With an arch of her back, she lets out a long, staggered sigh. Her fingers twist in the sheets. As I thrust, she grips harder.

  “More,” she urges, and my God, my Emerson has a bottomless appetite for feeling.

  For hard, hot sex.

  For hurt.

  For intensity.

  I pick up the pace then raise a hand again and smack the outside of her thigh.

  On a throaty cry, she shudders and grips the sheets so tight her knuckles whiten, pushing her face into the mattress like she can’t bear it. But that won’t do. I want to see her, feel her. Be connected to my woman.

  My woman.

  Yes, she is mine.

  In all the ways.

  I lower my chest to her back, still fucking, but I grab her chin. “Wanna look at you,” I tell her.

  She turns her face to the side.

  And I want to do more than look at her. I crush my lips to hers in a messy kiss.

  A kiss that’s all lightning and fire as I take her and kiss her at the same damn time. Smacking her thighs, kneading her ass, kissing and fucking and feeling.

  It’s furious and a little out of control, our mouths sliding, bodies slamming. I’m aching to come, but I fight it off.

  Need to get her there.

  One more rough, dirty kiss and it flips a switch in her. Seconds later, she gasps then shivers all over. Her sounds echo in the room like the anthemic chorus in a rock song. She hits the highest note and falls to pieces under me in a coda of incoherent murmurs and sighs.

  My climax slams into me, hitting me all at once. It’s everywhere as I shudder through the blissful sensations, ones I want to experience again and again.

  With her.

  The next day, and the next.

  And every single day after that.

  17

  Flash Mobs and Reclusive Chefs

  Emerson

  * * *

  I once told Nolan I don’t do casual sex because I don’t know how to act afterward.

  Right now, I do know how to act because there is sex and then there is intimacy, and that was both.

  So I don’t have to act at all. I can just be . . . me.

  Nothing felt casual about sleeping with Nolan. Thirty minutes later, I’m still basking in the afterglow as I slide my arms into a robe and tie it tightly.

  “Robes are cool,” I say with a sexy little jut of my hip as I leave the bathroom, post-shower.

  “Maybe on you,” Nolan says, hooking the towel around his waist.

  I flop down on the bed, and he joins me.

  Perhaps this is when the awkwardness sets in. I can feel it creep up on me, but I swat it away with words. “Are you going to spend the night?”

  He strokes his chin as if deep in thought. “It’s a long way back to my place. I don’t really want to do the walk of shame,” he says, and I swat him.

  Then I snuggle into my pillow. “I think I’m a pervert.”

  He laughs, drops a kiss to my neck, chases it with a nibble. “Why’s that?”

  “Hello? You should know. Every time we sleep together, I’m like more, please, bite me, hurt me, smack me.”

  He laughs. “God, it’s so awful. A woman who knows her mind.”

  I turn to him, running a hand over a messy lock of his hair, tucking it behind his ear. He’s all warm and lovely right now, all boyfriend-y.

  I can’t see him as just a friend any longer, or just a business partner.

  My heart somersaults.

  And my big mouth can’t stay shut.

  “What are we doing?” I mince no words, meeting his gaze straight on.

  “Debating where to sleep,” he says with a hint of a grin.

  “Yes, I’m clear on that,” I say.

  He tugs at the robe’s belt. “Well, if you take this dumb robe off, I can curl up with you, and we can sleep. Or not sleep,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. But before I can ask again, he presses a soft kiss to the shell of my ear. “We’re doing . . .”

  I wait for him to finish, my pulse slamming against my skin.

  “I guess what we’re doing is figuring out just how terrible your taste in men is,” he says with a wry smile.

  I roll my eyes then close them, feeling a little hollow. If he can’t say what he wants, there’s no way this can become what I crave.

  The mattress shifts. It dips near my face. Nolan’s weight is on me, and I open my eyes to stare up at a hunk of a man straddling me.

  “I don’t know what we’re doing,” he says, “but I want to do it again. And it’s not just the sex I want . . . It’s you.”

  My whole body goes shivery. That’s enough. Truly enough for me now. “Stay the night, please,” I say again.

  “You couldn’t kick me out if you tried.”

  Talk about blue.

  I stare at my neck in the bathroom mirror. My neck is the color of an alpine lake.

  My phone buzzes on the counter with a text from Nolan.

  Are you ready? We’re cutting it close, and I know you won’t want to miss the cereal.

  I love cereal with a passion, but I also need to deal with this evidence.

  Five minutes! Meet you downstairs.

  I lean closer to the mirror, swiping on more foundation, then more powder over the mark. Almost gone. But I can’t resist. I press a finger to the center of it, and sensation rushes through me.

  An aftershock—maybe the reverberations from last night.

  I set my hands on the vanity, close my eyes, and let the images rush in. Sex isn’t everything, but it sure is something.

  When you finally have the sex you long for, the kind that makes you feel like yourself, it’s so hard to imagine that ending.

  But there’s so much more at stake.

  When I open my eyes, I run my fingers over the ladybug charm. “What would you do?” I ask softly, wishing my other half would answer. Wishing I could turn to her.

  My throat tightens, so I take a deep, calming breath and concentrate on finishing my makeup.

  My phone pings again once I’m done. This time, it’s Jo.

  I have my interview today! Wish me luck.

  I write back. Sending you all the ladybug luck in the world.

  An elevator ride later, I’m scanning for a sign of Nolan when a voice rumbles past my ear.

  “Good morning, Emerson Alva.”

  I turn to say hello to Max. He’s holding a demitasse of espresso. His dark gaze searches my face. Could the man be more intense? I’d guess a resounding, gong-clanging no.

  “Hi, Max. How’s everything going?”

  “Well,” he answers in between sips, pinky up. “Incredibly well. I’ll be interviewing Raven at La Fontaine today.”

  Shut the front door. “He’s like the Banksy of chefs. Raven hardly does any interviews.”

  Max holds up his free hand, waggling one finger. “His interview with me is the first he’s done in years.”

  Wow. “That’s big time. Good on you.”

  He gives a crisp nod. Then his eyes dip to my collarbone—just a moment before he jerks them back up. “I trust it’s the same for you.”

  Without waiting for my answer, he turns on his Doc Martens and walks the other way.

  No, dude, I’m not hanging out with reclusive three-Michelin-star chefs who’ve given zero interviews. I’m eating cereal shakes and grading Froot Loops pancakes.

  With a deep breath, I spin around, shaking my head, and nearly walk into Evelyn.

  And Dot.

  And Bette.

  My God, it’s a food show contestant convention this morning. “Hi, Dot. Hi, Bette. Have they got you leading a Times Square tour today?” Because they’re both wearing I Love NY shirts.

  “Yes! And supposedly, there’s going to be a flesh mob for us,” Dot says.

  Evelyn rolls her eyes. “Flash mob.”

  “Yes, that.”

  Webflix is rolling out the red carpet for them. And for Max. “That sounds wild,” I say, trying to sound legit buzzed for them.

  I am happy for them.

  Of course I am.

  Dot leans, her eyes widening, then she inches closer to me. “Sweetie, you missed a teeny, tiny spot,” she whispers, then points gently to my bruise. “Might want to get a touch more powder.”

  My cheeks pinken. “Thanks.”

  I spot Nolan lounging on a couch, chatting with Marcos. I give him the sign for I’ll be right back, then I scurry to the ladies’ room, grab some powder from my backpack, and paint over the evidence of last night.

  When I finish the work, I stuff my makeup back into my bag, but my hands are shaking, my breathing shallow.

  I try to let go of the worries.

  I want to stop worrying. Truly, I do.

  But I also just want.

  I want to pay off the loan. I want to do right by Callie. I want to stay friends with Nolan. I want to be his lover. I want our show to succeed. I want it to succeed for him, most of all. I know that man—know his needs and his secret hopes. I want to fulfill them all for him.

  This all seems too much to ask.

  I stuff my concerns down to the bottom of my bag, cover them up, and put on a grin.

  In the lobby, I find my co-host and the Wine Dude. “Hey, Marcos,” I say to the bearded fellow.

  “Hey Em,” he says. “Let me know if the Cinnamon Life low-cal milkshake is all that. I’ve been jonesing to try it.”

  “I’m sure it’ll go great with a Merlot,” I say stupidly. Since what I really want to say is How are they wooing you today? Tell me everything.

  Marcos just gives me a that was a strange response look, then smiles kindly on his way out.

  “You okay?” Nolan asks, guiding me outside to a waiting Lyft. As I get in, I catch a glimpse of Marcos sliding into a sleek black town car.

  My stomach craters.

  “No,” I say, with a gulp.

  Nolan climbs in and shuts the door, then he takes my hand in his, covers it. “What’s wrong, honey?”

  Oh God.

  Honey.

  Nothing is wrong now.

  Everything is butterflies.

  I dip my chin, my hair curtaining my face. He brushes it back, cups my jaw, and gently turns me toward him. “What’s wrong?” he asks again.

  “I just . . .”

  “You’re worried everyone else is doing better?”

  I nod. “It’s stupid. It’s so stupid.”

  “It’s not,” he says, then presses a kiss to my forehead. “But you have to try to let it go. Okay?”

  I nod, a little shaky. “I just want it, though. For us. For you.”

  His eyes do something I’ve never seen before. They tighten with something like pain.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, turning the question back on him.

  He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I will be.”

  I sense there’s something he wants to tell me, but the car pulls up to the cereal joint. It’s time to focus on the job and not on this kernel of worry that’s sprouting and digging roots inside me.

  18

  Complex Math

  Nolan

  * * *

  I can’t keep a stupid secret from Emerson any longer. After she declares the cereal shake a nine point two and I give it a six, I grab her elbow and guide her to Abingdon Square Park, a triangular patch of grass and playground at the edge of Chelsea, a secret in the middle of the city that never sleeps. Abingdon Square Park feels like New York is breathing quietly, away from the restless masses.

  We sit on a green slatted bench, and I turn to Emerson. “I don’t owe money on a student loan,” I say.

  She tilts her head, her eyes question marks. “What do you mean?”

  I blow out a breath. My bones tighten like I’m a Jack-in-the-box. It’s a little painful, but after what she said in the car—I just want it, though, for us, for you —I know TJ and Easton were right. It’s time.

  “I don’t have student loans for cooking school,” I begin, trying to release the strangling tension.

  A line burrows into her forehead. “I know that. You’ve told me Jason wanted to pay for it. I thought you had a small student loan from college. That your dad wanted you to pay for some of college,” she says. Her face is a complex math equation. Mine is probably a portrait of shame.

  I wince to hear my lie repeated back to me. “That’s not true,” I admit.

  She blinks. “Oh. Okay.”

  “My dad is, well, you know. He’s well-off. So’s Jason.”

  She nods. “Right.”

  I rub a hand along my chin. “I don’t owe anything from college. I . . . made that up.”

  Emerson jerks back her head. “What?”

  Hell, this is harder than I thought. “I lied to you. I didn’t want to tell you, or them, the truth.”

  “Nolan, you’re freaking me out. What is it?”

  “The bistro I opened with Inés? In France?”

  “Yes?”

  “She put up most of the initial cash, but I helped with the rest. Used basically all my savings. And I co-signed on her loan. When we split up, she said she’d cover the payments,” I say.

  Emerson sighs sadly, easily doing the math now that she has the numbers. “She didn’t take over?”

  I shake my head. “A few months ago, she defaulted on the loan I co-signed. That’s how I ended up with the debt for her failed restaurant.”

  Her expression falters; her jaw falls open. “Oh, Nolan,” she says, soft and sympathetic.

  But I don’t deserve sympathy. “It’s embarrassing.”

  She reaches for my face, cups my cheeks. “Don’t. Don’t be embarrassed. I get it.”

  “You do?”

  “You didn’t tell me because you had to keep it from your dad and Jason. Because they’d pay the debt, and you didn’t want that. So, you kept it to yourself.” She clasps my face tighter. “Am I right?”

  My heart spasms. How the hell did she figure that out? “You are a detective,” I whisper.

  She shakes her head. “No. I just know you. I get you.”

  “You do,” I say, then tell the rest of the story. Now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. “They didn’t like her. They told me not to move. Not to follow her. They were right. I didn’t want to disappoint them. And I guess I didn’t want to disappoint you either.”

  “I’m not disappointed. And I won’t be. Ever,” she says gently. Then, she lets go of my face like she just realized she was holding me.

  “You don’t have to stop,” I offer.

  A soft laugh falls from her lips. “Is that so?”

  “That is so,” I say, then take a beat. “You’re not pissed I lied?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t tell you the truth about my loan. Why on earth would I be mad you didn’t either?”

  “But yours was for something good, something noble,” I point out.

  “Maybe yours was for something good too. Self-preservation,” she says with a knowing shrug. “But I’m glad you told me.”

  I’m glad I did too. I just didn’t expect her reaction, the purity of it, or that it would make me fall a little harder for her.

  Trouble is, I also want to protect her from guys like me.

  Guys who can’t give her everything she deserves.

  19

  The Truth of Terrible Taste

  Emerson

  * * *

  As we leave the park, Nolan asks if I want to take the afternoon off.

  The idea sounds brilliant. “I do.”

  “No shop talk,” he commands.

  I mime zipping my lips.

  We walk around Chelsea, then catch a subway uptown, and stop at The Met before turning around and deciding art isn’t our speed.

  Instead, we wander through Central Park, stopping at Bethesda Terrace and staring at the New York skyline. “Did you ever think about putting New York on your road trip?” Nolan asks.

  I shake my head. “Callie never liked New York. She loved all things vintage and retro. She wanted to see the places you’d visit on a great American bucket-list road trip. But I like New York. It suits me.”

  “Because to really succeed here requires a ton of preparation and life hacks, and you’re amazing at that?”

  I laugh. “Because New York is kind of a jerk, and I can be one too.”

  His eyebrow arches with doubt. “I’m not really sure you are.”

  I growl at him and narrow my eyes. “Don’t you dare say I’m nice.”

  “You’re kind of nice sometimes, Emerson.”

  I pretend I’m going to jump him, wrapping my arms around his neck in a faux headlock. He laughs then drops a kiss onto my nose. So, it’s like that. We kiss in public now. My stomach does a loop-de-loop. Boyfriend-y indeed.

  But I don’t want to label this just yet. It’s too risky, too new. I don’t even know how we can pull it off, or whether we should.

  I’d rather linger in this glowy state for a little longer.

  “But seriously. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why my relationships haven’t worked out,” I muse as I let go of him. “If I speak my mind too much.”

  He tosses his head back, cackling. “Em, your relationships didn’t work out because you’ve had terrible taste in men. Would you like me to go through and present the evidence?”

  “By all means. This should be a real character assassination,” I say, but in my head, thoughts are racing. Do I have terrible taste? Is that a thing?

  “First, there was Topher. He brought his friends on a date with you. His fraternity brothers,” Nolan says, and I groan at the horrible memory.

  I defend myself. “And I didn’t go out with him again.”

  Nolan clears his throat. “You saw him one more time.”

  Ugh. Busted. “I believed in second chances,” I grumble, looking out at the lake.

  “And then there was super-boring useless-fact guy. The one who tried to scare you off roller coasters.”

  “We already agreed about that one,” I say, faking a huff, but something nags at me—the start of an answer to the terrible taste question.