Sandra filled the silence, "This is the class reunion, right?"

Stephanie's eyes ping-ponged between us. Finally she asked, "Did you go to school here?"

I glanced at Sandra briefly, then cleared my throat. "Yes. I'm Elizabeth Finney."

Stephanie blinked at me for several protracted moments, her brow pulling comically low. I thought about pulling down my strapless dress and flashing her or slapping her across the face just to see if a Jerry Springer style wakeup call would make a difference.

"Oh! You-you're Skinny Finney! I remember you!! But you look completely different, and your hair is really long!" She cocked her head to the side and gave me a reproachful smirk. "You should have just said so!!!"

"Yes, what was I thinking?" I deadpanned my response, but she didn't seem to hear me.

"It's a good thing you caught me, I was just about to go in! I don't want to miss any of the excitement. . ." Stephanie's voice was muffled as she busily reached under the table and rustled through some unseen items.

It took her maybe a full four minutes to find what she was searching for. Sandra gave me a questioning glance which I answered by shrugging.

"Here you go!" Stephanie bolted upright and handed me my name tag with a booklet. "Your name tag has your table number. And you cannot change tables so please don't. And the brochure has a listing of-well almost-all attendees with their contact information." She paired the word almost with a clumsy double wink.

Sandra eyeballed her and crossed her arms over her chest. "Can I ask-what is with the stealth placement of the name tags? Why not just put them on top of the table, and let people pick their own?"

Stephanie's mouth curved into a small O and, again, her eyes again ping-ponged between us. "Oh! You don't know!!"

We stared at her expectantly, waiting for her to continue. After a long pause Stephanie leaned over the table and motioned for us to do so as well, even though we were basically alone in the hall. "We didn't know if we were going to have problems with people trying to get in since Niccolo is here. It was all very unexpected, and he has quite a security team with him, but. . ."

I didn't hear anything else she said.

Cold.

Ice.

Frozen.

The shock caused temporary peripheral neuropathy in my ear tips, fingers, and toes.

Hot.

Fire.

Blaze.

And the anxiety was going to send me into cardiac arrest.

Sandra's attention moved from my face to Stephanie's; she blinked at us both. "Okay-what am I missing? Who is Niccolo?"

Stephanie chuckled, it sounded lick a hen's cluck. "Uh, only Niccolo Manganiello, aka Nico Moretti, aka The Face."

Chapter 5.

"Wait, wait, wait," Sandra held her hands up, foisted a slightly hostile glare upon me. "You mean that hot guy on Comedy Central who has that show where he tries to talk celebrities into getting naked, but mostly he just gets naked and they end every show with him Jell-O wrestling with hot ladies? You went to high school with that Nico Moretti?"

I didn't respond. I didn't get a chance.

"It's actually Nico Manganiello, but I changed my last name when I moved to New York."

Startled by his voice I instinctively half-twisted toward the velvety sound. The first thing I noticed was that his unshaven stubble from last week had grown into a haphazardly trimmed, close cut beard. And, looking like sex on a stick-if sex were Italian and the stick had an unfair amount of charisma-he sauntered toward us.

His smile was big, open, warm, but his eyes were shuttered, cold; and they were focused squarely on me.

I experienced a head-on collision of involuntary sensations and recognized the strongest one for what it was: intense attraction. My chest swelled, my stomach flipped, my knees locked; my organs were competing in the lust Olympics. At the same time, I was immediately repulsed by my body, by the uncontrollable reaction. I could only stare at his overwhelming omnipresent magnetism.

I was annoyed that I noticed how exceptionally fine he looked in a slim cut black suit, white shirt, and skinny black tie; his black hair was mussed with scientific precision. It looked like Hollywood quality postcoital hair.

"Oh! OH!!" Stephanie, our hostess, exclaimed with undeniable vigor. Then she giggled.

The sounds of her female-flail were enough to snap me out of my haze. I straightened my spine and turned completely to face him; my chin lifted an inch. I noted one of his eyebrows raise, as though amused by me, and his smile shape shifted into a smirk.

He nodded at me once. "Hi friend."

"Nico." I suppressed a Marge Simpson growl of frustration and instead returned his single nod, attempted cool detachment. Awareness of him, his closeness, made the surface of my skin hot beneath my curtain of hair, from my neck down my back. I felt cold everywhere else. I fought the urge to shiver.

Sandra stuck out her hand. "Hey there big guy, I'm Sandra."

Nico's eyes slid away from mine, and he gathered Sandra's small white hand in his olive-toned, much larger ones. He didn't shake it. He just held it.

He was such an ass.

"Hi Sandra." He bit his bottom lip which made his smile crooked, small, and completely charming. He kept his voice low, intimate. I could practically hear seduction in it. "It's really nice to meet you."

Sandra's gave a breathy laugh; I fought the urge to roll my eyes.

"What are you doing here?" My voice was accusatory, because I meant it to be. It didn't make sense. He had no reason to be here, in Iowa, at my high school reunion. I narrowed my eyes. Maybe he would look less appealing and edible if I narrowed my eyes.

In truth, I didn't want to deal with him, with my Nico-guilt, when I wanted to be petty and childish instead. He was a reminder of my historical immaturity. His presence made me feel less justified in my self-indulgent endeavor to wow the graduating class with my perceived impressiveness. He deflated my bubble of adolescent angsty vengeance. This left me feeling silly and adrift.

The single eyebrow lifted slightly higher in an attractive arch. "Well, I did go to school here-"

"But you didn't graduate." I immediately cringed as the words left my mouth. It wasn't my intention to be rude, but likely, the blurted words would be interpreted as a slight.

"No. No I didn't graduate." His mouth twisted to the side. A flicker of what looked like bitterness burned momentarily beneath his cool gaze. "Some of us don't need to graduate three times in order to feel successful. Some of us don't need to graduate at all."

It was exactly like old times. We were standing in the hall of our high school, trading insults, throwing hateful glares like grenades.

I blinked, flinched, opened my mouth to say something nasty, but Sandra interrupted my poised insult.

"I'm such a fan of your show, but you must hear that all the time. I especially love it when you have the girls do that game show skit, Are You Smarter than a Bikini Model, where they make those guys look like idiots."

"Well, all the girls on the show are really smart and, honestly, the guys usually are idiots."

"Debbie is my favorite. I love that she leg-wrestles, she's so strong. Thank you for the show, I never miss it."

His eyes twinkled. I've never seen anyone able to eye-twinkle on cue quite like Nico. I suspected he must have perfected said eye-twinkling in front of a mirror at a young age.

"No, thank you. I never get tired of meeting fans. I love fans of the show."

I quietly snorted. It was a scoff-snort. But it must have been loud enough for him to hear, because his eyes returned to mine as he released Sandra's hand.

"Do you watch the show, Elizabeth?"

I shook my head, disliked the way he said my name, looked everywhere but at his aggravatingly handsome face; I tried to sound bored instead of irritated. "Nope. Can't say that I have, what with all the graduating I've been doing."

I felt his gaze on me, studying me for a very brief second, really a half second. Then he said something entirely surprising and yet-for Nico-not at all shocking; "Right. Why would you? You've already seen everything up close."

Oh.

My.

God.

I heard Sandra's small intake of breath at my side.

My eyes widened and met his. Again a spark of triumph ignited behind his glare.

Nico was trying to bait me into a fight. He always used to do this in high school-the unkind nickname repeated at every opportunity, insults flung down the hall at my back, knocking books and folders out of my hands, introducing me as a boy to new students.

He was just a mean person.

Freaking Niccolo Manganiello.

Nico had been tormenting me from the moment he put a dead and road-flattened toad down my dress in Sunday school when I was four. Despite our mothers' close friendship and the time we spent playing, growing up together, my aggravation with him-and therefore avoidance of him-increased yearly.

In kindergarten he cut one of my braids during nap time leaving me with long hair on the left, short hair on the right.

In third grade he gave me what I thought was vanilla pudding, but it turned out to be mayonnaise; of course I didn't realize it was mayonnaise until after I had a huge spoonful in my mouth, and, of course, I couldn't spit it out, because we were at his parents' restaurant for dinner. I still hated mayonnaise with an unholy fire.

In fifth grade he gave me the nick name Skinny Finney which stuck with me until college.

Worst of all, in sixth grade he became best friends with Garrett.

And even through all of it, the baiting when I was a kid and the persecution when I was a teenager, I couldn't seem to force myself to loath him like he'd apparently despised me.

I was so confused-his outburst at the hospital then later apology, his request to be friends, and now his flirting with Sandra as well as the arrogant and flippant retorts. I had Nico-mood-swing whiplash.

I clenched my jaw and glanced around the small hallway, over Nico's shoulder toward the door of the gym. I was officially flustered. I wanted to scream at him, indulge my instincts, give in to the spiteful verbal sparring match-as was our typical pattern. Instead I clamped my mouth shut.

I was determined to let the old habit die. I didn't want to be that person anymore.

My voice was a bit higher pitched than normal as I tried to literally and figuratively avoid the minefield of his last statement. "Well, Sandra and I are going to head in, so . . . See you later."

I stepped to the side, hoped to walk around him, but he mirrored my movements, effectively caused me to collide into his chest. Nico's hands lifted to my bare shoulders and he held me in place. It was one of those moments where my body ceased listening to my brain.

My brain said: Step away from the naughty hottie.

My body said: . . . I like cookies.

"Wait, where are you sitting?" He dipped his head such that only eight to six inches of air separated us, "Where's your table?"

Nothing is more frustrating than being attracted to someone who is a complete jerk-except for maybe also caring about that person despite continued abuses. I was such an idiot.

I cleared my throat and my eyes-the traitors!-focused on his mouth. "We're, uh-"

OhMyGodYouSmellFantastic.

"-we're at table ten, I think."

"You should sit with me, with us."

Sandra and I responded at the same time, talked over each other.

Me, shaking my head: "No, no, we're not supposed to switch tables-"

Sandra, nodding her head: "Yes, we'd love to. What table are you?"

Nico smiled warmly at Sandra. They both pretended like I hadn't spoken. Matters weren't helped by his thumb dancing little sweeping caresses over the exposed skin of my shoulder, rendering me mute.

"I'm at table two, right next to the dance floor."

"Well then, we'll just see you inside." Sandra hooked her arm through mine, pulled me out of Nico's grip and toward the gym. "But first we're going to go to the ladies room so we can talk about you."

The sound of Nico's laughter followed us only as far as the inside of the gym where it was swallowed by loud chatter and dance music.

Sandra leaned close to my ear and semi-shouted. "Where is the bathroom? Lucy! You have some 'splaining to do."

I frowned-not at her, at the entire situation-and pointed in the direction of the girls' locker rooms. She grabbed my hand and maneuvered us through the crowd. My once carefully coiffed waves of blonde tumbled over my shoulders in a messy mass.

No sooner were we inside did she open her mouth. I clamped my hand over it and with the other raised a finger to my mouth. Her eyes grew large and her eyebrows lifted. I motioned with my head toward the showers, silently asked her to follow.

Once we were tucked within the last stall in the last row, I closed the curtain then covered my face and breathed out forcefully.

"Please don't ask."

"Oh, girl, I'm gunna ask." She cut me off with a calm whisper. "And you're going to tell me and you're going to describe every intimate detail-do they shave his chest? Because, on the show, he has no hair on his chest and I think they must because he is Italian. And what about his-"