Mild amusement abruptly transformed into somber concern; he frowned, tensed, his posture less relaxed. “Is there something we should know about the study? Is it dangerous? Do you think we made the wrong decision?”

“No. Nothing like that. I just want to make sure you’re making the decision for the right reasons. You shouldn’t feel pressured or swayed by any factor other than what you think is right for Angelica.”

He nodded solemnly; “Dr. Botstein didn’t try to sway us one way or the other. He just laid out the facts. We all talked about it this last weekend.”

“Who is we all?”

“Everyone. Well, everyone you saw on Saturday. It was a family decision. We just want Angelica to get better. You saw how she was as the restaurant, sitting on Christine’s lap watching all the other cousins play. She’s not—” He glanced at the ceiling. “I just want things to be better for her.”

I studied him and my chest hurt a little. He appeared every inch like a tortured parent, and his vulnerability was heart breaking. A need to protect him welled up within me. I didn’t like seeing him so upset, feeling helpless.

“Why are you here?” I posed the question; it seemed unfair that he should be shouldering this burden for his family.

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you here instead of your sister Christine or your oldest brother Robert? How can you take so much time off from your show? From your life in New York?”

He considered me for a moment, his posture relaxed once again as he leaned against the wall; although the tightness in his features indicated that the topic was difficult for him to discuss; “Tina and I were close and I’m Angelica’s Godfather. She left my mom custody but I think Angelica needs a male role model too, a father figure.”

“But Robert, Manny, they all live in town and already have kids, know how to be a father. Wouldn’t it make more sense for them to be here?”

“No.” The corners of his mouth tugged downward, and the muscles at his temples ticked. Nico’s typical charismatic energy felt muted, restrained, and he looked like such a grownup. I was struck by how adult-like he seemed—responsible, trustworthy, thoughtful, careful; everything about him screamed, “I have my shit together.”

“But you’re missing so much work and that can’t be good for your career not to mention the upheaval to your personal life.”

“Those things don’t matter.”

“But the burden—”

“I love her, Elizabeth. I want to be here. She is not a burden, she is my family and I love her.” The rising heat behind his words and flashing of his eyes demanded that I drop my questioning.

My gaze slid to the infusion chair in the corner, mostly to avoid his. “Okay,” I sighed, feeling repentant for pushing him, but still frustrated by my helplessness to ease his burden. “I’m just trying to understand you better.”

“Why?”

A smile pulled at my mouth, and I glanced at him through my lashes. “I guess because I feel like I don’t know you anymore and I’m curious.”

His expression mimicked mine—albeit with a smaller, somewhat sad smile—and his gaze moved slowly over my features. “Elizabeth, I don’t think you’ve ever known me. Not really.”

His words were soft, almost resigned, absent of any residual frustration from my meddling. And they were doing things to me—the sound of his voice more so than the actual words—things that made me feel both warm and adrift.

“That’s completely preposterous.”

His mouth hooked higher. “You’re blinded by stubbornness.”

“You’re just jealous that I’m always right.”

“Not always.”

“Mostly always.”

“There is no such thing as mostly always. It’s either always or not always,” he said.

“Well, you mostly always used to say things that made me blind with rage.”

“And now?”

“And now . . .” I allowed myself a brief moment to study him. His gaze was wary but betrayed interest. “And now I feel like I’m mostly always the one saying the wrong thing.”

He narrowed his eyes, searched my gaze, before he whispered, “Not always.”

We engaged in another staring contest. The frequency of our staring contests was verging on ridiculous. But I couldn’t help it. I liked staring at him, and I liked it when he stared at me. His eyes caused a delicious pleasure-pain to spike in my chest. I could see myself becoming addicted to the feeling.

This thought, paired with an igniting heat behind his eyes, stirred me from my Nico-trance. We’d drifted closer to each other without me realizing.

I stiffened, took a step back, and blurted, “The video.”

His brow dipped into a V momentarily, as though both confused by the sound and meaning of my words. But then, as understanding arrested his features, a slow grin claimed his mouth. “Ah, yes.” He also shifted a step backward and had the decency to appear contrite. “The video.”

I tucked loosened strands of hair behind my ears then clasped my hands in front of me; residual tinglings and longings and stars still buzzing around my head. I tried to mentally swat them away and focus; “So. The video. On YouTube. Of me. And you. Where I said that thing.”

He nodded again. “Yes. I’m aware. I was there.”

“Yes, of course. And I realize this is my fault. No one forced me to hop on that chair and yell crazy things at the top of my lungs.” I took a faltering step toward him. “And I know I have absolutely no right to ask you for help but, is there—do you think there is anything you can do to make these people back off?”

“Are people bothering you?”

“A bit.”

“What happened? Did someone approach you?” He advanced a half-step, and we were again close enough to touch.

“Not really.”

“Not really? What does that mean?”

“Well there was a photographer taking pictures of me yesterday while I was eating lunch.”

“Damn.”

“How did they find my phone number so fast? And my email account is completely full. Half the messages are from newspapers and bloggers I’ve never heard of and the other half are from crazy women who want to. . .” I grimaced and shoved my hands in my lab coat. “Well, let’s just say they wish their child were yours.”

He gave me a mirthless smile. “Just so you know, I really appreciate—really appreciate—what you did. You’re right. You didn’t have to jump on that chair. But you’re also wrong, you do have every right to ask for my help.”

“Are you sure about that?” I didn’t agree with him. I truly felt I had no right. “Because, I wouldn’t blame you if you gave me the middle-finger salute and walked out of here.”

Nico wrinkled his nose. “Why would you say that? Why would you even think that?”

“Because . . .” I searched his eyes, hoped to convey, without actually admitting, the internal frustration and the dissidence I’d been living with since he’d appeared last week; actually, perhaps even longer than that. “Because I saw a segment on Showbiz Weekly this weekend and they were crucifying you over what I yelled at our reunion, about you and me having a child. If I’ve caused you any problems, I can’t tell you how—”

Nico waved away my concern. “Are you kidding? I have fake baby drama all the time. Every month there is a blog or trashy newspaper claiming that I’ve left some poor woman abandoned with eight kids, my very own octomom. Don’t worry about it.”

I wrestled with my guilt then finally blurted, “I haven’t been very nice to you.”

His expression softened. “Elizabeth, in your own misguided, crazy, PMSing-woman way, I think you’ve been trying to be nice.”

My mouth fell open. “Hey!”

“You’re just not very good at being nice. It’s not a strength of yours.”

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“You should work on it. You should compliment me more, tell me I look pretty.”

I hit him on the shoulder even as I laughed. “You’re an idiot.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

I stopped laughing. I couldn’t look away from his eyes—and, believe me, I tried. I semi-swallowed. “You can’t do that.”

“What?” His tone was soft, like a stupid caress.

“You can’t say things like that.” My hand waved through the air as I indicated to his general direction. “If we’re still going to be friends.” Realizing what I just said, what I’d implied—that I still wanted to be friends—my face and neck warmed with embarrassment but, thankfully, not a full-fledged blush. “That is, if you still want to be friends.”

“Did I say I wanted to be friends?” He assumed an expression of mock thoughtfulness, eye-twinkle alert level red. “When did I say that?”

My heart fluttered, felt as though he’d yanked it toward him. “Yes. . .” I cleared my throat, tried to subdue my silly heart. “It was last week. I believe you said: I want to be friends, just friends.”