There are too many what-ifs.

  But this is a fact—we’re meeting Ilene, and it’s time to camouflage my collarbone again.

  Once I’ve blended foundation and powder over my bites, I meet up with Nolan downstairs, and we hustle out of the hotel to check in with Ilene before our shoot today. Melt My Heart, where we’re filming today, is a specialty sandwich shop that supposedly has the most orgasmic grilled cheese anywhere.

  Well, good grilled cheese is toe-curling.

  A few blocks away, the pink-haired executive waits for us at the counter of an austerely black-and-white café called Good Morning. She points to the menu with her particular vim and vigor. “I tested this place yesterday, and it is the best! Good Morning only serves turmeric beverages, and turmeric is one of the foods that will change your life. You must try the Straight Turmeric Morning Blast-Off. It’s life-changing,” she says.

  “Thanks, but I just had a coffee,” Nolan replies, all deadpan and mischief.

  He beat me to it again. I shoot daggers at him with my eyes.

  “But I’m sure Emerson would love one,” he adds with the sweetest smile.

  I glare harder. I might torture him with my mouth later, licking and sucking but refusing to draw him all the way in for a good, long time.

  Wait, that doesn’t sound like torture, except maybe the most exquisite kind.

  Ilene spins toward me, her big eyes imploring. “Emerson, join me. You have to. Pretty please? I insist.” She presses her palms together.

  “Sure. I’ll do a turmeric latte,” I say, plastering on a smile. Yay, I get to drink gross coffee blends. Maybe the milk and foam will mask the disgusting taste. A woman can hope.

  A few minutes later we grab a table, though it’s more like a seat on a concrete slab at a concrete bar. Good Morning takes “stark” to new levels. Nolan and I sit next to each other across from the woman who holds the fate of our career in her hands.

  Ilene riffles in her purse for a gleaming silver metal straw, which she raises in victory before dropping it in her tumbler. She sips some straight turmeric smacking her lips in satisfaction.

  I smile as I lift the white mug, bracing myself for the hell of a turmeric latte. Yum. Ilene beams, her white teeth gleaming.

  “So, everything is going great. Super great. We love what you’re doing. Just keep doing it,” she says.

  That’s nice but a little vague. “Is there anything you want us to change?” I ask.

  Nolan jumps in to ask, “More interviews? Less interviews? Do you want more focus on New York? Different types of places? We can go divey or upscale, food truck or pop-up—we’ve got a long list of spots.”

  Ilene nods thoughtfully, taking another sip. “Interesting, very interesting.”

  Umm. What’s interesting? Which one? I don’t want to put her off, so I toss out more ideas. “I’ve always thought it would be fun to give tips on surviving dinner parties,” I begin.

  Her eyes twinkle, saying go on.

  “Like a funny little segment on how to make small talk when the guest next to you can only talk about traffic or the weather,” Nolan adds. We brainstormed this concept together. “Or project management software.”

  We agreed project management software is trés boring.

  “Yes! That happened to me the other night,” Ilene says. “Dinner parties are straight from Sartre. As in, hell is other people.” Ah, so she’s a philosophical health nut. Truly, this city takes all people. “Though, supposedly Sartre said his quote was misunderstood. Or so my dinner party partner told me. Whatevs! I say he got it from some other dinner party.”

  Maybe we’re onto something. “So, that could be a fun addition,” I say, hoping to capture more of her enthusiasm. “Along with more of the judging, maybe even getting audiences involved. Possibly some of the red-carpet treatment, too, like the others are getting.”

  Another sip, another nod. “Audience involvement. I just love it,” she says, sounding like I proposed inventing gravity when it didn’t exist before.

  “Should we sketch out some of those ideas?” Nolan asks, as eager as I am. “Try to work them into the show?”

  “Nah! Just keep doing what you’re doing,” she says, then checks her watch. She takes one more sip. “Gah. Gotta go. I’ve got an appointment at Saks.” She jumps up. “TTFN.”

  Then, she vanishes like a superhero, disappearing out of the café in a flash of pink hair and rocket fuel.

  I stare at Nolan, my heart an anvil. “She couldn’t even take time for ‘ta-ta for now,’” I say forlornly.

  He smiles softly. “It’s fine.”

  “Is it, though? Jo is leaving, and Ilene gave us less than four minutes of her time. I just feel like we’re falling behind. Don’t you?”

  “Sometimes,” he says, his eyes gentle. “But I’m trying to enjoy what we have.”

  We as in him and me, or we as in the show? That’s what I should ask, but I’m too afraid of the answer.

  “So, what do we do?” I grab his arm, squeezing his hard bicep. I want to gift wrap our chances with a big red bow, and that’s just dumb. But I want what I want. “What do we do to win?”

  “We might not, Emerson. We might just have to be happy with what we have,” he says, the calm in the center of my storm.

  Like he’s always been.

  He’s my point of balance. My safe harbor.

  My heart goes smushy at the thought. But still, I want so much. I want this success so deeply. I want it for him. “Nolan, what if—”

  He leans in and silences me with his mouth.

  When his soft, firm lips cover mine, the world spins away. My head goes pleasantly blank, my body delightfully warm and tingling.

  And I give in.

  To whatever we can be.

  Nolan wraps a hand around my head, curling his fingers through my hair. He slips his tongue into my mouth, deepening our connection, pulling me closer as he kisses me in a very public display of affection, giving me a very not-safe-for-work kiss. With the sweep of his mouth, I forget everything except the taste of his lips, the scent of his skin, and the way I feel when I’m in his arms.

  Safe. Safe and thrilled, all at once.

  Questions flick through my head. Will audiences like the mystery of us if we’re no longer a mystery? What if there’s no more what-if? And the biggest one of all—will I let myself have this?

  But logic is hard to locate when he’s shutting me up with a kiss like he knows me, cares about me, and wants me.

  Evidently, sometimes I just need kissing.

  When he breaks away, I don’t have any more answers to the career questions, but I’m coming closer to the personal one.

  I’m inching nearer to understanding my walls—and maybe how to scale them.

  Let go of the past. Say goodbye to the things I clutch too tightly. Release my guilt. I want to tell Nolan I think I finally know why I’ve had terrible taste.

  “Nolan . . .” I try to say more, but the words stick, and I look away from his hazel eyes to catch my breath. I’m still so dizzy from his lips I can’t form thoughts into words.

  So dizzy that it takes a few blinks to register who it is smirking down at me.

  Max Vespertine.

  22

  Melt or Break

  Nolan

  * * *

  This guy.

  His smug face is the last thing I want to see. I don’t want to watch his lips curl in slow motion, painful milliliter by more painful millimeter, into a slick grin.

  Max points a long finger at the table where Emerson and I sit. “Ilene left her straw. She asked me to fetch it.”

  My face reddens, cheeks flaming. I can’t believe we were busted by this Bourdain copycat who thinks he’s the shit.

  I grab the straw, thrust it at him. “Here you go. Wouldn’t want her to be without it,” I say, cool as all the cucumbers in the summer salads in this city.

  “She does love her straws,” Max says, still smiling like a pussycat.

  I steal a glance at Emerson. Her face reads Oh hell, oh fuck, oh no.

  In spite of the horror on her face, her eyes say she’s dying to know if Max is going to Saks with Ilene. Sounds like a Dr. Seuss book, and as much as it pains me, I fall on that sword for Detective Emerson. “Have fun at Saks,” I remark evenly, like he didn’t just score a juicy are-they-or-aren’t-they secret to clutch in his paws.

  “Yes. Shopping. It’s a thing,” Max says.

  Somehow, I don’t roll my eyes. It’s hard but I manage.

  “Yup. It sure is.”

  He puffs out his chest, stands a little taller. “So, this has been quite interesting.” His dark eyes shift from Emerson to me and back as if adding up the evidence.

  “It’s very interesting,” I say evenly.

  Dude, you saw the evidence. It’s not complicated. Now make yourself scarce.

  “And on that note,” Max says with one more knowing glance our way, “I’m off.” He strolls to the door, looks back over his shoulder, and zings, “Oh, and best of luck.”

  When he’s finally gone, Emerson blows out the biggest breath in the city.

  “Nolan,” she says, her tone stretched thin, her face mired in worry.

  I know what to do. I hate it, but it’s the only choice.

  “Em,” I begin heavily, feeling like I’m ripping off a piece of my heart. “I think we should cool it.”

  She freezes. Silence consumes her for several terrible seconds until her voice trembles, “You do?”

  I hate myself, but this is necessary. I grab her hand under the table and squeeze it. “There’s too much at stake. I don’t trust that guy. We’re not doing anything wrong, but what if Hayes is right? What if Ilene meant it when she covered her ears that day we met and said she didn’t want to know? What if the mystery is what sells our show?”

  Her lower lip quivers, but she nods. She’s so damn tough, even as her eyes shine with tears. She nods again, several times, then tugs her hand out of mine.

  My hand is cold without hers, my heart hollow.

  “Of course,” she says.

  “Just because . . . it’s too risky. We both want—”

  “I know,” she says, a bit sharp.

  Sharper than I expected.

  That stings too, but I deserve it. I should be telling her she’s incredible. That she’s energizing, engaging, vulnerable, funny, kind, and the only woman I want. That she makes me want to be the kind of guy who deserves her, a guy who can give her everything.

  “I know, Nolan. It was foolish of me to kiss you like that,” she says, suddenly cool, suddenly collected.

  I blink, surprised, and correct her. “I kissed you.”

  “But I needed it,” she says, stabbing her chest with her finger, annoyed with herself. “That was the problem. I needed it because I’m way too obsessed with the show and making it work, and it’s making me do and say things, and you had to shut me up with a kiss. It’s my fault.”

  “It’s okay to need things. Or need a kiss,” I say. Except, why am I arguing with her about kissing? That’s not helpful.

  “It’s not okay,” she says, building up a head of steam, and I want to defuse it for her. That’s my instinct.

  “Em, I’m sorry. I just . . .” I trail off because I don’t have the tools to reassure her about this. “I just don’t know what to say.”

  When she shutters her expression, I know those were the wrong words to speak. That’s a break-up line, through and through. Because that’s what I just did. I broke it off with her.

  She stands, smooths her black shirt, grabs her backpack, and points to the door, and everything feels wrong.

  Us ending feels wrong.

  But if we don’t end it, we miss our chance at the dreams we’re chasing, barely catching.

  She waves broadly to the street outside. “I have a quick call. My mom. She wanted me to call her. I’m going to do it in the room. I’ll meet you in an hour at Break—”

  I jump in. “Melt My Heart.”

  “Yes. That.” Her answer sounds strangled. “The best grilled cheese in the . . .”

  She doesn’t finish. Maybe she can’t. She just purses her lips and leaves.

  Everyone is leaving.

  Everything is a mess.

  Most of all, my dumb heart, because I think I just broke up with the woman I’m madly in love with.

  23

  Doing it Again

  Emerson

  * * *

  It seems wrong to indulge in such grilled cheese decadence today.

  As I bite into the gooey, oozy Gouda, its deliciousness is a slap in the face.

  How can anything taste good after I’ve been dumped?

  The crowd gathers around our table. We’ve got quite an audience for this episode. I chew seductively, then lick the corner of my lips.

  Someone calls out, “Give it that killer groan.”

  I do as they ask, with a long purr of praise. “So good.”

  Nolan grins at me, flirt in his eyes, a clever tilt to his lips. He seems barely affected by our split this morning.

  But then, I doubt the break-up rule book has a proviso for this twisted situation—act turned on by the food you sample with the man who dumped you.

  Evidently, I’m a damn good actor because, as I ham it up, giving the fans the full foodgasm, no one seems to have a clue that, a little while ago, the man across from me scooped out my heart with a serrated melon ball spoon.

  “So, Em. What’s the verdict?” Nolan asks, setting me up with my catchphrase. “Would you do it again?”

  His question pounds through my head. Would I do it again?

  Kiss him again in Vegas? Sleep with him that night? Do it again in New York, then wander through the city with him, sharing my hopes and dreams?

  Earlier memories fight their way to the front of my mind too. The night in college when we rearranged our friends’ dorm. The day he agreed to be my new banana. The night at Jason’s place before we left San Francisco.

  Would I do it again?

  Take the parrot flight? Race around Vegas grabbing grub to bring to the gingham-clad friends who embraced us with open arms? Slug him when he dodged the Just Juice and the turmeric? Protect him when Evelyn asked him about Inés Delacroix? Let him see my sloppy, naked, anxious heart?

  Maybe I would. Because every time my anxiety about the show spun higher, Nolan settled me.

  I don’t know.

  But at least I could fake certainty for the cameras. “Yes, I totally would,” I answer, in a smoky tone.

  I fake it for the crowd too, as we stay after the recording, pose for pictures, and act like everything is what it’s always been. But it’s not.

  We feel irretrievably broken, and I hate that.

  When the last woman in a line of fans glances from Nolan to me and back, then starts to speak, asking, “Are you guys—”

  I cut her off at the knees. “Nope. We’re not.”

  “Cool,” she says, then wheels around and leaves.

  She doesn’t even ask him out. I turn to him, shrug. “Sorry. I thought she was going to ask you on a date. You probably wanted her to.”

  Nolan stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “No, I didn’t.”

  He leaves the joint first, waiting for me on the street as I zip up my backpack. Maybe he needs space from me. When I reach the sidewalk, he gestures to it but says nothing as we walk to the hotel together.

  We rarely walk in silence. But tonight, neither of us seems to have a word to say. And I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.

  When we reach the hotel, we find Max lounging in the lobby, flipping through a dog-eared copy of Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections. Because of course he reads Franzen. Rolling my eyes, I huff, ready to mutter to Nolan, Franzen. Fucking Franzen.

  But I suck back the words. Can I still joke with him? Should I?

  Nolan tips his head toward the sleek hotel bar where Marcos lifts a glass of red wine in an invitation. “I’m going to . . .”

  “Go for it,” I say, then I give a big yawn, selling my tiredness.

  Nolan heads to the lobby bar, fist-bumping Marcos, and I start toward the elevator banks.

  I steal a final glance at Max as I go by and see him smirking above his book. I don’t know when or how he’ll use his ammo about us. I’m not sure it matters—he kind of already pulled the trigger since the damage has been done.

  As I reach my room, an email from Hayes flashes on my phone. With dread coiling in my gut, I click it open.

  Hey, hey! Ilene emailed to say we should expect a decision in two more days. Chin up!

  Weariness cloaks me as I wash off my makeup and get in bed. I text Katie to say hello, and we chat for a bit, catching up on everything, including my heartbreak. I spill the details, then ask—

  * * *

  Emerson: What do I do now?

  * * *

  Katie: You keep going.

  * * *

  Emerson: Like you did when it happened to you.

  * * *

  Katie: Yep. I’ll always be here for you. I love you, friend. Know that.

  * * *

  Emerson: Love you too.

  * * *

  I run a finger over the screen. It’s not nothing, having friends like this.

  Hell, it’s . . . everything.

  Katie will still be around on the other side of two more days. So will Jo. So will my parents.

  I hope Nolan will too.

  The next morning, Nolan and I hit up a trendy vegan café for breakfast, then edit the hell out of the footage quickly for our YouTube channel.

  I show him the final, and he says, “Looks good,” then checks the time on his phone. “I’m going to meet the guys to work out.”

  “Cool. Hope you . . . lift lots of weights,” I say, slapping on a stupid grin.