I just smirk. “When something’s this good, it deserves a nine.”

  “I give them a nine point five,” she says, showing me up, as she does.

  And I love it.

  It feels good.

  We find a coffee shop to buckle down afterward, and she edits while I chit-chat with fans on social media, just like we used to.

  This feels just right.

  But it also feels like I’m running a race to get the girl at the finish line, only I won’t ever win.

  The next afternoon, as we’re leaving for an evening Webflix shoot, we run into Dot and Bette outside the hotel. Dot is laughing—probably at something her bestie said—and her cheeks are streaked with red, green, and yellow paint. Her hair too. Bette is also decorated in splotches.

  When they spot us, both ladies wave with bright eyes and big smiles. Damn, they are friendship goals.

  “Hey, cuties,” Bette says and opens her arms like she’s going to hug us, then she steps back. “Oops. I’m covered in paint. Today was make pies and paintball,” she says, like that makes sense.

  Emerson raises a finger. “Your show is now pies and paintball?” Leave it to my friend to go straight to the obvious question.

  Dot shrugs happily and adjusts her blonde hair, tucking errant strands into a bandana. “It’s our new shtick, apparently. We make food and tour New York. Tomorrow, we’re flipping burgers at a trendy diner and taking a helicopter over the Big Apple.”

  That’s kind of a cool concept. “So, you’re like New York tour guides for food and fun,” I say, adding up the pieces.

  “And then Miami and DC and so on. It’s a little wild,” Dot says, clearly jazzed at the new direction for their show. “We’ve always wanted to travel like this, so it’s super fun, as my Evelyn would say.”

  “And we love it. One hundred percent,” Bette adds. “Also an Evelyn saying.”

  Evelyn pops up out of nowhere; that’s her schtick. She grabs Dot’s arm and tugs her toward the entrance. “We have that meeting in thirty minutes. You need to get out of your paintball clothes and into something—”

  “Yes, yes. Dressy and on-brand. I know, sweets, I know,” she says.

  Evelyn nods to the hotel entrance. “We should get ready.”

  But the message is shut up.

  Fine, fine. I get it. We’re competitors now, but clearly, Webflix is making changes to both our shows.

  As Emerson and I grab the train to our next stop, she gives me her big-eyed look. “Well?”

  I roll my eyes. “Go ahead. Play detective. I won’t stop you.”

  “But you won’t play along?” She frowns as the subway rattles downtown, taking us to Tribeca.

  “I won’t. Because we just don’t know.”

  “But they just might get the slot,” she says. “Their show is like Golden Girls on tour. Everyone loves The Golden Girls. That’s a fact.”

  “True, true.”

  “And they’re getting so much more bling and fanfare from Webflix,” she points out. “Even more so than Max Vespertine and the Wine Dude and the Drive-Thru Babe. But Max totally appeals to the Bourdain crowd, and Drive-Thru Babe is perfect for twenty-somethings, and the Wine Dude has the whole real guy vibe. They’re all so good in their own way.”

  She’s not wrong. But I’ve spent my whole life competing, albeit in my own head, with the guys in my family. Not sure I want to add contention against the lovable, crazy, foodie grannies and everyone else.

  Besides, adding kerosene to this worry fire Emerson is building won’t help. Maybe my role is to extinguish a few of her fears with some . . . calm.

  “And we’re just going to be okay with that,” I reassure her. I reach for her hand, and . . . Fuck it.

  I don’t just squeeze it. I don’t just give a friendly pat. I thread my fingers through hers and clasp her hand in mine.

  It feels right.

  It just does, and there’s nothing more to it than that.

  The Green Ant is all the weird food rage. The trendy tapas restaurant in Tribeca is known for its green ant guacamole—yes, as in made with ants—and its grasshopper tacos.

  A beefy man with slicked-back hair and a passion for, well, unusual combos is the mastermind behind the new eatery. His name is Romain.

  “Convince me,” Emerson challenges the chef. “Pretend I’m a reluctant patron and I don’t want to eat grasshoppers. But you want me to try them.”

  “Hand to God,” Romain says, pressing his palm on the stained front of his chef whites. “You’ll have a foodgasm.” He sets down a long tray of appetizers for us, a dipping bowl of guacamole in the center. With a lopsided grin, he adds, “And it tastes like chicken.”

  “Ah, but see, that’s not enticing to me either. I’m the resident vegetarian.” Emerson’s eyes glint playfully. “Which means I get out of eating grasshoppers on a technicality. Booyah!”

  The big man pats her hand. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ve got some vegan grasshoppers right here for you.” Then he dips his hand under the counter and pulls out a slate gray plate, setting it in front of her.

  Her eyes pop. Whoa. Dude is good.

  “You have vegan grasshoppers? Just like that? You pull them out of your pocket?”

  Shock, thy name is Emerson Alva.

  Romain shrugs, no big deal style. “Make them myself. They’re like crunchy pumpkin seeds.” He points to the asparagus covered in seeds and stage-whispers, “Because they are pumpkins seeds.”

  My fearless co-host clutches her heart like she’s swooning. “Someone loves a vegetarian,” she croons. “Just marry me, Romain.”

  The chef laughs. “I like her. She’s a keeper,” he tells me, and I flash her a smile.

  Maybe it’s even a deliberately sexy smile.

  Wait—call it a knowing grin.

  And that feels good. Better than good, especially when she returns it with a little bob of her shoulder, a twirl of her hair, and—best of all?—a lingering gaze that heats me up.

  All her attention lasers in on me as she tries the vegan grasshoppers. And I’ll take it because, at this moment, a little bit of Emerson’s attention is better than nothing.

  But there’s a show to film. I tear my gaze away from her and turn back to Romain. “Tell us about this place. How’d you start it?”

  “It’s about a girl.”

  Emerson scoots closer. “This I have to hear.”

  “There was this girl in the neighborhood where I grew up. She was beautiful, and I fell in love with her from afar. But she wouldn’t be seen dead with someone like me—no prospects not in her league. So, I saved up some money for a gift to show I was worthy. I gave her a box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day and professed my love. And she? Well, she tossed it in my front yard and said I’d never amount to anything. That box might as well be full of chocolate-covered grasshoppers or ants. She’d never touch them.” He heaves a sigh but then smiles wickedly. “I suppose I was determined to prove her wrong.”

  “And convinced many more than her to like grasshoppers. Very impressive revenge.” I raise a hand to high-five. It takes balls to launch a restaurant to prove a snotty girl wrong.

  He leaves me hanging, though, and holds up a finger. “But wait. It’s not only a revenge story. There’s a love story too.” He stretches a meaty paw to point toward the door. “Down the street there? There’s a button shop. A few years ago, I met the lady who runs it, and she’s now the love of my life. And having our baby.”

  Emerson awws, clasping her heart. “So, revenge turns to love turns to baby makes three.”

  “A lucky chance, if you will,” Romain says.

  “I’ll raise a vegan grasshopper to luck,” she declares, then clasps my shoulder. “And so will this guy, since he’s a keeper too.”

  “Yeah, sometimes luck goes your way,” I say.

  But I’m not looking at the chef or the camera.

  I’m looking at her hand on me, where she’s not letting go. I don’t want her to. I want to steal this moment where we’re allowed to flirt, to tease, to touch.

  Maybe this is the kind of luck you make for yourself.

  Like holding her hand on the train.

  Like making sure we keep doing our own thing.

  Like trying, then trying again.

  And like enjoying this directive from the network to lean into our je ne sais quoi.

  It’s weirdly freeing. It gives me permission to enjoy this feeling in my chest, kind of warm and hazy like curling up in a cozy bed at night, like lying by a fireplace when it snows, like tangling up with sun-kissed skin on a hammock.

  That’s how I feel with Emerson, this woman who’s been by my side through thick and thin, through ups and downs. Who hasn’t ever judged me. Who’s never said I’m not enough.

  But this feel-good, heady sensation will fade, and I’ll be left with the bills like I was before.

  Focus, man. Focus.

  I snap to it, pick up a chip, and taste the ant guacamole. “Holy fuck, this is hella good, dude,” I say.

  Romain thrusts his arms in the air. “Revenge is a dish best served with insects,” he shouts.

  I don’t dispute him there. Those sound like words to live by.

  But there are other words to live by too. Words like work hard, look out for yourself, be smart.

  Emerson and I double down, balancing two shows. At the end of each day, I’m more tired than I’ve been in ages. But it’s a good kind of tired that I feel deep in my bones.

  Three weeks in, we head up the elevator near midnight, yawning ceaselessly. When I reach my room at last, I press my face against the door and let out an over-the-top snore.

  Laughing, Emerson comes up behind me, pets my hair, and whispers, “Me too.”

  “That’s nice,” I whisper, meaning her touch.

  I expect her to take her hand away, but she doesn’t. Instead, she strokes down, and then she glides her fingers through my hair, running her nails along my scalp. I shudder, not tired anymore. My pulse spikes, shooting up, blasting through the roof of the hotel.

  I’m on fire everywhere.

  The air around me shimmers, and my desire spins sharply, intensely, then distills into one wish.

  I turn around, buzzing with want. Her hand drops to her side.

  “I should go,” she says, a hint of regret flashing in her eyes. Is she worried she made a mistake touching me?

  “You don’t have to,” I say.

  “I do, though,” she says sadly, and she wheels around, turns away, and opens her door.

  My heart thumps loudly in my chest, saying follow her. My brain says go to 1205.

  I picture the train, and the Long Food shoot, and the luck, and the looks, and the way she shared her secret with me on the streets of New York.

  I think of all the things I haven’t yet told her.

  My heartbeat thrums so loudly I can’t hear anything else. I cross the ten feet or so to her door, and I knock.

  When she answers, her big green eyes are wide, eager.

  Her lips part.

  She waits.

  And I speak.

  “Listen, I can’t stop thinking about Vegas, or you, or us. I know you don’t do casual, and that we said it can’t happen again. I know the show means the world to us.” I pause to take a breath, then I drag my hand through my hair. “But I want to say it’s really hard to be with you every second and to feel this way for you. And I don’t know what to do.”

  With a buoyant smile, she grabs my shirt and twists the fabric. “Nolan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Just shut up and kiss me.”

  16

  You Could Break My Heart

  Nolan

  * * *

  When a woman lets you know what she wants, you should give it to her.

  First, I follow her command. After I slam the door closed, I grab Emerson’s face and haul her close.

  A hard, wet kiss comes next.

  I grip her tight as I take her mouth the way she likes. The way I learned in Las Vegas.

  Possessively.

  I drag my thumb along her jaw, pressing roughly as I kiss her with rabid intensity. With hunger and a little hurt because she likes that.

  Her noises tell me how much as I give a nibble that turns into a bite. I drag my teeth along her bottom lip, and she goes boneless in my arms. I have to band my arm around her waist, and I don’t fucking mind at all. I don’t mind one bit as I dig my fingers into her lower back, holding her close.

  I kiss her without mercy. There’s nothing soft about this locking of lips. It’s all edges and corners, teeth and bones.

  It’s also about fucking time.

  Then I break the kiss for a second. “Want to see you. How you look when you’ve been kissed by me,” I rasp as I drag my hands down her face, drinking her in.

  Her eyes are glossy, her lips already bruised. “How do I look?”

  Like you could break my heart.

  “So fucking pretty,” I murmur, and I’m about to dive in for more when she slides a hand between us, then up higher.

  I tilt my head. “What?”

  With a soft smile, she whispers, “Glasses,” then takes mine off, reaching behind her to set them on the entryway table.

  “Thanks.” I press my forehead to hers. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Good. Let’s not think. Let’s not think a lot.”

  “Works for me,” I say as I dive in for another round, kissing her mouth brutally and senselessly.

  She gasps then hooks a leg around my hip, pulling me closer like that. So fiery, so clear in her need.

  I’m determined to kiss her everywhere. I start my travels down the column of her throat, nipping and biting, rubbing my rough stubble against her soft skin.

  “Nolan,” she gasps. “Everyone will see.”

  I stop, press a thumb to the bloom of a bruise on the flesh right by her collarbone. “You can cover it with makeup,” I offer. I’m helpful like that.

  Her green eyes twinkle with the promise of a dirty secret. “More. Just gimme more.”

  “So greedy,” I tease, then I lick her neck, alternating open-mouthed kisses with soft and tender ones, a prelude to something darker.

  When I reach her earlobe, I tug it into my mouth and bite. Hard.

  “Oh God,” she gasps. Her hands grapple at my waist, grabbing the loops of my jeans.

  She’s got a plan, it seems, because now she’s unbuttoning, unzipping, and reaching for my bulge.

  That feels so fucking good.

  Rubbing her hand over my hard-on, she moans. “Fuck me, please.” It’s a desperate plea.

  I wrench away from her, meet her glassy-eyed gaze. “Let me fuck you with my tongue first.”

  Her smile is electric and wanton.

  Two minutes later, she’s naked and spread out on the bed. I’m shirtless and in my new favorite place—between her thighs. As I rake my gaze over my fearless woman’s beautiful body, reality hits me square in the chest.

  I’m about to bury my face between my best friend’s legs, and technically, I shouldn’t do that.

  Fuck technicalities.

  Sliding my hands up her creamy flesh, I part her legs wider then dip my face to her sweetness and taste her.

  She gasps.

  I groan.

  We move together. I lick and kiss her slick wetness, and she bucks against me. I wrap my arms under her thighs, drag her closer, and kiss her deeply.

  I lap her up.

  Her breath comes in fast, frenzied pants. Her hips rise up, and her hands glide down her chest as she fondles her breasts.

  Holy fuck.

  She’s so damn sexy as she plays with herself while I eat her out. Her right hand squeezes her breast, and her left hand travels down her body, hunting for me. She threads her fingers into my hair, brings me closer to her center.

  “More. Harder,” she cries.

  Yes, ma’am.

  I kiss her harder, a little rougher too, dragging my jaw along her soft skin. She’ll have some beard burn tomorrow, and I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what she wants.

  Then I return to her pussy, licking and sucking and drawing the swollen bundle of nerves into my mouth.

  “God, yes. Ah yes. That. More. So good,” she says.

  We go on like that. Her one-word commands. My mouth consuming her. My tongue licking her. Her hands grabbing and clawing me.

  I do my damnedest to give her everything she wants—a nip, a bite, a kiss, a hungry lick.

  She’s arching and thrusting, grabbing my head tighter. I can barely breathe, and that’s fine by me. I’m surrounded by her scent, her need. She’s close, and I’m so fucking turned on that I’m humping the bed as I flick my tongue over her just so, right there, until . . .

  With a frenzied cry, she gasps, then shouts to the edge of the sky as she comes hard and beautifully on my lips.

  Pleasure pounds through me. Pride, too, as I slow my pace, listening to her cues.

  I brush tender post-orgasm kisses onto her thigh, then rise to my knees and rub my palm against my straining hard-on. “Want to be inside you so badly.”

  She finishes undressing me in a flurry, tossing my red briefs with wiener dogs on them to the floor with an appreciative whistle. Then, she grabs a condom from her nightstand and thrusts it at me. As I roll it on, she makes a fantastic decision, getting up and rearranging herself so she’s standing at the edge of the bed.

  Well, that’s clear. I stand as she stretches her arms out along the mattress and lifts her ass. Moving behind her, I smack her cheek.

  The noise she makes is so carnal it should be illegal.

  Grabbing her hips, I angle her higher then slide inside. All my brain cells short-circuit. She’s hot and tight and feels spectacular surrounding my cock.

  I sink all the way in, savoring that moment when I fill her completely.

  I breathe out hard. My mind enters a hazy, scorched land where everything is just . . . buzzy.

  And druggy.

  And delicious.

  “You feel so good,” I tell her on a low groan as I ease out, swivel my hips, then pump back in.