But I wasn’t that stupid.

I couldn’t convince myself that Dr. Ken Miles was a suitable substitution for Nico any more than a Pinto was an adequate stand-in for a Ferrari. I wanted to be touched, kissed, held, caressed. And I wanted Nico, but I couldn’t use him in that way. I liked him too much.

So I flirted with Dr. Ken Miles.

“I guess it’s a good thing then that you and I are such good friends. Besides, the prank was meant for you and it was April Fool’s Day.” I leaned forward and batted my eyelashes in his general direction. Rebalancing my hormones was a top priority; I might have slathered on the flirt a little too thick.

Dr. Ken Miles cleared his throat and shifted his attention to the plastic milkshake cup in his hand. “I didn’t know the prank was meant for me.”

“How am I expected to contain myself around you on April Fool’s Day?” I ran my index finger down the length of his arm. I was bracing myself for one of his poor flirting attempts, but it didn’t really matter. I didn’t care if he was good at flirting.

“I thought you’d like to know that I stood up for you to Dr. Botstein.”

My eyes widened with genuine surprise. “You did?” Maybe Dr. Ken Miles was likeable after all.

He nodded proudly. “I did.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him that there was no way to definitively prove that it was you who planted the box of gloves.”

I shook my head, felt badly for Dr. Ken Miles. He wasn’t a bad guy. He was just boring.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Ken Miles. I admitted it to Dr. Botstein when he confronted me. But, thanks for trying to cover.”

“Oh.” He looked disappointed then suddenly aggravated. “Elizabeth, I think we need to talk.”

I sat up a little straighter. Watched his growing somberness through narrowed eyes. “Is there something wrong?”

“Yeah. There is, actually.” He glanced around the lounge then set his cup on the table; he leaned closer to me. “If it had been anyone else, anyone but you, I would have told Dr. Botstein that I didn’t think a hospital was an appropriate place to play pranks.” His jaw ticked before he continued. “As this is your third time acting so unprofessionally, I would have told him I thought you needed to be held accountable.”

“Okay.” I withdrew my hand from his arm, placed it back on my knee. “I guess, thank you for not saying that to Dr. Botstein.”

“This doesn’t change how I feel about you. In fact, I’d like very much for us to be more than friends, if you want to know the truth. But you keep behaving in immature and reckless ways—”

“Immature and reckless?” I could take a reprimand from Dr. Botstein, who I respected and admired, but I had difficulty accepting a lecture about maturity from Dull Dr. Ken Miles. “Now, wait a minute. I was playing a harmless prank on April Fool’s Day. It’s not like I was—”

“Switching a training video with a  p**n  tape?”

I didn’t respond. My aggravation was alert level red. Dr. Ken Miles had laughed when I pulled the  p**n o tape prank, and now he was using it as ammunition.

He breathed through his nose, his mouth clamped shut, his nostrils flaring. My eyes shifted to his flaring nostrils.

His flaring nostrils were just. . . aggravating.

In fact, everything about Dr. Ken Miles in that moment aggravated me. The leftover milkshake with a glob of gum floating on top, his prettiness, his lack of humor, his hall monitor goody goody attitude.

I shifted my weight to stand, and his hand reached out to still my movements. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving. I have work to do.”

“I just told you that I want to be more than friends, Elizabeth. I think I deserve a response.”

I scoff-snorted. “You also just told me that you think I’m immature and reckless. I think you’ll excuse me if I need some time to process this new information first.”

Dr. Ken Miles leaned forward, his voice lowering to a harsh whisper. “This is why I haven’t acted on my feelings, Elizabeth. I can’t be with someone who is incapable of behaving like an adult.”

“Says the guy who is always attempting a clandestine nose excavation.” I responded before I could stop myself. I knew it was childish to reference Dr. Ken Miles’s constant nose picking, but I was angry and reacting as such.

He blinked, flinched. “What?”

I rolled my eyes. “Nothing. Thanks for your honesty.” I forced a smile and nodded vigorously. “Mind if I go now?”

His eyes, cornflower blue, were wide with disbelief. He released my arm abruptly, sniffed, and glanced at his shoes. “Fine. Go.”

I immediately stood and walked out of the lounge, past the still dozing doctors on the couch, and blindly into the corridor.

Plan Hide the Salami with Dr. Ken Miles was officially on indefinite hold.

~*~

I was in a terrible mood, and Janie was still in Boston with Quinn.

Stupid Quinn.

Quinn the friend usurper.

Actually, I liked Quinn. He reminded me of me. And I knew he’d be great to my best friend. But that didn’t make the time she was gone any less difficult.

Usually, when either of us were feeling the funk, Janie and I would drink mojitos and watch movies based on comic books—her choice—or 1980s Jon Hughes’s movies—my choice.

Instead I went to bed early Sunday night, tossed and turned, and had two dichotomous types of dreams: disturbing dreams about Nico being in danger or frustratingly fantastic dreams about Nico en coitus.

The worst of the nightmares, although I couldn’t explain why, involved me running through a crowd trying to find him. Every time I thought I found Nico it turned out to be Dr. Ken Miles. I would turn away from him and continue my search just to find Dr. Ken Miles again. I experienced a high degree of inter-dream anger and despair.

I needed to contact Nico about his security firm. He needed to hire better guards. His lack of appropriate security was interrupting my sleep. Thoughts of him na**d were also interrupting my sleep, but there was nothing that could be done about that.

I woke up for my early morning shift feeling hung over. The worst kind of injustice is doing nothing to deserve a hangover and waking up feeling like you have a hangover.

Still yawning by the time I walked into the hospital, I noted that the ibuprofen I took for my headache seemed to be working. I allowed myself a moment of optimistic contemplation—Monday could only be an improvement over Sunday.

I was so distracted by my bad dreams and trying to figure out a way to get Nico’s security team replaced, as well as the unfairness of my undeserved hangover, that I didn’t notice the buzzing of my pager. It vibrated off the shelf of my locker while I was pulling on a freshly laundered lab coat over faded teal scrubs.

As I retrieved it from the floor I felt a twinge of disappointment; the day was already starting with a hectic bang, and my shift hadn’t technically started yet. I’d arrived to work early. I wanted to spend a few minutes drinking coffee and eating a doughnut. Instead, now abandoning my plan for ten minutes of peace, I gathered a deep breath and glanced at the message.

CRU rm 410 asap; VIP peds ready cg1605 cf iv

I stared at the message.

Oh shit.

Roughly translated, the message meant: please come to the Clinical Research Unit, room number 410 as soon as possible. The VIP pediatric patient is ready to enroll on clinical trial, protocol number 1605, cystic fibrosis infusion study.

I stared unseeingly at the empty contents of my locker. My mind was in a blank panic. A moment later the original message was followed by a second message consisting of just six exclamation points, as follows: !!!!!!

I was being paged to the Clinical Research Unit.

Nico had returned with his niece.

They’d decided to enroll on the study.

Chapter 12

The weight of dread heavy on my shoulders, I moved in slow motion to the clinic room. The thought of seeing Nico, knowing that all admiration in his beautiful green eyes would undoubtedly be replaced with disgust or pity or some combination of the two, filled me with despair.

Granted, I acknowledged that my reaction made no sense. I’d basked in Nico’s admiration for an extremely short period of time, less than twenty-four hours, a total of three encounters. But I couldn’t help misery any more than I could stop fantasizing about him.

Even if I’d been the type of person who believed falling in love more than once in a lifetime wasn’t a crazy stupid thing to do, Nico wasn’t interested anymore. He also wasn’t my type.

He was hot like lava and sexy like cake. Wait . . .Like lava cake. Yum.

He was annoyingly witty and intelligent.

He was thoughtful and kind to his family.

He was too likeable, too charismatic.

. . . okay, he was my type. Damn it.

But, I reminded myself, he was also the Nico Manganiello who made my childhood hell and—

I paused, actually stopped walking, and was struck by the complete lack of anger I felt toward him now. Yes, the memories still chaffed; yes, his actions years ago were still hurtful to think about.

However, Nico’s apology, my own mistakes and regrets, and relief from finally knowing the reason why I was harassed, all mixed together to produce a mysterious mystical forgiveness, as follows: