A little later, with wet hair from the shower this time, he pads back into the kitchen as the veggies sizzle. “What have you been up to today?” he asks as he yanks open the fridge and grabs a bubbly water.

  “I found a cool new contest to enter.”

  “Is it for the hottest YouTube stars?”

  “Ha.” I roll my eyes because sure, I made that list, and it did give us a boost for a bit. It also gave my friends and family endless fodder to tease me. Fair game, I suppose. “I only wish those paid well. If they did, I’d clean up.”

  He cracks open the can and takes a sip. “So, what’s the contest?”

  “You pair up with other top creators,” I say and give him the details. “So now, I’m just trying to decide who to reach out to. There’s The Burger Boys, Pizza Paulie, Drive-Thru Babe . . . oh, and the Wine Dude. He’s hilarious with his wine and food pairings for idiots.”

  Jason’s blue eyes spark, and he sets down his drink on the counter and snaps his fingers. “I have the perfect duo for you.”

  “You do? Who?” I ask, a little surprised since I don’t think he spends his free time chilling with online videos unless they’re of the game film variety or feature new yoga poses for football flexibility.

  “I met these adorable grandmas at a signing the other week. They are so freaking cute. You’re going to love them. Dot and Bette’s Home-Cooked Meals.”

  “Oh yeah! I’ve heard of them. They started a few months ago and shot all the way up, but I haven’t checked them out yet since their style is so different.” I toss him a side-eye glare as I turn down the heat, then slide the peppers into a bowl. “But what the hell? I can’t believe you watched another food show.”

  “Another? You assume I watch yours,” he deadpans.

  I heave a sigh. “Why do I root for you?”

  “Because I’m awesome, and I’m also your favorite brother,” he points out.

  “Participation trophy for you too, Jaybird,” I say, but truth be told, this guy has done more for me than any brother should. Hell, I could say the same for my dad. The men in my family are all the way awesome, and I’d just like to live up to one-tenth of who they are. Maybe I will if I can get the hell off the damn cusp.

  I sprinkle some salt and pepper on the green yummies, then put the bowl on the counter. “Let’s check out some Dot and Bette while we eat,” I say, plating his dinner next, then cueing up the ladies on the tablet and crunching into a fantastic pepper.

  The screen fills with the welcoming faces of two sixty-something women. One is Black, one is white, and both wear gingham dresses.

  “Well, hello there, y’all. I’m Dot. And I don’t believe in the gospel of butter, olive oil, or too much fat. I worship at the altar of healthy-ish meals,” the white woman says in a big Texas accent.

  The Black woman goes next, her voice pure Georgia charm. “And I’m Bette, and you can bet your bottom dollar we’ll teach you every dang thing we know about how to substitute applesauce in chocolate chip cookies without a single soul but your priest knowing.”

  Holy shit.

  They are sassy and on the same wavelength when it comes to healthy eating. They’re like your favorite feisty grandmas.

  “They’re good,” I say after a few videos and a few more of the life-sustaining peppers.

  “They also love me,” Jason says, setting down his fork, then pointing to their recent episode.

  I groan, but it’s a proud groan when I click on that one.

  And what do you know? Dot and Bette are both sporting my brother’s Hawks jersey—signed by the dude who threw footballs to me in the backyard. I was his favorite target growing up, and that still makes me proud.

  “So, we are super excited because we met Jason McKay last week, and yes, hold your horses, friends, he signed my jersey,” Dot says and turns around to show off a number fourteen.

  “And to think I signed a T-shirt in a burger shop today,” I mutter. But these ladies? A few short months on the site, and they’ve already shot past us in viewership. They’re YouTube darlings, getting love from the site and from sponsors. They’d be ideal partners.

  Jason nudges me with his elbow. “Tell them you’re my bro. I bet they’d love to partner with you,” he says, then finishes his dinner.

  This kid, he’s smart. I send Dot and Bette an email asking if they want to collaborate.

  In the morning, there’s a reply for me, and I can’t decide if I’m thrilled or terrified to open it.

  3

  Mister Hustle

  Nolan

  * * *

  Emerson gives good “excited” face.

  I’ve seen many versions of it since I met her twelve years ago at college.

  There was the time in junior year when she scored nosebleed tickets to Les Mis on Broadway and belted out her own lyrics to “One Day More” in our dorm hall:

  ToMORrow I’LL be in Times Squaaaaare . . .

  And WITH this SHOW a fangirl has starteeeeeehhhd.

  Then, a couple of years ago, when the first episode of How to Eat a Banana reached a thousand views in two hours, she moonwalked on Fillmore Street. Though, full disclosure, I dared her to, since the day before, she’d bragged about learning how to moonwalk from a series of Michael Jackson dance-move tutorials.

  Earlier this year, when she was having a rough day, I surprised her by whipping up her favorite sandwich in the whole world—avocado, Beecher’s Cheese, tomatoes, and my very own signature sauce on an everything baguette from the Sunshine Bakery. With a smile of gratitude, she crunched into it, moaned around it, and then set it down to throw her arms around me. “This sandwich makes me so happy,” she’d said.

  Maybe I glowed a little from the compliment.

  But those moments pale next to the way her face splits into a city-wide smile as she grabs my phone and reads the email, wonder in her irises.

  We’re standing in the financial district outside the TV station where she’s just finished doing makeup for the morning show anchor. Wind whips by, a typical San Francisco chill in the spring air.

  Once she finishes reading, she says, “Allow me,” then adopts a Texas down-home accent and reads it again, this time aloud.

  * * *

  Dear Nolan,

  What an absolute delight to hear from you. Wouldn’t you know, but we’re big fans of your show. We just started watching it last night, and we did that binge-y thing! Woohoo! And we sure like what we see. You and your little lady are so stinking cute.

  We would love to partner with you. What a treat to meet someone who doesn’t cook Paula Deen style! You’ve got to keep that ticker going for the more fun activities in life! As I say, food is fuel for love.

  If you know what I mean.

  Winky face!

  So, here’s the story. Our business manager, Evelyn, is here with us in Vegas. And we’re throwing a little ol’ party tomorrow since we just crossed some threshold or another on the YouTube. What a fun site! But . . . Confession time: We don’t even know how to get on the YouTube.

  Evelyn does all the uploads and the videos and the thingies behind the scenes. We just smile for the camera and stir up the blessings in the kitchen.

  In any case, we like to do everything face-to-face. We don’t suppose you’d want to come to our party tomorrow night? I think you’re in California, so maybe just hop in a convertible and road trip on across the state border! Come join us, and we could even shoot a quick video too, for both our channels, assuming all goes well!

  It’s kind of last-minute, but hey, sometimes the best things in life are spontaneous. Like my grilled zucchini nachos! I’ll be serving them tomorrow night!

  All my best,

  Dot, Bette’s best friend

  Emerson thrusts the phone back at me, and I drop it into my pocket, rocking on my toes and asking, “So, what do you think?”

  “What do I think?” She’d be rubbish at poker; she can’t bluff for beans.

  “Yes, what did you think?” I repeat. She looks as if she’s about to take off for Jupiter, but I want to hear it from the woman herself. This chance means as much to her as it does to me. And if I can make success happen for both of us, well, that would go a long way toward making up for dumb decisions in my past.

  Her brown hair blows in the breeze, and she flicks it back and advances slowly toward me, a sly grin playing on her lips. Her eyes are sparklers, twin fireworks on the Fourth of July. My best friend looks happier than she did when I made her that sandwich, so it might be time for me to revise my list of Top Excited Emerson Face Moments.

  “I think . . . Vegas, baby, Vegas. I think . . . let’s make a deal with these two ladies. They’re huge, and their show is all that. I think this is one of the best things ever and you”—she pokes my chest—“are officially amazing.”

  I feel fucking amazing too, like we’re closing in on our dreams coming true.

  She lifts her hands for a double high-five. We smack palms, and . . . wait.

  I didn’t expect her to do that.

  She’s not letting go. My gaze sails down to our joined hands, her fingers curled through mine, clasping tight to me outside the TV studio building. “Holy shit, Nolan,” she whispers, as if to voice it at full volume would be too risky. As if we need to guard our hopes in secret a little longer or life might vanquish them again.

  “Holy shit, indeed,” I whisper back, excitement thrumming through me.

  If we pull this off. If it lands us on the home page.

  If, if, if.

  This could be our next step. The thing that gets us out of debt. The thing that makes this a full-time gig for us.

  I squeeze her fingers too, and like this, with our faces inches apart, I’m thinking we’re going to kiss again.

  My pulse surges, and for a couple of dangerous seconds, I imagine us kissing again here on a street corner in the city, on a chilly morning, in this bubble of possibility.

  A we-might-just-pull-this-off kiss.

  But a few seconds after that risqué thought stirs things up south of the border, she lets go. “I need to make a to-do list.”

  Saved by her idiosyncrasies. “Yes, yes you do,” I say.

  My voice is a little rough from that momentary meander. I shake it off and adjust my glasses, even though they don’t need adjusting.

  Emerson, though, is all business. Guess I’m the only one who tripped back in time to that past kiss.

  “We need to be in Vegas tomorrow night.” She points to the street, shorthand for “time to walk and talk.” We get moving as she lays out our plan of attack. “Here’s what we need to do. Book our travel, pack an overnight bag, get a hotel.”

  “A cheap one,” I add.

  “Obviously.”

  “We’ll grab our gear and plan a fantastic concept for a quickie episode to run on our channels. Wait, wait! I already have one.” She spins to walk backward, that gigantic makeup bag swinging like a blunt weapon by her side. “We need something super Vegas-y. Ooh, how about we swing by Tacos El Gordo? The double corn tortillas there are supposed to be a religious experience.”

  “I do believe,” I say like I’ve gone Pentecostal.

  A victorious yes comes from her lips as she wheels around again. “Heavenly tacos will pave the way to their hearts.”

  This episode idea is good, but it can be better. After all, can man and woman live on tacos alone? “Better yet. How about we bring Dot and Bette a sampler of our Vegas faves? To taste test on camera with them if they’re game. We can get Brussels sprouts from Momofuku, tacos from Tacos El Gordo, and egg sandwiches from—”

  We shout in unison, “The Egg Slut.”

  Emerson stops at the curb. “Shut up, just shut up,” she says, practically vibrating with excitement.

  I arch a brow. “You really want me to shut up?”

  “Shut up and let me praise you, Mister Hustle. That’s what I’m going to call you. And you pulled this off while I was sleeping.”

  With a cocky grin, I rub my fingernails against my shirt. “Brains and beauty, baby. This guy has it all.”

  With a bump of her shoulder to mine, she says, “I know, trust me. I know you’ve got it all.”

  There’s a note of wistfulness in her voice, but I’m not sure what to make of it, especially when we resume our pace and her makeup bag slips down her shoulder, inching along her arm.

  “Let me help you,” I say, then tug at the strap.

  She shakes her head. “You don’t have to.”

  I scoff. “Don’t have to what? Be nice and carry your fifty-million-pound bag?”

  She tilts her head, flapping a hand at me. “Be . . . you know . . . all helpful with me.”

  But why wouldn’t I be? “You don’t want me to be helpful?”

  “Like, manly helpful. You know what I mean,” she says, dipping her face.

  “I’m not sure I do. You mean like a boyfriend?”

  She swallows visibly. “Yes. Friends don’t have to carry their friends’ makeup bags.”

  “The lack of sense in that life law is astonishing,” I say. “Because that’s exactly what friends do, you stubborn creature. And yes, I know you can do it yourself. I pretty much assume you can do everything yourself.” I wiggle my fingers. “But I want to carry it. So gimme the bag, Miss DIY.”

  With a faux grumble, she hoists it off her shoulder and hands it to me. “Fine, Mister Hustle. Be that way.”

  I slide it on my shoulder, smiling in a most satisfied fashion. “I will.”

  “Also, thank you,” she says softly.

  “You’re welcome, and you’ll really thank me when I throw out ten thousand lipstick tubes from here tonight. You need to be an ox to carry this.”

  She rolls her shoulders back and forth like she’s grateful the weight is gone. “Yes, you do, and I would never throw out a lipstick. You never know when it might be the right color. So, thank you for being friendly and manly and oxen-like.” She rubs her palms together, ready to get cracking. “So, how are we going to do this? Airline?”

  I grimace. “I already checked. It’s around six hundred dollars a ticket since it’s last minute.”

  “Ouch. Road trip then? I do love a good road trip.”

  “I know you do. But . . .” I tap my chin. “There’s only one little problem.”

  She deals me a stern stare. “Don’t tell me you have something against Wanda?”

  “No. Not at all,” I say in exaggerated denial. “I don’t have anything against the world’s smallest car. I love having my knees scrunched up by my eyes.” I do my best impression of the kind of sardine-like maneuver I’d have to execute to fold myself into the passenger seat of her wheels.

  “It’s a little car, I’ll admit. But Wanda is a relentless beast,” she says, then goes quieter. “And she was Callie’s.”

  “And I get that Wanda’s special because it was your road-trip car,” I say, squeezing her shoulder as we cross the street.

  Emerson shudders out a breath, then rolls her shoulders. “And Wanda did her service,” she says, fondness in her tone now. “Grand Canyon, Chain of Rocks Bridge, Cadillac Ranch.” She emits a low whistle. “I mean, that car deserves a medal. Who knew it could hit all the classic Route 66 tour stops?”

  I shrug an I told you so. “Not to pat myself on the back, but I did tell you to go for it.”

  She laughs, bumping our shoulders together. “You did, and I’m glad we made that trip. Anyway, Wanda is an option, but maybe not for a Daddy Long Legs like you. And I’d ask if we could borrow Jason’s Tesla roadster, but I once googled the price of those, and there’s no way I’d let you borrow your brother’s wheels.”

  “Good, because I’d never ask. He already does enough by letting me crash at his sweet pad,” I say, a little embarrassed, even though Emerson knows the score. “Not to mention that he paid for culinary school.”

  “And you know he was happy to do that,” she says.

  But I wish I could do something for him. Yes, he was a first-round draft pick and got a huge bonus, and when he knew I wanted to go to cooking school, he didn’t just offer to pay. He pretty much begged me to let him. And here I am, a few years later, without a restaurant or a chef’s hat to show for his generosity.

  “I’m sure he was real happy that I went and decided a few years later that I didn’t like being a chef,” I say drily.

  “I think he’s happy if you’re happy, but I hear you, and I think we should just rent a car,” she says, clicking around on her phone, then she sighs heavily. Her brow knits. “Did you know it’s nine hours to drive? We’ll have to leave tonight just to be safe, and we’ll need two nights at a hotel then. Are you sure there aren’t any cheap flights?” she asks as a sign for Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium beckons us at the end of the block.

  “I’m sure I’ll think better with an espresso with two sugars,” I offer.

  We duck into the shop, order, then hunt for a last-minute deal.

  “Ooh!” Emerson thrusts her hand in the air. “Found one.”

  “What’s the damage?”

  “Sixty-nine dollars round trip.”

  I waggle my eyebrows. “My inner twelve-year-old can’t resist commenting.”

  “Find the will, Nolan.”

  “C’mon! I can’t. You said sixty-nine. It’s a sign. I have to mention the sixty-nine.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Are we doing this?”

  “Sixty-nining?” I ask innocently. Because what choice do I have?

  But the way her face flashes pink like she’s having heatstroke makes me wonder all sorts of things. Like, did I just embarrass the woman who jokes about her big mouth and how much she can take? Like, is she thinking about sex too?

  But I promised myself one night in Vegas a few years ago that I’d do my damnedest to stop thinking about Emerson naked.

  I haven’t entirely kept that promise, though I try. I try as hard as I can.

  Her chestnut hair falls in a curtain around her face as she taps away on the screen. “Okay. There are two seats left on Bacon Grease Airlines.”