“Aww, look, there’s Russo’s Pizza. I can’t believe it’s still here. I lived in that place when I was a kid. Do they still have that ancient Ms. Pac-Man game?”
“Yep, it’s still there. It’s probably fused to the linoleum at this point.”
“I spent, like, hours playing that game when I was a kid. Got the high score once.”
Livie paused, and Nick lurched to a stop beside her. “Wait...are you NADS?”
She had to scramble to support him as he burst into laughter and doubled over. “Oh my God, I forgot all about that.”
“You’re the high score on Russo’s Ms. Pac-Man?”
“When I was, like...” His face screwed up as he thought. “Ten? Why, did you try to beat my score, Livie?”
She ignored his teasing grin, keeping her eyes focused on the sidewalk ahead of them so neither of them tripped. “I don’t play video games, but I heard every boy in school joke about it often enough. Why are gonads so hilarious to prepubescent boys?”
“I wasn’t even making a joke.”
“What?”
“Those are my initials. Nicholas. Anthony. DeSantis. NADS.”
“Well, intentional or not, you’re a legend to every obnoxious boy in this neighborhood.”
“Whaddaya know? I live on in Carroll Gardens.”
“On a video game anyway.” She hesitated, but in the end decided he probably wouldn’t remember any of this tomorrow anyway, so she asked the question that had been eating at her. “Why haven’t you been back? What happened with your parents?”
Nick scowled, rubbing his hand across the top of his hair until it was left standing on end. “We had a fight.”
“Was it about you getting kicked out of DeWitt?”
He shook his head too vigorously and threw his balance off. They lurched to the side briefly before she was able to steady him. “It was after that. Something bad happened. It wasn’t my fault, but they blamed me anyway. Which is fine. They’ve got their golden boy, all safe and sound. They don’t need me.”
“Golden boy?”
“My brother. Doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”
So fine that now, when his life was falling apart around him, there was no one he could reach out to for help except for some girl he barely knew. That seemed like the opposite of fine to her. She couldn’t imagine being estranged from her family, living in the same borough and never seeing them. Everybody’s family drove them crazy sometimes, but they were still family.
“Tell me about your brother,” she said, trying to keep him alert as she maneuvered him around the corner and onto her block. Not much farther now.
“Chris,” he muttered.
“Okay, his name is Chris. What else? Older than you? Younger?”
“Older. By three years.” He was quiet for a bit, then he spoke again. “He’s a stockbroker. At least, I think he is. He was supposed to be one.”
“My cousin James is a stockbroker.”
“Is he perfect like Chris? Chris is perfect. They’re proud as hell of him.”
“Your parents aren’t proud of you?”
“They think I’m a criminal.”
“Well, you did hack the Department of Defense.”
“You are so hung up on that. I did it for fun. I didn’t make any money off of it. I told you, I don’t do the illegal stuff anymore. Everything I do now is totally inside the law. Well, technically. Mostly.”
“Why do they think you’re a criminal?”
“It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.” Nick sighed, his eyes drooping. She was about to lose him, but their house was just a little farther.
“Come on, we’re here.” She wrestled him through the wrought iron gate and up the front walk.
“Everybody wants me to be something I’m not.”
Great. They’d entered the maudlin phase of his drunkenhood. Livie didn’t drink, but having spent her life in a bar, she knew all the kinds of drunk there were under the sun.
“You’re perfect just the way you are,” she mumbled, shifting his weight. “Stairs. Step up.”
They were staggering up the three shallow steps of the front stoop when she realized what she’d said. Ugh, had she told him he was perfect? But Nick didn’t seem to notice and even if he had, wouldn’t remember it tomorrow.
She fumbled with her keys and unlocked the front door, then wrestled him through it and into the front hall. There she was confronted with the flight of stairs that needed to be navigated to get him to the spare bedroom. Nope. Not happening. Instead, she swung him to the right, though the arched entrance to the living room. He’d have to sleep it off on the sofa.
His eyes were closed when she pivoted him around and lowered him down on the sofa. They stayed closed as she wrestled his sneakers off and hoisted his legs onto the cushions. But he opened them and gasped in surprise when their elderly dog, Spudge, lumbered his way over and stuck his cold nose against his cheek.
“Livie, what—”
“That’s Spudge, my dog.”
Despite being nearly unconscious, Nick raised his hand and found Spudge’s head, rubbing it affectionately. “Hey, Spudge.”
Of course he was a dog person, too. Could he kick a puppy or steal a senior citizen’s walker or something so she could get over this stupid crush already?
Spudge groaned in instant adoration, eyes closed, leaning into Nick’s hand. I know, Spudge. I know.
She left Nick alone with Spudge for a moment to retrieve a pillow and an old quilt from the linen closet upstairs. When she came back down, Spudge was resting his head on Nick’s chest as Nick continued to pet him.
“Well, Spudge likes you. See? You’re not completely alone.”
“Spudge is my man, right, Spudge? Spudge understands me.”
“Spudge is very understanding.” She lifted his head to wedge a pillow under him, trying desperately not to notice how thick and silky his hair felt under her fingers. Now wasn’t the time. Actually, there would never be a time, and she knew it. So she was absolutely not going to get hung up on the way his hair felt, or the way he smelled when she leaned over him to tuck the quilt around his body.
“You have a lot of hair,” Nick muttered, and her face flamed. She’d been leaning over him, getting him settled, and her hair had been brushing him everywhere.
“Sorry,” she whispered, jerking upright and dragging it back over her shoulders, twisting it into a thick rope. When she was thirteen, her cousin Kendra had talked her into doing something “fun and different” with her hair. The resulting disaster had kept Livie away from scissors ever since. She knew it was unfashionably long, without a single layer or highlight to bring it into the twenty-first century, but it was better than that pubescent monstrosity she’d spent forever growing back out.
“S’okay. S’nice. I like your hair.”
She felt self-conscious and stupidly flattered all at once. Instead of responding, she grabbed the wastebasket from beside the armchair. “Here,” she murmured, setting it beside the couch, next to his head. “If the worst happens, aim for this.”
“S’not gonna happen.”
She sat down on the very edge of the couch, next to his hip, tugging the quilt up over him. “Well, you did drink a lot of vodka tonight.”
He groaned. “Don’t say that word.”
“Okay. I won’t say it again. But aim there when the thing that’s not going to happen happens.”
Then, out of nowhere, his hand landed on her knee. “Thanks, Livie. You really are the nicest person I know.”
She stared at his hand, unable to look up at his face. Her whole body felt electrified, every inch of her focused on that place where he touched her, the weight of his hand, the heat of his palm. Shocking images flooded her brain, all the other ways she was imagining him touching her. All from one hand on her knee.
She was frozen, not breathing, not even blinking. Nick turned his head on the pillow, his eyes still closed. “You’re a really good friend,” he said, and then his face went slack with unconsciousness and his hand slid off her leg.
Friend. You’re just his friend. Don’t forget it.
And while her head knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt, her traitorous body didn’t want to believe it.
She stood, pausing a moment to gaze down at him. His face was in profile, turned into the pillow, his thick dark lashes making shadows in the dim light. His hair—that divinely silky hair—was a riotous mess against the white of the pillow. Her fingers itched to smooth it, to brush it off his forehead, but she didn’t make a move to touch him.
Friends. That’s all they were. And she was happy he considered her a friend, truly. The feelings she had for him—she absolutely could not indulge in them. He might not be engaged anymore, but that didn’t make him any safer for her. He was unpredictable, flawed, and damaged in ways she didn’t even fully understand. He had Danger: Do Not Enter practically stamped across his forehead. He was the kind of walking dating disaster she’d heard Gemma and Kendra complain about for years.
That was why, she decided as she fetched him a glass of water and a couple of aspirin from the kitchen, she was going to keep him as a friend, where he belonged. She’d forget the way he turned her thoughts inside out and the way his hand on her knee had set her whole body on fire. She set the water and aspirin on the end table near his head, then watched his chest rise and fall slowly as he slept.
Yes, they were friends. And friends was exactly what they needed to stay.
Chapter Eleven
Consciousness crept back in slowly. The first thing Nick became aware of was the lumpy sofa underneath him. The second thing he became aware of was a warm weight pressing down solidly on his chest. He opened his eyes and found a pair of large, sorrowful brown ones staring back at him.
A dog. There was a dog here. He didn’t have a dog.
The dog’s head was lying on Nick’s chest as it gazed up at him with its solemn, watery eyes.
He swallowed and instantly regretted it. His mouth tasted sour and felt mossy. Very shortly, he realized the rest of his body wasn’t in any better shape. Hung over. Badly. Maybe still drunk.
And he had no idea where the fuck he was.
His eyes drifted upward. The white ceiling, under its cracking paint, had that fancy molding that reminded him of his aunt Gloria’s house. But that was the only thing that looked familiar. Aside from the lumpy brown couch he’d apparently slept on, there were a couple of drooping armchairs, a coffee table half buried under open mail and magazines, and a large flat-screen against a wall. Someone had tucked a quilt, soft with age, around his body. And the dog was making sure it stayed there.
He glanced around the room for clues. On the far wall, there was a framed family photo of three girls, two teens and an older girl. He recognized one of the teens, because she didn’t look all that different now, with her big, serious eyes and her long, dark hair.
Livie. Right. Livie’s family’s bar. Vodka. So much vodka. It was hazy after that, but there were flashes. Livie offering to let him crash at her place. Staggering down the street. Sinking back on the couch.
He was in Livie’s house. Because Poppy had broken up with him.
Poppy.
That all came back in a rush, too. Poppy’s flat, emotionless eyes as she told him to leave.
Last night’s vodka made a brief attempt at a reappearance, but he fought it back.
He heard a hum of female voices in another room. Livie and her sisters. Right, she had two sisters, who’d probably come home and wondered who the hell that stranger was passed out on their couch. How fucking embarrassing. And he must look like shit.
Shifting the dog’s weight off his chest, he silently got to his feet. There was a half bath tucked under the stairwell in the entryway, so he was able to splash some water on his face, and rinse out the worst of the cotton-mouth before he had to face the music. Following the voices, and the smell of something cooking—which his stomach was alternately utterly rejecting and begging for—he passed through the living room and dining room. The dog, who had followed him to the bathroom, was still trailing after him as he made his way to the kitchen at the back of the house.
Livie was sitting with one sister at the kitchen table while the other—a tall woman he vaguely remembered meeting at the bar—stood at the stove cooking something. Had she forced him to eat last night? He kind of remembered that.
The dog, who collapsed heavily against his feet, gave a soft wuff, as if to announce his arrival. All three women turned to look at him.
“He lives,” the tall one said, hiking one eyebrow and looking him up and down in a way that spoke volumes without a word. That woman didn’t trust him. Hell, he’d spent the night on her couch in a drunken stupor. He didn’t blame her.
Self-consciously, he dragged a hand through his wrecked hair. “Uh, yeah. I was in rough shape last night. Thanks for letting me crash, Livie.”
She shrugged and looked away, bashful. “No problem.”
“Sit down and eat,” the tall sister said.
“I don’t think so—”
“Eat. Trust me.”
Deciding not to piss her off any more than she already was, he quickly parked it at the table, between Livie and—
“Sorry, I must have missed meeting you in my state of total oblivion last night. I’m Nick.”
She reached a hand across the table to shake his. “Jessica.”
Jessica looked very like Livie—same long, dark brown hair, same large brown eyes, same heart-shaped face. She was smaller than either of her sisters, almost petite.
“And since you probably don’t remember me, I’m Gemma.”
“I remember.” Even though he wasn’t entirely sure that he did.
She tilted her chin at the dog, who was sitting on his foot, his chin resting on Nick’s knee as he gazed up at him with sad adoration. “And your new bodyguard is named Spudge.”
“Spudge. I think we met last night, buddy.” He ran a hand over the dog’s bony head and Spudge groaned in bliss. “Sorry I was such a mess last night, guys. I don’t usually do that.”
Jessica hid her grin behind the rim of her coffee mug. “That’s okay. According to Livie, you earned it.”
“Sorry,” Livie said. “I probably shouldn’t have said anything about your personal life.”
“Your family has a right to know how I ended up passed out on your couch.” He wasn’t exactly in a position to be annoyed. When you did embarrassing shit like drink yourself into oblivion and pass out in strange houses, the people who lived in those houses were entitled to ask a few questions about how you got there.
“Coffee?” Jessica asked.
“God, yes.”
She got up to pour a cup as Gemma turned from the stove with a plate of bacon and scrambled eggs. The vodka still currently comprising half his bloodstream rebelled at the very idea, but his stomach suddenly thought that plate looked pretty good. She slid the plate across the table to him and set another one in front of Livie.
Jess plunked a mug of coffee in front of him. “Okay, I gotta go.”
“But breakfast—” Gemma protested.
“No time. The G is running with delays. Signal problems at Bergen Street again. It’s the third time this week, and of course, the MTA can’t come up with a single decent explanation. But I met this guy who works for the MTA and he’s this close to giving me the inside story. I’m going to blow the lid off the failing subway system. Figuratively.”
“Jess is a reporter,” Livie explained to Nick.
“Really? Cool. New York Times? Daily News?”
“Brooklyn Daily Post.”
“Do not say you’ve never heard of it,” Gemma warned. “She’ll tear yo
ur head off.”
“If I wasn’t already late, I’d argue with you,” Jess sniffed.
“But you won’t.” Gemma passed her a travel mug. “Go. And don’t skip lunch today.”
“You’re so annoying when you’re bossy. By the way, I’m not home tonight.”
“I thought Alex was still in Brazil with his father,” Livie said.
“The big acquisition party was last night. He flies home today.” Jessica’s face was glowing, and she didn’t even try to hide her giddy excitement. Whoever this Alex dude was, she was totally head over heels for him.
Had Poppy’s eyes had ever lit up that way when she talked about him? Two days ago, he would have said absolutely yes. Of course. They were in love, right? But today, that felt a whole lot less clear.
“If Daddy Drake is flying home, too, maybe you guys can double date tonight,” Gemma said with a smirk.
“Oh hush. This is already awkward enough.”
Livie turned to Nick to explain again. “Alex is Jess’s boyfriend, and his dad is dating her boss, the editor at the paper.”
Nick felt like he’d been dumped headfirst into the deep end of the Romano family. “Oh. That would be weird.”
“You’re telling me.” Jess rolled her eyes. “But no matter how much Dan scrambles Mariel’s hormones, she’s still going to give me grief if I’m late to the morning editorial meeting. Gotta go. Nick, nice to meet you. Even under these particular circumstances.”
“Same,” he lied. There was nothing nice about meeting a house full of strangers with a raging hangover.
After she’d hurried out and the front door had slammed behind her, Nick’s vodka-numbed brain finally registered something from the past conversation. Dan. Drake. Acquisitions.
“Wait... Daddy Drake?”
“Dan Drake,” Livie confirmed.
“That Dan Drake?”
“Media mogul Dan Drake?” Gemma said. “Yep.”
He looked at Livie in shock. “Your sister is dating Dan Drake’s son?”
Love and the Laws of Motion Page 7