As the guy in the dapper suit sings “Baby Won’t You Please Come Home,” Emerson wastes no time going full Agatha Christie. After we order drinks, she catches Jo and TJ up on the Dot and Bette sighting.

  “So, what do you think? Why are they here?” Emerson asks our friends.

  I laugh, pointing my thumb at her. “She can’t ever stop working.”

  “But it’s weird, right?” she asks, undeterred. “Feels like it has to be something.”

  TJ lifts his old-fashioned and swirls it, his brown eyes intense as he answers. “My advice? Don’t try to figure out Webflix’s intentions. You’ll be wrong. Big companies like that have their own agendas, and you can’t ever truly get to the core of them.”

  “Seriously,” Emerson presses, rubbing her hands along her thighs, a sign she’s getting worked up, “you’re all about motivation. What do you make of Dot and Bette being here while we’re here?”

  “Emerson,” I cut in, setting a hand on hers to try to calm her anxiety. “You’re going to drive yourself nuts trying to figure this out.”

  Jo’s blue eyes light up like sparklers. “Ohh! What if there’s a new reality show? YouTube stars vie against each other on streaming services,” she suggests.

  “Not helpful, Jo,” I mutter.

  Emerson runs with it. “Right? Or what if Webflix is going to surprise us. Hey, you’re doing the show together!”

  “I highly doubt that,” I say, reaching for my beer. “They would have told Hayes. So why don’t we just ask him tomorrow when we see him for our intro meeting with Webflix?”

  “Fine,” Emerson says with a sigh that says she’ll only let this go for now, not forever. “But I think it’s something.”

  TJ lifts his glass in her direction. “You’re right, though, Em. A cigar is never just a cigar. The powers that be at Webflix want something. They’re putting pieces in motion to get what they want. Don’t mistake it for anything else. We all do what we do because we want things. No one is ever motivation-less.”

  Someone’s got to put a pin in this detective game, so I try once more. “C’mon, man. You don’t think they’re doing it because they just like both shows?”

  TJ scoffs. “There is no just. We don’t just avoid relationships. We don’t just have issues with commitments. There’s always a wound, always a reason, and always a motivation. And there’s definitely no just because.”

  Trouble is, he’s probably right.

  We are wired for fear. We are wired to avoid pain. We are wired to fuck up, and most of all, we are programmed to want.

  Voraciously.

  What I want is this.

  Literally this.

  New York, friends—and a chance.

  The next morning, Emerson and I meet with the network executive overseeing our show at a smoothie shop on Madison Avenue.

  “I feel like I should be in LA,” Emerson whispers as we arrive at Just Juice on Madison Avenue to see Ilene Brancuso.

  Snickering, I point to the sign. “Better tell TJ there is a just when it comes to juice.”

  Shoes click on the sidewalk, and I turn to Hayes, looking sharp in a purple shirt and black pants as he strides toward us.

  He greets us, then motions us closer. “Listen, I’ve made some calls about the gingham grannies. No one is sharing any details with me yet, but I’ll see what I can sniff out later today. For now, let’s just go in there, tell her your ideas, and get sign-off. That’s what matters.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  Emerson smiles. “I promise I won’t be a dick.”

  Hayes claps her shoulder. “I’ll hold you to it.”

  Inside the shop, a woman with pink hair and buff arms waves us over to her table. A large silver tumbler sits in front of her, a metal straw in it. “You must be our new stars,” she says, then stands and shakes hands with all of us. “I’m Ilene.” She gestures to her silver straw. “I bring extras. Straws are so gauche. But I have metal ones for everyone.”

  “That’s great,” Emerson says. “Straws are the devil. But they are fun for innuendo.”

  Ilene winks. “That’s what we love about you. That naughty mouth of yours.”

  “And I’m not afraid to use it,” she says.

  “What can I get you two?” Ilene asks.

  I squint at the minimalist menu behind the counter. Hard to pick between celery juice, kale juice, and clear juice, but I’m going to find a way to do it. “I had a coffee at the hotel. I’m good.”

  “Same here,” Hayes says.

  Ilene flicks her gaze to Emerson, her last hope. “You should try the clear juice,” Ilene tells Emerson.

  Emerson smiles thinly, then shrugs. “Sure.”

  A minute later, Ilene plonks a tumbler on the table, hands Emerson a metal straw, and says, “Bon appétit.”

  Emerson lifts the tumbler, takes a sip.

  Ilene nods enthusiastically. “Really good, right?”

  “Just yum,” Emerson says, overly enthused.

  Ilene takes another long drink of her just juice. “So, we want you to get cracking with our crew. What have you got, what have you got, what have you got?”

  Whoa. Did she just ask three times? She must really want to know. Good thing we came prepared. “I can send over a list of our top choices, but let me go through them now,” I say, then rattle off our picks. “It’s a mix of new restaurants, as well as those that are weird, off-the-beaten path, and a little bit sexy. We also wanted to feature the chefs at each place and tease out their stories.”

  “We’ve researched places where the chefs or owners are real characters, so we want to add that interview element, but keep it tongue-in-cheek,” Emerson puts in.

  “Since that’s our style,” I add.

  “And we love your style!” Ilene shouts. Literally shouts. Then, the pink-haired turbo executive draws a big gulp of her beverage, nodding the whole time. “Perf. Your ideas are just perf.” She finishes her juice, claps her hands, and whistles. “The chefs, the stories, the food judging. Gah, I just love it all. And the two of you.” She shimmies her shoulders. “Your cha-cha-cha is just delish.”

  Actually, I don’t think that’s just juice. I think it’s just coke.

  “And I love all these big plans. Especially the sex-ay ones,” Ilene adds, then leans into a long, dramatic pause. “Which brings me to my quest-tee-ohn-ay. I have to know. Are you two together?” She slaps up a hand in the air as a stop sign. “Wait. I can’t ask that. I’m not allowed. Don’t answer.” She covers her ears. “Tra la la.”

  Emerson and I trade what-the-hell-is-happening glances.

  Hayes mouths she’s excitable.

  No shit.

  When Ilene removes her earmuffs, she folds her hands, takes a deep breath. “Just keep that magic je ne sais quoi between you two going. Know what I mean?” She adds an exaggerated wink.

  The cha-cha-cha made it quite clear to me what she means, so I simply nod.

  Emerson hums like she’s taking this all in. “Yeah, I think I do.”

  When the meeting ends, Ilene blows air kisses, then darts out.

  “She wants us to be Rachel and Ross,” Emerson says in her wake. “She wants that sexy sitcom/are-they-or-aren’t-they energy. Right?”

  Hayes cuts in. “No one is saying you need to change things up. Just be yourselves. And if being yourselves involves flirting like you’ve always done, so be it.”

  “But what she’s saying is sex sells. Right?” Emerson presses. She hasn’t yet met a question she’s afraid to ask.

  He shakes his head, wags a finger. “No. What sells more is not knowing if the couple is sleeping together. What sells is mystery. What sells is the what-if. And on that note, I have another meeting.”

  He leaves, and I meet Emerson’s green eyes, seeing all sorts of what-ifs, and knowing, too, that I can’t have them.

  I swallow them down, gesture to her silver tumbler. “How was it?”

  She shoves my shoulder. “You sneak.”

  “Ouch!” I pretend it hurt.

  “Why did you make me fall on that Just Juice sword?”

  Ah hell. I can’t resist. “You love swords.”

  That earns me a well-deserved eye roll. “I had coffee,” she says, imitating me.

  “Well, why didn’t you try to get out of it like I did?”

  “I was trying to be nice to, oh, you know, the executive in charge of our show.”

  “Aww. Was that hard for you? Being nice?” I tease.

  She shoves my other shoulder. “Almost impossible.”

  I adopt an intensely serious expression. “I’m so proud of you. Your devotion to the cause is truly admirable,” I say. “The cause of How to Eat a Banana.”

  “And now the cause is us sorta, maybe acting . . . sex-ay?” she asks, imitating Ilene.

  “Yeah. I mean,” I say, lifting a hand to brush a chestnut strand from her shoulder, “it shouldn’t be hard, should it?”

  She bites her bottom lip, shakes her head. “It shouldn’t be. That’s the problem.”

  Yeah, it is the problem, so I change the subject. “So, what was in that juice?”

  “Water, Nolan. Just water.”

  The next morning, I wake early to go for a run. In the lobby, I do a double take when I spot a familiar bearded, bespectacled guy trundling a suitcase across the marble floor to the elevator banks.

  The Wine Dude. Marcos Ramirez is one of the YouTube stars I considered reaching out to about the contest.

  “Marcos,” I call out, and he turns to me.

  “Hey, man. You’re in New York again?” he asks after we bump fists.

  “I am. Just doing a thing for Webflix.”

  His dark eyes light up behind his glasses. “For real? Same here.”

  Good thing Emerson isn’t here. Her Spidey senses would tingle and then erupt. “That’s awesome. You’ve got a show with them?”

  He crosses his fingers. “Here’s hoping it pans out, but it looks that way. I paired up with Drive-Thru Babe on that YouTube contest, and well, long story short—”

  “—she’s here too?”

  “You’ll probably see her any day now,” he says.

  “Are you two doing a show together?”

  “No, but supposedly I need to add all sorts of how-to wine stuff to my show. How to buy wine, how to pick wine, how to pair it with sandwiches. Beyond the quickie reviews I did on my channel.”

  And the plot thickens. “Good luck, man,” I say.

  “Let’s grab a drink while you’re here,” he says.

  “As long as it’s not a red, a white, or a rosé,” I agree with a wink.

  “You wine hater,” he calls out.

  “You know it,” I say, and as I run through Central Park, I text Hayes, asking him to get some details.

  Pretty please and stat.

  He writes back in seconds. I’m on it; I’ve got calls out. Will know more soon.

  I hope he calls back before Emerson runs into Drive-Thru Babe or anyone else. I don’t want her freaking out before we know the score.

  Once I finish my run and shower, I gather her up and get her out of the hotel and away from any more potential random run-ins.

  We spend the morning holed up in Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium working on our first script, and I do my best to put YouTube star sightings out of my mind.

  I manage it until Hayes calls me on FaceTime. I answer, grab my bag and step outside.

  “Listen, I got the details on Dot and Bette and the others,” he says.

  Emerson joins me on the sidewalk, photobombing the call by sticking her face in front of my screen. “Tell us everything.”

  He’s all serious as he answers. “Webflix is trying out a bunch of foodies from the YouTube contest. They’ll run episodes of several shows, and whichever one is more popular . . .”

  With a weary sigh, I finish the thought. “That’s the one they’ll pick up.”

  He nods. “Seems that way. Each one has a slightly different vibe. You’re more food and flirt, but they also like the Dot and Bette grandma brand, and they’re playing with new concepts for them too. Then there’s the Wine Dude and the Drive-Thru Babe. There’s also some guy named Max Vespertine. He’s one of those Bourdain types. Rose up on Instagram, I guess. You know him?”

  “No, never heard of him. But I’m jealous of his name,” I say.

  “Maybe I need to change my last name,” Emerson offers, game for anything. “I mean, I can Google super-cool last names too. I could become Emerson Bardot. Emerson Raven. Or just Emerson X. Just off the top of my head.”

  Hayes smiles at her. “Emerson Alva is great. Don’t change a thing. Just be yourself. You guys have come this far with a great concept, great energy, and great chemistry. Just keep it up.”

  “We will,” I say, though it feels a little ironic that our partnership with Dot and Bette has now morphed into an Amazing Race competition. But there’s no other way to see it. “It’s a battle royale.”

  “Sometimes you have to fight for your seat at the table,” Hayes says.

  I’ll have to look for my opening to do just that.

  There’s a new rhythm to the show in New York. We have a camera crew this time. We write out scripts. The crew spends more time shooting B-roll of restaurants, of the city, of us.

  The show expands too. The segments are more in depth. We prep to do interviews with the chefs.

  “What if we’re not as good at the chef interview as Max Vespertine?” Emerson worries as we head down to Chelsea a week later.

  “You think just because he has some uber-cool name that he’s going to be as good as Bourdain?”

  “It is kind of a hot name, and I watched all his videos. He’s good. All broody thoughtful and intelligent,” she says as we head onto the subway.

  And hot? Is he hot too?

  But if I ask that, I might as well wear a mood ring that turns green for jealousy. Instead, I nudge her and needle, “Aww, got a crush on him?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Please. Those smarty-pants serious guys are not my type.”

  I can’t help myself. “What’s your type, then?”

  She gives me the side-eye. “I believe you know.”

  “Do I?” Ah, hell. I hope she says me. I shouldn’t want that, but I do.

  “You said I had terrible taste in men. So obviously, my type is terrible men,” she says, then gives me a sassy smile I want to kiss off her.

  “Touché,” I say.

  As we get off at Fourteenth Street, she bats her lashes and licks her lips, playing it up. “But I suppose some might say you’re terrible too, Nolan.”

  I laugh at her over-the-top flirting. “Keep that up for the cameras, Emerson Alva.”

  “I absolutely will.”

  If Ilene wants us to lean into the flirtation, she’ll sure get it at today’s stop—a restaurant that leaves little to the imagination.

  Maybe this is our first opportunity to step up our game and throw down for that spot at the table.

  Long Food restaurant, I’m ready.

  14

  Long Food and Childhood Dreams

  Emerson

  * * *

  Long Food in Chelsea, with the rainbow flag in the window, boasts a menu of phallic food. Popsicles, pickles, corn dogs, breadsticks, fried asparagus, and ice cream cones. It’s so niche it’s beyond niche.

  But the pop-up restaurant is killing it with its marketing. The imagery all over Instagram of red lips and food like dicks lures the crowds.

  A busty woman named Lucía runs the joint. She wears a black corset, her ample breasts spilling out over the top. Two men in matching leather vests prep the food while Lucía plucks a cherry-red popsicle from a freezer and presents it to us as an offering.

  “Oh, baby. That better have my name written all over it,” I say, making grabby hands.

  “What if I want one too?” Nolan asks in his most charming voice.

  “Bring this man a popsicle,” I say as I take the red one, and the owner hands Nolan an icy treat as well.

  “Yum.”

  I turn to my co-host. “But do you know what makes popsicles truly sexy, Nolan?” My eyes linger on his mouth while the camera captures our je ne sais quoi.

  “Please share,” Nolan says, encouraging me.

  “It’s not the licking or the sucking.” I beckon him closer, playing it up for the audience too.

  He leans in as called for in the script. “Tell me what makes them sexy.”

  I drag a finger along my bottom lip. “How it makes your mouth . . . so deliciously red.”

  Nolan doesn’t answer right away—just stares at my lips, then blinks. “Like you’ve been kissed,” he says.

  “Hard and passionately,” I add.

  “Best kind of kissing,” he says. The husky sound makes flames dance down my spine.

  I don’t know if we’re saying our lines or living them.

  I half wish I weren’t attracted to Nolan. Mostly though, I wish I was alone with him. But I’m not, so all I can do is play it up for the camera. I lick the popsicle some more then give my killer groan.

  “Mmm,” I murmur. “So good.”

  My co-host stares hotly at me as I make out with the cherry ice, then he releases a long, heavy sigh laced with sexual frustration. Is that real or for the cameras?

  “Yeah, I’d say that’s pretty good,” he says, his voice cracking.

  It sounds as real as I feel, and I better judge this popsicle soon, or I’ll need to stick it in my pants to cool off.

  “I declare this an eight point seven five,” I say, holding it high.

  Nolan gives it a seven. “But would you do it again?” he asks.

  Yes.

  The thought of doing him again is too delicious to deny.

  “Perhaps,” I reply. “I could put this popsicle in my mouth over and over.”

  Because we have to give the network what they want.

  Once we’re done with the rating, we segue to the interview. Surely, talking to Lucía will be easier for Nancy and me to handle.

  “So, why Long Food? What inspired you?” I ask.