“In my fragile state you should do whatever I want.”

“What? What fragile state?”

“Quitting smoking.” He threw the T-shirt over his shoulder then gripped my waist with his large hands, his thumbs dancing over the skin on either side of my belly button. “The pants are okay, I suppose, as long as they’re temporary. You should wear a different shirt though.”

“You quit six months ago and what is wrong with that shirt?”

“Wear something that shows off your great body. Except for the reunion and that one time I walked in on you dancing around in your underwear, you’re always wearing clothes that are too big.” He stepped into my space and dipped his lips to my neck, whispered just under my ear, “I want to see you.”

“You’re such a guy.” I wanted the words to sound annoyed, but instead they sounded breathless.

“I know, right?” I could feel his smug smile against my skin. He licked my ear causing me to bunch my shoulders reflexively. “Wear something tight, that’s easy for me to take off.”

“Ah, Nico . . . You need to stop.” His light touch trailed just under the band of my pants; I closed my eyes, and my arms slipped around his neck, pressed him closer, chest to chest. “I don’t want to be late.”

He whisper-cussed against my shoulder; his hands grabbed the waist of my pants like he was going to tear them off, but then he bit me and stepped back. He held his hands out like he surrendered and walked backward to the bed.

“Okay, yes. Let’s go. But then, after.” He pointed a finger in my direction, glared at me “You’re staying with me tonight.” I shrugged my assent, but he continued as though I’d argued. “It makes sense. You’ll be up there already for the 6:00 a.m. infusion; then you can just come back to bed after. I’ll even let you bring some baggy clothes to change into . . .”

I’d already started packing my essentials for work the next day, pulled on the lace bra and a suitably tight tank top. He trailed after me, to my closet, to my bathroom, arguing with no one, stating his case. I was ready to go in less than five minutes.

I faced him which caused him to stop short. “Okay. You talked me into it. I’m heading up with my stuff. I’ll see you in a minute.”

He blinked at me, delighted surprise drew his features in youthful, boyish lines. “Oh . . .” He grinned. “Did I just win our first fight?”

I nodded and resisted the urge to pat him on the head; but I couldn’t stop the impulse to kiss him on the cheek. “You certainly did. You really showed me, put me in my place and all that.”

I left him standing na**d in my bedroom.

~*~

Nico wandered in just as I was finishing Angelica’s infusion; Rose was in the kitchen brewing tea.

Our eyes met, tangled, twisted, entwined, knotted into something that felt unbreakable. He winked at me, mouthed the words I love you, and my cheeks—the traitors!—flushed with pleasure. This made him grin wickedly.

He was such a guy.

And I suddenly found myself reacting like such a girl.

I rolled my eyes—at him, at myself—even as my stomach fluttered with giant butterflies. I turned my attention back to my almost slumbering patient, tried through force of will to banish the remainder of my blush.

I found him fifteen minutes later, after Angelica was kissed and tucked safely back in bed. He was in his bedroom and had set out a banquet of fruit, cheese, and crackers on the bed. I noted that he was in a state of near undress, wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs. Apparently he was more comfortable nearly na**d than he was clothed.

He looked . . . editable.

My stomach rumbled quite loudly. I pressed my hand to it.

Either the noise of my stomach rumbling or some sixth sense had him glancing over his shoulder to where I hovered in the doorway. He’d just taken a large bite of food and therefore motioned with his hand for me to enter. I dropped my bag at the entrance to his room and shut the door.

I was nervous.

Why am I nervous?

Nico wiped his mouth with a napkin and crossed to where I hovered.

“Are you already finished?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to go tuck her in.”

“I already did. If you go in there you’ll just wake her up.”

Nico nodded somewhat reluctantly; his eyes dropped to the floor. I studied his eyebrows and momentarily wrinkled forehead. A question meandered into my brain, and before I could examine it for merit I asked it.

“Are you planning on adopting Angelica?”

Nico’s gaze flickered to mine, his expression unreadable. He didn’t immediately answer. Instead he reached for my hand and held it in both of his, traced my finger tips with his.

Finally he said, “I’ve thought about it. I want to.” His gaze moved from my hand to my eyes. “But she can’t live in a city like New York because of air quality. In Iowa she’s got the whole family, her cousins, and I visit whenever I can. Also, I can’t take her from my mom. She needs a mother.”

At his last sentence, my insides—specifically in area of my ovaries—fluttered a bit. The sensation took me completely by surprise; therefore, when his assessing gaze moved over my features I likely looked a little thunderstruck.

After a long moment he sighed. “Let’s go eat.”

I was tugged toward the bed buffet. He’d already made me a plate, set out silverware, and poured a glass of red wine. I sat across from him, careful not to jostle the bed too much.

“This looks really good.” My stomach rumbled again, and I gave in to the startling hunger by shoving grapes and cheese into my mouth.

I was only peripherally aware that he was watching me instead of eating. After a drawn out moment he said, “Do you want kids?”

My fork paused just in front of my mouth, mid-shovel, and I blinked at him. “I . . . I uh . . .”

He was watching me intently, his face and gaze focused. I noted that his chest wasn’t moving. He was sitting remarkably still as though he were holding his breath.

Do I want kids?

I placed my fork on the plate then reached for the wine and took a big gulp.

Do I want kids?

The answer was no. I didn’t want kids. They were time consuming and emotion consuming and sticky and required constant maintenance. They were little disease vectors, coughing and picking their nose and wiping it everywhere. They were house guests that stayed for eighteen years and broke your stuff and put peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in your shoes. They talked too much and needed too much and expected too much.

Kids, as a concept, held no allure for me.

Also not helping matters was the fact that I’d spent the last ten years reminding myself of how awful it would be to have kids. I reminded myself frequently because I didn’t think, even if I did want them, there was a white picket fence in my future. I didn’t think I could ever love someone like I loved Garrett. I didn’t think I ever wanted to.

Plus, there’s the whole falling in hopeless love with your kids thing; and that kind of love scared the poo out of me.

I realized the answer was more complicated than a yes or no. The answer was more like: I decided a long time ago that, since I’ll likely never meet the Mr. Dad to my Dr. Mom, and the since idea of having no control over the intensity of my love for a child doesn’t really sit well, I don’t want kids. Lucky me.

I cleared my throat, preparing to speak, but then chickened out and took another gulp of wine.

A small, knowing smile gently curved over Nico’s features, and he released the breath he’d been holding. “You don’t want kids.”

I swallowed the last of the wine.

His smile turned sad. “Why not?”

“Because,” I couldn’t look at him. “It’s a bit complicated.”

“Explain.”

“Okay.” I moved a piece of apple around the plate with my fork. “I decided a long time ago that I was never going to have children. Once I made the decision, coming up with reasons against having kids became very easy.” My eyes flickered to his then back to my plate. “I’ve been in school for a really long time. The thought of not being in school and what comes after school is . . . hard to think about.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that my residency ends in August and it will be the first time since I was five that I won’t be in academia. It means I’ve never thought about answers to these grown-up issues without the assumption that I was going to be alone.”

I set my jaw and resolved to meet his gaze. He was studying me through narrowed eyes, as though truly considering my words, trying to understand. “You don’t want kids because you assumed you were always going to be alone?”

I nodded. “Something like that. And also, they’re a pain in the ass.”

He grinned. “What about Angelica? Is she a pain in the ass?”

I answered without thinking. “No! She’s adorable, and smart. She’s also a funny kid. When we were making those ravioli she kept putting them on her nose and barking, like she was a dog. Did I tell you she used my shirt as though it were a napkin?” I smiled at the memory. “I think she inherited some of the Mang-nan-genello funny.”