“And then there was that dude. What was his name? Paul? Larry? Bob? And it turned out he was just kind of creepy. He would show up on your doorstep unannounced.”

  I shudder at the memory and concede, “Fine. Fine. You’re right. I have terrible taste.”

  Nolan strokes his chin, gives me an intense stare through those glasses. “Now, tell me, why do you think you have such terrible taste in men?” he asks in a German accent, affecting an old-school therapist vibe.

  The uncomfortable idea starts to color itself in. A reason, perhaps, or the beginning of one that I don’t quite like.

  So, I deflect. “I suppose it all goes back to my childhood,” I say, as if I’m on a shrink’s couch. Then, I answer him with a piece of the truth. “But it doesn’t make sense. My parents have a good marriage. They’re still together. Callie had a couple good relationships. I’ve had good examples. I don’t really know why I’m drawn to men who are wrong for me. Men I don’t see a future with.”

  But the sketch becomes clearer, the lines drawn in. Is it because I’ve carried a torch for this guy all along?

  Or . . .

  Wait.

  Is there some other reason? Something deeper, something that I’ve pushed down even further?

  My chest constricts. My airways tighten, and for several seconds, the world spins, like I’m suffocating.

  No matter what, no matter why, this romance with Nolan won’t end the way I want. I’ll lose someone I love again.

  I try to shake away the thoughts, to stuff them down again. I throw the spotlight away from me and onto him. “What about your taste? Inés was bad news,” I say.

  “As we discussed earlier today.”

  “So, you’re the same. You have terrible taste too!”

  “Present company excluded,” he says with a soft smile and a poignant gaze that settles my anxious mind a little.

  Especially because he says it so easily, then sighs as he watches boaters skim across the lake. “I think with Inés it seemed like we had so much in common. I guess that’s why you shouldn’t mix business and pleasure,” he says, turning to me, those hazel eyes serious. “But then, that’s not why it didn’t work out with her.”

  “You loved her. It hurt when you learned she abused that trust.”

  “I did. I felt pretty stupid,” he admits. “Maybe that’s the other reason I didn’t tell you about the money. I didn’t want to remind myself of that bad choice.”

  I rub his shoulder, squeezing it. “Do you think that’s why you haven’t been serious with anyone since then?”

  “I’ve dated here and there,” he protests, but it’s feeble.

  “You’re a serial monogamist, but you never go that far. As far as with Inés,” I point out.

  “Who wants to get hurt again?” he asks, offhand.

  Maybe we’re both afraid—for different reasons, but valid ones. “No one wants to get hurt. But that shouldn’t stop you from trying,” I say.

  Maybe that’s advice I should follow myself.

  As the afternoon spills into evening, I vow to do just that. To let Nolan in. To let go of some of my fear, even though I’m not quite sure which I’m afraid of—that I’ve been falling for my best friend all my adult life, or that I won’t let myself fall.

  I don’t know the answer, so I indulge in the physical, hoping it’ll bring me closer to understanding.

  Soon, we’re back at the hotel. Twilight falls over the city, and in my room, we strip down to nothing. Last night, I wanted the intensity, the press of his fingers on my skin, the feel of his teeth on my body. Right now, I want all of him against me, so I pull Nolan onto the bed and hand him a condom.

  Tonight, I let myself revel in the bliss of the moment, in the strange and wonderful sensation of making love with my best friend.

  Of feeling him deep inside me.

  Of relishing his delirious kisses along my neck, his warm skin pressed to mine, his words in my ear.

  “What am I going to do with you?” he whispers.

  Keep me. Keep me.

  I don’t want us to stop. I want it all. I want everything.

  But I can foresee the future. All I can do is savor the press of him against me, the feel of his pulse thundering in time with mine, and the insistent hum in my heart and my head.

  The hum that tells me I might be in love.

  That tells me this won’t end well.

  In the morning, I get a text from Jo—a sad face, chased with a sadder message. I’m leaving New York and moving to London.

  I gasp.

  Impossible! I thought she’d be in New York forever!

  The day is full of shoots and food and cameras and work, but that evening I march into Gin Joint intent on getting to the bottom of this blasphemy. Jo is perched on a couch and holding a glass of wine, looking smart in a yellow blouse, her hair blow-dried. The sharp effect, though, is muted by her frown.

  When I reach her, I park my hands on my hips. “I refuse to accept this.”

  “Me too.”

  “Why are you leaving?”

  “My company is relocating. They’re shutting down the New York office. The job I want? The VP promotion? It’s in London now.”

  I sink onto the blue velvet chaise and drape an arm around her. “That is not okay. We’re finally in the same city. I don’t want you to go.”

  She lays her head on my shoulder, her brown hair spilling onto my chest. “Just handcuff me to New York, please.” Jo sounds as unenthusiastic as I feel.

  “Do you want to leave?”

  Lifting her face, she shakes her head, her blue eyes brimming with wistfulness. “It sounds like a great opportunity. Most art curators would chomp at the bit for a job in the UK. But London is full of . . .”

  “Bad memories?” I supply, knowing her story well.

  “Yes. Too many of those.” She reaches for me and squeezes my hand. “Plus, all my friends are here. I know you don’t live here yet, but I was going to keep you in town. We would all hang out together, all the time. You and Nolan, TJ and Easton. All of us.”

  That sounds like the life I desperately want.

  “I’m going to miss you.” My voice wobbles as I slump deeper into the couch.

  A server swings by and asks if I want something. “Your saddest white, please,” I reply.

  He smiles. “I’ve got an uplifting Chardonnay. Will that do?”

  With a heavy sigh, I nod. When he brings the drink a few minutes later, I lift my glass in a toast to Jo. “To me, kicking and screaming and not wanting to let you go.”

  “To me, kicking and screaming and not wanting to leave,” she says.

  As we clink glasses, realization hits me. I’ve only been in New York for a few short weeks, but already it’s where I want to stay. True, I miss Katie and my friends in San Francisco. But I feel at home here. I feel like myself here.

  New York seems like the starting over I didn’t know I needed.

  “I love this city,” I confess to Jo. “I want to stay. I just hope I can.”

  Jo grabs my hand, squeezes. “You and New York seem like a good pair. You’re both so tough.”

  “I don’t feel so tough when everything can change on a dime.”

  “I won’t argue with you there,” she says.

  We drink again, both a little lost with how quickly our lives are changing. Then, she taps her fingers on my leg. “So . . . what’s going on with you and Nolan?”

  Before I’ve even begun to explain, the door of the bar swings open and the guys come in, joining us. An impromptu quintet of friends.

  Over the years, the five of us have moved around, but we’ve always found our way back to each other, through college, and after college, through work, and amidst all the ups and downs of adulting.

  Now we’re together once more, but not for long. Jo’s taking off. Me, I’m roosting here for perhaps the first time.

  As for me and my best guy friend, I have no idea what happens next with us. If he’s returning to San Francisco, and whether we’re staying or going. Most of all, whether I’ll let myself feel, truly feel, all the emotions storming inside me, or if the painful prospect of hoping so hard and so futilely for a different future will stop me.

  Or maybe, I realize, he’ll stop us before I can.

  Because Nolan doesn’t sit next to me, or hold my hand, or kiss me.

  I try not to read too much into that. But as we reassure Jo that we’ll stay in touch no matter what, that friendships these days can transcend geography and oceans, I keep thinking about change.

  How you can plan.

  How you can learn.

  How you can watch every how-to video on YouTube, but none of them can prepare you for what it means to lose a sister, to chase a dream, and most of all, to fall in love.

  To fall in love and figure out what you’re willing to risk for it.

  20

  Midnight Meetings

  Nolan

  * * *

  The next morning, Emerson rounds up the crew once again with a group text to TJ, Easton, and me.

  We’re bringing Jo cinnamon rolls for breakfast, and we’re going to help her pack. Be there at nine or give up your friend card forever.

  Seconds later, our group thread is full of obvs and I’ll be there responses. An hour later, Jo’s apartment is full of the lot of us bearing mini cinnamon rolls, hugs, and promises we’ll stay in touch while she’s across the pond.

  When Emerson pops open the purple box she brought, Jo rubs her palms together. “Oh, look. It’s Emerson’s booty.”

  I give my co-host’s ass a leer. I know how it feels in my hands and against my palm when I smack it. Know, too, how much she likes a swat or three or four. It’s a bit of a miracle that I can say drily, “It is a nice one.”

  Jo bonks me on the shoulder. “Booty as in plunder. Food plunder. Baked goods.”

  “Prizes, riches, loot,” TJ puts in, then adds, “At least, that’s how I sometimes use the word.”

  The five of us joke some more, down coffee, eat sweets. Jo’s a touch cheerier than she was last night, but not much. “I’m going to miss you all so much.”

  Emerson frowns then pulls Jo in for a hug. “I’m going to miss you too.”

  Is it even harder for Emerson, because of her sister, when someone leaves? It must be.

  After we help Jo pack, the rest of us fan out. TJ heads to a coffee shop to work on his book—or, as he says, attempt to drain words from his beleaguered brain—and Easton departs to his office for work. Emerson and I make our way to an afternoon shoot.

  On the way there, I venture, “It’s hard for you because of Callie, right?”

  Her brow furrows. “Jo leaving?”

  “Yeah. Is that part of why it’s hitting you so hard?” I ask as we walk.

  She hums as if considering the idea. “You’re probably right. I don’t think I realized that. Which is, maybe, silly of me.”

  “No, it’s not.” But maybe I shouldn’t have tried to psychoanalyze this moment. “I didn’t mean to bring up something hard,” I say.

  She grabs my arm. “I’m glad you did. I think you’re right. It probably is harder. Also, I was truly looking forward to spending time with Jo while we were here in New York—going to shows, getting a drink, and just hanging out. And now we can’t do that. I don’t like it when people leave,” she says, then smiles like you’ve figured me out.

  “I think that’s reasonable,” I say.

  I want to promise I won’t leave her.

  More than anything, I want to promise her that.

  Maybe someday I can.

  The next night, after an evening shoot at a swank new supper club, Emerson and I are signing T-shirts and taking pics with fans, when from the end of the line, a redhead shouts, “Foodgasm!”

  The woman squeals when she meets Emerson. “I have been watching your show forever. Back when you did it with your sister,” she gushes.

  Emerson’s green eyes twinkle. “You’re a longtime fan, then,” she says, kind of in awe.

  “I am. And I did not think I would like it with someone else. Took me a while to warm up to him.” She points to me.

  Emerson loops her arm around my shoulders. “I get that. He’s a tough one to like,” she says with a wink.

  I curl my arm around her waist and squeeze her hard. “Same for her.”

  The redhead smiles. “But I’m glad you guys started the show again. It’s just so fun. I look forward to every new episode alert.”

  “And we love doing it,” Emerson says.

  That right there reminds me why a promise not to leave Emerson is hard, if not impossible, to make. We are so wrapped up in each other—how can I make a promise when the stakes are so high?

  But when we’re finished and we board the subway toward the hotel, Emerson leans her head on my shoulder and whispers, “Would you knock on my door at midnight?”

  I give her a questioning look. Lately, I just go over whenever. “Sure. Why?”

  “I just want that.”

  And I want to give her what she wants. I’ll deal with promises another time.

  As the clock ticks the last minutes of that day, I knock on her door. She swings it open wearing only red lace panties. Nothing else.

  I groan savagely at the sight.

  She presses her finger to her lips, then grabs the waistband of my jeans. She tugs me into the room, over to the wall, and pushes me against it.

  “Shh,” she whispers.

  I don’t plan on saying a word. My dick’s already reporting for duty, ready for whatever plan Emerson has in store.

  She reveals her intentions as she unzips my jeans then sinks to her knees. After urging my pants down my thighs, she stops, pressing her face to the fabric of my boxer briefs and rubbing her cheek against my straining hard-on.

  And the panda design on them. “Nice pandas,” she says.

  “They look even better off,” I say.

  With a wicked gaze, she looks up at me. Her eyes are eager. She pulls my boxer briefs down, freeing my cock. Her breath comes in a rush as she stares at my dick. Then she dips her face. Swirls her tongue. Laps me up.

  “Oh fuck,” I grunt.

  This isn’t the first time she’s taken me in her mouth. But it’s the first time she’s done it like this—me against the wall, her in control. She grabs my right hand, guides it to the back of her neck, and curls it around. My muscles shake. My dick hardens even more.

  A zap of pleasure singes my spine as she licks me again then whispers, “Don’t move.”

  I will do anything she asks. “I won’t,” I murmur, so damn curious what she’s got in mind.

  She shows me, opening her mouth and drawing me in, first an inch, then another. When I’m halfway in, I can feel her throat working. Saliva pools around my cock, and she breathes in, trying to relax her throat. Then she guides her mouth onto my cock farther, farther.

  Holy fuck.

  My skin sizzles.

  Emerson’s lips stretch wide and wonderfully around my dick, her mouth closing in on the base.

  I am there, all the way in, and this is the best midnight treat ever. My hand tightens around her neck. She nods in encouragement, telling me to grip her harder. I do, curling my fingers roughly around her skin. Her shoulders rise, give a sexy little shudder.

  Then she slides her hands around me, grabbing my ass and tugging.

  A signal.

  “Honey,” I murmur. “Are you sure?”

  Her eyes say please.

  “You want me to fuck your face?”

  A moan against my shaft. A glossy look in her green irises.

  And I oblige, giving her what we both want. A thrust, then I ease out. She gasps, I push back in. She squeezes my ass, her fingernails digging in. I grip her neck harder, pressing against her flesh.

  “You good?”

  She nods wildly.

  And I fuck her mouth like that—as a slick of saliva slides down her chin, as she gags but refuses to let go, urging me deeper with her hands. As I pump, pleasure accelerates with every thrust.

  I warn her when I’m about to blast off. She digs her nails into my ass one more time, and my world spirals into filthy bliss as I come down her throat.

  It’s insane and wild and intimate, beautiful in its own dirty way.

  Then, it gets even better when she grabs my hand, pushes me onto the bed, and crawls up my chest. “Can I fuck your face?”

  “You fucking better,” I tell her as she sheds her panties.

  When she rides my face as wildly as I fucked hers, I’m sure I want to find a way to keep her.

  And it’s not for the sex—this deeply intimate, amazingly passionate sex.

  What I want might also be the way to get it—its own solution if I can just work out the puzzle.

  21

  Ta-Ta For Now

  Emerson

  * * *

  A few days later, I’m still a little sore in all the good ways. Along my hips. On my ass cheeks. Between my thighs.

  The bruises ache beautifully.

  They make me feel in ways I haven’t before. They make me think about things I didn’t want to consider.

  Like how the hell to lifehack my way into Nolan’s heart without confronting the uncomfortable reality of my so-called terrible taste.

  Only, probably not this second since Ilene emailed last night and requested a check-in. Like that’s not foreboding at all.

  Part of the contract calls for regular meetings, so let’s get regular!

  We said yes, of course. We’ll see her, finish our shoots over the next week, then what? Do we return to San Francisco and wait? Check out of our swank hotel, then couch surf while we stay here and shoot videos for our YouTube channel?

  It feels like limbo.

  I could convince Jo to let me sublease her place, but I’m not in her income bracket. I can’t ask her to take a hit on rent for me.