“Reunion?”

“Uhhh. . .” I cringed inwardly and outwardly and tried to stall by tucking loose strands of hair behind my ears; “You know, the high school reunion. It’s been ten years.”

Rose opened her mouth in understanding, but no sound came out. She closed it. Opened it. Closed it. Then said, “Nico didn’t say anything.”

I shrugged. “He’s probably not going.”

“Why wouldn’t he go? He should go.”

I cringed again. There were some very good reasons why Nico shouldn’t go, the most glaring of which was that he didn’t actually graduate high school. The other obvious reason was: why would he?

He was a famous—albeit crude—and successful stand-up comedian with his own show. Why would he want to go to a high school reunion in Iowa?

I glanced at the door again.

Seeing Nico had been difficult. A great deal more difficult than I’d anticipated.

Yes, he was different than before—older, bigger, famous—yet he was still fundamentally the same. He was still the same boy who branded me with the horrid nickname Skinny Finney when I was ten. He was still the same boy who broke every heart in high school and always somehow found the time to make me miserable.

But then, he was still the same boy who held my hand at Garrett’s funeral. He was still the same boy who climbed into my window night after night the summer after Garrett’s death. And I still didn’t understand him.

“He’s not usually like that—with other people. He’s not usually so. . . so abrupt.”

Again she caught me staring at the door. “What’s he usually like?”

“Well, you know, like. . .” She visibly swallowed. She was stroking Angelica’s hair; “He’s always trying to make people laugh. But he can be intense with some people.”

My mouth twisted to the side, and I offered good-naturedly, “Maybe I just have that effect on people.”

She glanced at me and lifted a single eyebrow. “Conosco i miei polli[1].”

I gave her a small smile. Growing up, Rose had a habit of responding to me in Italian at random intervals. I waited for her to translate, but, when she did, I had the impression that the Italian did not match the English.

“Not people, just Nico.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t take it personally.” I nodded my head to indicate Angelica. “I’m sure this is stressful for him.”

“It is. . .” Rose began, stopped, her eyes moved over my face. “It is hard on him. But you still might want to take it personally. You know—” Then the fox smile returned. “—just in case.”

Chapter 2

Must. Focus. On. Dr. Botstein.

“. . . third time we’ve had to have this conversation, Dr. Finney, and I do not know how much clearer I can be about the severity of this situation. . .”

Must. Not. Think. About. Nico.

“. . . can’t prove it was you, but switching the colonoscopy training with a  p**n  tape was extremely unprofessional . . .”

Must. Not. Think. About. Nico’s. Face.

“. . . seriously considering a formal reprimand for misconduct. And, honestly, that would be a shame, a waste of your talent and a disservice to the hospital . . .”

Must. Not. Think. About. Nico’s. Exasperating. Hands.

“. . . believe in your abilities, your skill with diagnostics, your passion for your patients. This has to be the last time. I’m warning you . . .”

Must. Not. Think. About. Nico’s. Maddening. Voice.

“. . . if I get the slightest indication that you’re planning any more of these pranks then, despite my personal feelings about the matter, I will be forced to request . . .”

Must. Not. Think. About. Nico’s. Infuriating. Body.

“Have I made myself clear?”

Must. Appear. To. Be. Contrite.

“Yes, sir.” I nodded once.

Dr. Botstein exhaled through his nose in a way that reminded me of a horse. I had to bite the inside of my cheek.

Must. Not. Compare. Dr. Botstein. To. A. Horse.

He shook his head, his voice abruptly and unexpectedly adopting a softer, paternal tone. “I don’t understand why you do it, Elizabeth. Your attitude mystifies me. I’ve never seen someone—with so much talent, who works so hard, who is so well respected and admired by staff and faculty—just want to throw it away like you seem to.”

All at once I didn’t have to appear contrite, because I felt contrite, ashamed. My gaze dropped to the floor. “I’m sorry.”

He waited until I met his glare again; his eyes searched mine. Abruptly, he leaned back in his desk chair and flicked his wrist, dismissing me with an impatient, irritated wave. “Leave.”

I didn’t wait to be told twice and closed the door to Dr. Botstein’s office as softly as I could. Once safely in the hall I closed my eyes and released a frustrated yet quiet growl. I couldn’t understand how Dr. Botstein ended up with the exploding latex gloves.

But, if I were honest with myself, the other reason for my frustration was that Nico didn’t come back to the clinic room before I left. I was paged and had to leave Angelica and Rose before he returned. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye, and it was likely the last time I’d see him in person. I was perturbed.

Furthermore, I couldn’t stop thinking about Nico Manganiello and his beautiful face, voice, and body. And his eyes. And his lips. And his—

“How’d your meeting with your mentor go?” A voice that resembled nails on a chalkboard, only worse, sounded from my left. I contemplated pretending that I didn’t hear her. However, almost immediately, I dismissed the idea. She was the type to pick and nitpick and prod until noticed.

“Hello, Meg.”

“Hello, Elizabeth.”

Meg was odious; nevertheless, we had a few things in common. Like me, she was younger than most second year residents. Also like me, she was fumbling through the concept of becoming a responsible adult at the age of twenty-six. Again—like me—she was trying to find her way outside the comfortable and safe confines of academia. Additionally, like me, she was medium height, had long, golden blonde hair and blue eyes.

Otherwise we were polar opposites in just about every regard.

Where she was polished and stylish, I was messy. Where she was meticulous with every blonde tendril and perfectly plucked eyebrow, I was haphazard and messy. Where she embraced and wielded her inner femme fetal with practiced proficiency—batting eyelashes and casting about comehither mojo—I just threw it all out there, wore a slutty dress, and was messy.

Putting it in Star Trek Voyager terms, I was the B’Elana Torres to her Seven of Nine.

I waited for a moment then opened just one eye. “Are you still here? No kittens to drown? Children to frighten? Can’t locate that eye of newt you need?”

“Ha ha, very funny, Dr. Finney. One would think you’d be a bit more repentant after getting your ass chewed out.”

I opened my other eye then proceeded to squint at her. “What do you know about that?”

Her smile was wicked, as usual, and I knew. In that moment I knew—Megalomaniac-Meg had been the one to rat me out.

I breathed through my nose in a way that reminded me of a horse. “How did you know?”

“I saw you take the box of gloves into the room, it’s April Fool’s day, the clinic room was assigned to Dr. Ken Miles. Honestly, Elizabeth, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out you were planning a prank.”

“What did you do?”

She shrugged. “I switched Dr. Botstein’s clinic room assignment with Ken’s.”

I closed my eyes again, my head falling to the wall behind me. “Go away.”

Dr. Ken Miles, my intended April Fool’s Day victim, and I had been flirting for two years. He was very bad at it. His attempts usually ended with me flinching. He also had the habit of picking his nose when he was fairly certain no one was watching. He also drank coffee with a lot of cream and sugar or combined with ice-cream.

None of these were deal breakers, because I didn’t want to date the guy. I wanted to hit that. Actually, I just wanted to hit something and soon.

I’d recently made up my mind and committed an unrepentant HIPAA violation when I scanned his last physical. He was disease free and had healthy cardiac and pulmonary systems. We would have a symbiotic and mutually beneficial relationship. It would suit me quite well.

“Oh, don’t be a poor sport. You wanted to play an April Fool’s Day joke on Ken—and, believe me, I completely get that—but I just couldn’t pass up a chance to make your life uncomfortable.”

“Why are you here?” I covered my face with my hands, rubbed my eyes. I decided my original plan of ignoring her held merit.

“I’m here because . . .” I heard her shuffle her feet, clear her throat. Finally, she continued, “So, I’m starting my research rounds next week.”

I remained motionless, but opened my eyes; I didn’t want to miss a moment of her discomfort.

She huffed. “I was told that a VIP patient came in today for the infusion study and that you met with them? Some kind of celebrity? Is this true?”

I shrugged noncommittally.

“Damn it, Elizabeth, will you just tell me who it is?”