Before I could respond to this new and interesting information, Nico pushed slightly away from the table and turned his chair so that we were fully facing each other. For a brief moment I didn't know if he was going to give me a lecture or kick me out of his apartment.

"If you watched the show, or knew anything about it, you would know that each of my dancers play a key role." I sunk lower in my seat as he launched an impassioned defense of his show, his work; "Three of them are writers on the show. Did you know that? All of them participate in the skits. In fact, Erin has her own segment called Are you Smarter Than a Bikini Model? She annihilates her opponents. We had Franklin Orin on-you know, that famous political scientist, always on the cable news programs? And she killed, wiped the floor with him. He was actually really nice about it.

"Over half of our viewership is women. Our main female demographic is between the ages of twenty-two and forty-eight. When asked why they watch the show, they overwhelmingly respond that it portrays women in a positive light."

I bit the inside of my cheek and huffed. "You have to admit, the commercials do not portray the show to be pro-female."

"Depends on what your definition of pro-female is. If you think pro-female is having a show where various kinds of women-all different ethnicities, with diverse backgrounds, talents, but also all healthy, in great physical shape-work together to make an exemplary product then, yes, it is pro-female."

I blinked, nonplussed. "Your audience is naked!"

"Not the whole audience. Just the group closest to the dancers' stage and it's because they choose to be."

"Come on! All the commercials have you wrestling-half-naked-in tubs of Jell-O. They show your girls doing gymnastics!"

He shrugged, but his grimace betrayed his frustration. "Gymnastics is an Olympic sport, but, I admit, some of the commercials don't represent the show in the best light. I don't make the commercials and I don't have control over the marketing team. They work directly for the network and do what they need to do to bring in viewership."

"But you can't expect me to be okay with what I see on the commercials."

"That's a cop-out, Elizabeth. That's like rating or reviewing a book after reading the first ten pages. Do you really think my sisters or my mother would speak to me if my show marginalized women? More importantly, how can you think so little of me?"

I again squirmed in my chair, stared at the table. I didn't think so little of him; I thought a lot of him; I thought a great deal of him.

But I didn't like that he was right and I was wrong. If I were going to form an opinion about something and offer it freely as fact, then I needed to be knowledgeable on the subject.

Nico shook his head as though exasperated. "Women dance around in bikinis on every beach in the United States and I don't see you throwing temper tantrums about their behavior."

I was on the precipice of something, of doing something I'd never done with him before. But the urge, the need to utter those three little words was so overwhelming I was surprised I didn't shout them as they fumbled from my mouth.

"I am sorry."

Nico blinked at me, appearing just a bit startled. His frown lost some of its severity. "Excuse me? Did you just say . . ." Suddenly, he was fighting a smile. "Did Elizabeth Finney just apologize for something? To me?"

I firmed my expression and glanced at the ceiling. "I'm sorry I called them bimbos, because I guess they're not bimbos. But, despite your excellent point about US beaches, I still take issue with the bikini prancing-"

He glanced around the room. "Did that just happen? Am I . . . Am I dreaming? No!" He smacked the table with his palm then pointed at me. "A hallucination! I'm hallucinating, right?"

I closed my eyes and completely lost the battle against my laughter.

"Or, the world is coming to an end." I felt his hand close over mine where I held it guarded in the crook of my elbow, and he pulled it toward him, held it in both of his, waited until I opened my eyes before he continued. "You can level with me. Is the world ending? Is the apocalypse upon us? If so I propose we forget my no benefits rule and start humping like rabbits."

"Stop!" Through my chortling and laugh-snorts I attempted to pull my hand from his, but he continued to hold it hostage.

"No, no, forgive me. Not like rabbits, like Shaw's jird. Did you know they try to copulate two hundred and forty times an hour?"

"Oh my god, where did you pick up that lovely tidbit?"

Nico tugged my hand until I was upended from my seat. I lost my balance, crashed into him, landed on his lap. "If you watched my show you would know these things. We cover all sorts of educational items."

"Educational for whom?" I tried to right myself even as he tried to arrange my legs so that I was straddling him. "Educational for rodents?"

"No. Educational for students of animal behavior." One of his big hands gripped my hip, pressed me down, held me over his lap; his other arm snaked around my waist. I tried to stand and succeeded only in pressing my boobs against his face.

He nipped at my chest, and I pulled back, out of the reach of his mouth, but stopped my half-hearted struggle. "Oh. Animal behavior, huh?"

As was our habit, we stared at each other for an extremely tense moment, both breathing perhaps a bit too hard given the briefness of the struggle. His hands relaxed, one perilously close to my bottom. I could feel through my thin cotton scrubs that our short wrestling match had left him a lot hot and bothered. His chin and mouth were about two inches from my chest and he gazed at me with intent.

Kissing intent.

I gazed deeply into his eyes. My fingers moved to the back of his neck. I licked my lips. His eyes followed the movement.

And then I pulled his hair. Hard.

"Ow!" He winced. His hands flew to the back of his head, and I took the opportunity to escape.

I stood and quickly put the table between us. He also stood, stull rubbing the back of his head. "Hey. That hurt."

I lifted my chin and issued my frostiest glare. "I hope so."

"Why? What did I do?"

"Nothing." Everything.

"Are you mad about something?"

"Yes. No." I crossed my arms then decided to put them on my hips instead. "I don't know."

"Well, when you figure it out, I'd like to know."

We stood across from each other, the big dining table between us, and I fought to find the source of my fury. Almost immediately I knew the answer: I was jealous of girl B. I was jealous of his dancers. I was jealous of the one he'd dated, girl C. I was jealous of the obvious respect he shared with the others, of the time they shared with him, of the years, the friendship.

I was jealous.

I was worried he would guess the truth, I didn't know where to look. After a long moment I sighed, shook my head, and glanced over his shoulder.

"Look. I'm not mad at you. I'm just jumpy because of earlier and low on sleep because somebody keeps me up at all hours talking on the phone."

I peeked at him. He was gently grinning. "Okay then." He clapped his hands. "Off to bed with you. I'll take you home."

"No! I can take myself. I don't need any more friendly kisses." I walked to the door, heard him follow behind me.

"I can give you a non-friendly kiss if you want."

"No thank you. No kisses, please."

"Suit yourself."

I turned as I exited, found him behind me leaning against the door. His four glasses of wine left him delightfully hazy, softly smiling, and looking at me like I was next on the menu.

I swayed forward then caught myself, fisted my hands at my sides to keep from touching him, and averted my eyes. I stomped to the elevator.

"Sweet dreams, Elizabeth!" he called after me.

I didn't respond. Because, in my jealousy fueled foul mood, I would probably say something nasty or, worse, something honest.

My wonderful mood lasted through the day Tuesday. And, by wonderful mood, I mean raging jealousy. I tried to ignore Nico in the morning during Angelica's 6:00 a.m. infusion. I did my best to be coolly polite during the 2:00 p.m. hospital visit.

But he knew and I knew-something was up.

I knew that he knew that I knew that he knew that something was up.

And I hated it. I hated that I felt like I was playing games. I didn't want to play games. I wanted to be honest.

But I couldn't be honest.

If I were honest then I would tell him that I liked him, that I wanted to be more than friends. I would tell him that I wanted to be more than friends with exclusive, full-time, 24/7 benefits. I would tell him that I thought about him night and day and that thinking about him had become a second full-time job.

I'd worked myself up into an irritation tornado. Therefore, when a pissy Dr. Ken Miles decided to pitch a fit one hour before my shift was over, he was quite lucky I didn't stab him in the neck with a wooden tongue depressor.

"Well?" he said bitchily, hovering at my shoulder.

That's right, bitchily.

I was charting in the ER alcove, halfway finished with a discharge summary. I glanced at him, rolled my eyes, and paused the recording.

"What do you want, Dr. Ken Miles?"

He huffed then snorted. "Really? You're irritated with me?"

I set the phone down on the desk, mentally preparing myself for a lecture on my childish behavior or some such nonsense. "What? What is it? What did I do now?"

"Our date is in two days!"

"I told you, it's not a date. And, about that, I need to cancel-"

"Whatever, you said we'd be exclusive." He leaned in to whisper, "And then Meg shows me your boyfriend on TV talking all about your 'relationship.'" He air-quoted this last part.

Add air-quoting to the list of things that annoyed me about Dr. Ken Miles.

I stared at him blankly because his words made no sense. "What are you talking about?"

"Like you don't know."

"I don't. What are you talking about?" I was seconds from finding that wooden tongue depressor.

He blinked, his pretty features marred by a severe frown that morphed into confusion then incredulity. "You don't know." It was a statement.

"No. I don't know. So, please stop speaking in riddles. What. Are. You. Talking. About?"

Dr. Ken Miles pulled out his cell phone and grabbed my hand. I paused a minute to hang up the transcription line and collect my chart then I allowed myself to be led away from the alcove to the doctors' lounge. He fiddled with his screen a bit then shoved a video clip in front of my face.

"Here. Watch this."

I stared at the stalled YouTube clip for a moment, about to tell Dr. Ken Miles that I didn't have time for this, but then the video finally started. It was a clip from an entertainment news program. A hot, leggy reporter was laughing with Nico, and I squinted, tried to hear the muffled audio.

And, as I watched it, I felt my temperature rise to near lava levels. When it was over I shoved Dr. Ken Miles's phone back in his hands and swiftly left the lounge and the hospital.

I decided that the rest of the charting would have to wait. I needed to either go kiss or kill a hot Italian comedian.

Chapter 20.

I changed my mind maybe one hundred and seventeen times on the ride to my apartment.

String him up or sex him up?

Or both . . .?

At last, I decided that I would let my knitting group help me decide what to do. I wasn't operating in my right brain anymore. I needed some perspective from an unbiased audience.

However, when I arrived home, under the impression that I would find my friends-unbiased friends-knitting harmlessly and swapping a few raunchy stories; instead I found Nico.

Freaking Nico Manganiello.

He was on the couch next to Janie; they were huddled together, their heads a few inches apart like they were sharing a secret. She was frowning at something in his hands, and he was smiling at her confusion. They looked adorable, and I was boiling over with jealousy.

"What are you doing here?" I didn't try to hide the sharpness of my tone.

Everyone paused, mid-conversation, mid-row, mid-stitch, and glanced at me-unhurried, unworried, unperturbed. It was maddening.

"Oh, hey, Elizabeth. Nice to see you too." Nico flashed me a just unbelievably brilliant smile. His eyes weren't twinkling, they were electric.

"What's going on? Why is he here?"

"Nico and I are learning how to crochet." Janie held up a crochet hook; a long chain stitch dangled from one end.

I looked from the chain, to Nico, to Janie, then to the rest of the knitting group. They were all smiling at Nico approvingly.

"Can I speak to you please" I pointed at him then the hallway that led to my bedroom. "In the other room?"