parts were trapped in the quicksand of his gaze and web of his body. He seemed content to simply look at me. We traded stares for several long moments. I felt hot.

One of us needed to say something, and I realized it wasn’t going to be him. I tried to think of something to talk about, but felt every topic was a minefield of either innuendo or historical baggage. I finally settled on something most people would want to know.

I cleared my throat before I said, “So, your show.”

He blinked at me, almost as though my voice startled him, then his lips twitched. “My show.”

I cleared my throat again. “Well . . . How is your show?”

“I thought you didn’t watch it.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why do you want to talk about it?” His twitching lips turned into a small, challenging smile.

“I don’t watch it, but I know of it.” I cleared my throat for a third time. “It’s hard not to know of it, what with all the stripping of celebrities and objectifying of women.”

His grin grew rueful. “So, you haven’t watched, but you’re ready to judge it?” He nodded. “That makes sense.”

“Aren’t you even a little ashamed?”

“There is nothing wrong with the show.” His hand slid from my side to the center of my back as though to hold me in place.

“You don’t think there is anything wrong with objectifying women?”

“I don’t objectify women.”

“Your show does.”

“I disagree,” he said.

“So—bikini models wrestling each other in tubs of Jell-O . . .?” I lifted my eyebrows, waited for him to concede. “What is the definition of female objectification then?”

“There is nothing wrong with men looking at or appreciating a beautiful woman.” His eyes swept over me. I ignored the implication and successfully suppressed the rising heat that accompanied it.

“There is. There is when being looked at is a woman’s sole purpose.”

“You mean like art?”

I scoff-snorted. “You’re comparing your show to art?”

“Yes . . . and no. The women on my show are definitely comparable to art. I admit there is a wrong way and a right way to do things. I feel like my show does things the right way.”

“It must be hard for you to work in an industry where there is so much confusion about what is  p**n  and what is art.” I smiled sweetly at him.

“Yes, well—” An edge was discernible in his voice which told me he was not pleased with my comparison, “—it must be hard for you to work in an industry when the fundamentals are based on Nazi research, leaches, and bleeding people.”

I stiffened and stumbled, but he countered my misstep flawlessly and held me tighter. His eyes glowed.

It felt just like old times. We were teenagers again engaging in a game of spitefulness. I hated it.

“You’re right.” I deadpanned, “It really is a worthless, ignoble profession.”

“No.” His hand resettled on my back, and he lifted his chin; his soulful eyes focused on me, intent and earnest. “It’s a very noble profession. It suits you well.”

My blush of embarrassment was annoying and immediate. I couldn’t respond to his unexpected compliment with a cutting remark so I just stared at him. We traded stares again for several long moments. I felt hot—once again—and an irrepressible urge to say something. It needed to be nice, damn it.

I didn’t like that he had the last word and it was a nice last word and he was—therefore—kinder, more forgiving, and more mature than I was. I wrinkled my nose at the ridiculous thought, but was powerless against it.

I wanted to be the nice one.

I wanted to show him that I was just as ambivalent to him and our past together as he seemed to be. I was a grown up. I was mature. I had on my big girl fancy panties. I could be the better person, even if it killed me.

I bit my tongue to stall my words because I wasn’t sure what they would be. I only knew they would be honest and nice and, honestly, that combination scared me. I also knew whatever came out would be an attempt at nice-one-upmanship which meant I would likely compliment—

“You are very funny.”

Nico frowned, flinched slightly. His hand loosened on my back. “I wasn’t being funny, I was being serious.”

I nodded. “Oh, I know. I believe you—what you said. It was very nice. Thank you.” I cleared my throat for the eight thousandth time. I really was going to have to get something to drink, like maybe vodka. “And I meant what I said. You are very funny. You’re a funny . . . person.”