“Far be it from me to distract you with my rear end.”

  “It’s a highly distracting ass.” We make it up a few more steps when I tug on her jeans. “Just testing to see how quickly they come off.”

  “Why don’t you find out once we’re in your apartment?”

  She’s been here before. We’ve done the whole Webflix-and-chill thing. But we legit watched That’s What She Said. Tonight, I’m pretty sure there’s no Webflix ahead. Just chill.

  Once we’re inside my apartment, I reach for her, slide my hand around her waist, and bring her close.

  We’ve kissed before, but this time I know it’s not ending there. This time, I know we’ll be making it to the other room. We’ll find out what happens when friends turn into something more. It’s scary and thrilling to know someone so well and for it to suddenly, or maybe not so suddenly at all, zoom to the next level.

  I clasp my hands on her face and kiss her deeply, exploring her mouth, taking my time. As I do, I’m struck with a thought from out of left field.

  I’ll have a lifetime of kissing her.

  Whoa.

  I don’t know why my brain leaped to that thought. I try to shake it off, because now isn’t the time for contemplating futures and forevers.

  But the thought stays in the back of my mind.

  Or maybe it was there already, and now it’s in the front of my head.

  I can’t let it go. Can’t unsee it. Can’t unfeel it.

  Because this seems like the kind of kiss that won’t end, that’ll lead to more nights and days together.

  This kiss feels like the start of our life together.

  And I’d like it to include lots of kissing.

  We find a rhythm quickly, a cocktail mix of soft and slow, then hard and fast, then deep and sweet. So damn sweet. I tug on the waistband of her jeans, breaking the kiss. “Okay, now I mean it. We need to get these off right now.”

  “You need to get me off right now,” she says in a husky whisper.

  I groan in appreciation, amazed that Savannah has this dirty piece to her. “I like learning this side of you.”

  She runs a hand up my chest, sending heat down my spine. “I like learning your sides too.”

  Once we’re in the bedroom, we make quick work of our clothes. Seeing her stripped bare sends me from rock hard to rock harder.

  Judging from the way her eyes roam over my body, she likes what she sees too. She places her hands on my pecs, then trails down my arms and back up to my face. “You’re totally fucking hot.”

  “And totally fucking ready.”

  She slides her hand down my abs and grasps my erection. I close my eyes and shudder.

  “That feels spectacular,” she whispers.

  “Couldn’t agree more.”

  We make our way to the bed, and I find a condom, but I don’t put it on right away.

  We kiss more, touch more, explore each other. My hands map her body as they roam down her stomach, along her thighs, over the curve of her ass. She’s just as frisky as I am, taking her own inventory, and we’re both panting, groaning, and so damn aroused. I push her down on her back, grab her wrists, and thrust them over her head. “I need to get inside you now. I can’t wait any longer.”

  She gives me a seductive, sexy smile. “So don’t wait.”

  I roll on the condom and enter her.

  It takes me a moment to collect myself because this feels so damn good. And so right. I’m inside the woman who’s been my best friend, who’s been my fake date, who’s been in the friend zone, and who’s most definitely sliding all the way out of that zone tonight.

  Because as I move with her, I’m keenly aware that it’s not just fucking. I’m making love to her, and everything feels entirely different between us. When she says my name in that breathy gasp, I’m sure we’re both feeling it, the same flash of possibility.

  She loops her arms around my neck, pulls me close, and falls apart beneath me. I follow her there to the other side.

  A little later, I run my hand through her hair and whisper in her ear, “I have a feeling we’re going to be doing that for a long, long time.”

  “Me too.”

  Then I take her hand, kiss her knuckles and ask another question. “Would you be my real date to my sister’s wedding next month?”

  She beams. “I would love to.”

  The next morning, after we say goodbye and I tell her I’ll see her tonight, I call Eddie. “I have officially met the woman I’m going to marry, and I think you’re going to love her.”

  “I already love the Sav-meister. She’s awesome. Also, I knew it, and to celebrate how smart I am, I’m shopping for a new beer bong. Meet me at the diner and tell me all about it.”

  At lunch I make my announcement. “She’s the one for me. It’s that simple.”

  He slams a hand on the table and beams. “Knew it. Called it. Love it.”

  I beam. “Yeah, me too.”

  “When are you going to propose?” he asks.

  That is an excellent question. When my mom calls that night to update me on my sister’s wedding plans, she asks if Savannah will be my date. “Absolutely. And I’m wondering if you can help me with something, Mom.”

  “Name it.”

  When I ask for the favor, she squeals.

  A week later, nerves are buzzing through me. I’m pacing outside my mom’s flower shop in Prospect Park. I check the time on my watch. Savannah should be here any minute. I spin around, checking my reflection in the window. Nice mint green button-down, stylish jeans. I smooth my hair, pat my pocket, then take a breath.

  “Hey handsome,” a voice says.

  I shudder, then turn around. The sight of her both calms and excites me. “Hey beautiful,” I say.

  “What’s this surprise? I’m dying to know.”

  I take her hand, gesture to the store. “Told you I had a connection.”

  Mom gave me the keys, so I open the store, then lock it, and I guide Savannah past the displays of flowers. She inhales deeply, savoring the scent. When we reach the back of the store, I guide her up the staircase, then push open a door to a rooftop garden.

  She gasps, smiling big and broad. “I had no idea you had a rooftop garden.”

  “Pretty cool, isn’t it?” I’m stoked the woman I adore is loving this surprise.

  She looks radiant in a pink dress as she wanders across the tiny rooftop garden, sniffing peonies and tulips, then checking out the rosemary and sage.

  When she turns around, I’m on one knee.

  Her eyes pop. Her mouth opens. “Gavin,” she whispers.

  “Savannah, when I asked you to be my pretend date for a party, I should have known it would change everything. The second we started planning our backstory, I wanted it all to be real. I knew that night you were the one for me, but I think I knew well before then. Falling in love with a friend has been an absolute joy, and I want to keep falling in love with you for the rest of my life,” I say, then reach into my pocket for the gleaming diamond ring. My fingers fumble briefly, but Savannah’s crying, and smiling and trembling, and that’s all I need to know as I finish. “Will you be my real date? Forever?”

  She sinks to her knees, throws her arms around me, and whispers, “Yes. I loved un-dating you.”

  I laugh, then slide on the ring, and kiss my fiancée.

  When I take her to the rehearsal dinner later that week, I thank my mom for insisting I bring a date to the engagement party earlier this summer.

  10

  Savannah

  I can’t stop staring at my ring. I show it off to Emerson and Jo at Gin Joint as we enjoy bubbly and gal time a few nights after I said yes. “It’s the size of a baseball,” Emerson coos as I do the hand flip.

  “No, it’s dinosaur-egg size,” Jo offers.

  I beam. “It’s the world’s most amazing ring. It gets bigger and better every time I look at it.”

  Emerson squeezes my shoulder. “That’s because you love him more and more each day.”

  I go all soft inside. My heart is mushy, and it’s wonderful. “I do. I really do.”

  Emerson arches a brow, looking lovingly smug. “So,” Emerson begins, “this is where you admit it.”

  “Admit what?” I ask, curiously.

  Jo laughs. “Oh, that’s funny. Like you don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what?” I press.

  Emerson rolls her eyes. “It totally happened like a romance novel with Gavin. Where fake dates lead to more.”

  “And where true love wins the day,” Jo adds.

  Busted. What can I say? They were right. I square my shoulders. “You told me so.”

  They both clap and cheer. But it’s my turn to stare pointedly at Emerson. “And what about you and the crush you have on your best friend?”

  She sighs, a little sadly. “He’s gorgeous and funny and totally off-limits.”

  I laugh knowingly, then lift a glass of champagne to toast. “To the undateable men in our lives.”

  We all clink glasses.

  My undateable man is becoming my husband. I can’t wait to hear what happens with her undateable guy.

  * * *

  Emerson’s love story comes next in Shut Up and Kiss Me! Available Everywhere! Their friends-to-lovers, only-one-bed-in-the-room romance sparks hot with a spicy one-night-stand that complicates everything!

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  Here’s a sneak peek at the first chapter of Shut Up and Kiss Me!

  * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  Emerson

  * * *

  It’s big. It’s thick. It’s delicious. And it’s going in my mouth.

  There’s only one question.

  “Will it fit?” I ask the sexy man across from me.

  He smirks. Devilishly, of course. “Ah, the age-old question.”

  Time to find out. “Come to me, you juicy, delicious thing,” I coo.

  A dozen onlookers edge closer, staring at this big beauty and my lips. They aren’t the only ones. A nearby camera records our scene as my co-host works the crowd. “Show of hands. Can she do it?”

  “I’ve got this, Nolan. I’ve handled bigger,” I say, all bravado and big mouth.

  “I don’t know. You’re gonna have to prove it,” Nolan taunts.

  “Go ahead. Underestimate me.” I relax my throat, part my lips, and then go in for the whole shebang.

  I bite down, and wow. Just wow.

  Involuntarily, I roll my eyes because this is tasty. With the camera on me, I indulge in another delicious bite.

  “Yes,” I moan around the double-decker veggie burger.

  With a satisfied sigh, I set the flavor extravaganza on the plate. Picking up a napkin, I dab a bit of low-fat pesto from the corner of my lips. Low-calorie, that’s our jam.

  A boisterous redhead in the crowd offers a rocker salute. “Give it that killer moan,” she calls out.

  “It’s your trademark, Veggie Girl,” the wavy-haired brunette next to her chimes in.

  Ah, my people.

  They want what they want.

  I wink at the women. “Mmm,” I start, drawing out the moan for effect. The ladies cheer me on. Bless them. Just fucking bless them. Then I turn my attention to the glasses-wearing, hazel-eyed, dark-haired guy across from me at the table. “That was a good one,” I say to my co-host in all things food, dining, and double meaning.

  A smirk plays on his lips. “Should I get you a towel to clean up after that up-close-and-personal encounter with the Double O Burger?”

  Harriet’s Burger Hut doesn’t hold back on the innuendo for its signature meals—one of the many reasons why this former hole-in-the-wall burger joint in the Mission District has become capital-T trendy.

  “You’re just jealous because these veggie burgers are always better than your full beef injection ones,” I tease, and Nolan drops his head in his hand, laughing.

  He turns to the camera perched on a tripod at the edge of the table. “Do you see what I have to put up with? The mouth on this one,” he says, shaking his head.

  “Oh, you love it,” calls a woman with her black hair in a high ponytail.

  “I do,” he says in a stage whisper, then snaps his gaze back to me as we keep rolling. “Your mouth is the reason I get up in the morning.”

  I waggle a finger at him. “Proof that I’m not the only one with a naughty mind.”

  But YouTube shows cannot survive on innuendo alone. Setting my black-polished nail on the edge of the plate, I slide the veggie feast toward him. “Your turn. Try it.”

  Nolan picks up the burger slathered in mushrooms, pesto sauce, and gooey low-fat cheddar cheese, then takes a bite. He gives nothing away as he chews. So typical. He puts it down with a whatever shrug. “It’s not bad.”

  I slap the table, playing it up. “Oh, come on. The Double O is toe-curling.”

  “It did seem like you were having a knee-weakening moment with the burger,” he deadpans.

  “Foodgasm!” the ponytail woman calls out.

  With a big smile, I meet her eyes. “You know it!”

  “Let me guess. You’d do it again,” Nolan says to me, imitating one of my catchphrases from the show.

  I lean across the table and swat his shoulder. “You bet I would. Food is one of life’s great pleasures, and some dishes demand encores.”

  “What are you gonna give it, then?”

  I rub my palms, prolonging the suspense. Viewers love to predict our ratings. Later, we’ll edit in a clock-ticking pause to give them the chance to place their drinking game bets as they watch.

  Holding up a hand like I’m taking an oath, I issue my declaration: “On a scale of one to ten, I’m giving this bad boy a nine point four five.”

  Nolan barks out a laugh. “How long since you’ve rated anything under a nine, Em?”

  “We pick well! We’ve been to some fab places. Why should I punish the food just because all these great dishes have raised the bar?”

  “How can everything be close to a ten, though? You’re such a Paula.”

  “And you’re such a Simon. I don’t grade food on a bell curve. Don’t blame me for having excellent taste when scoping out spots for us to review.” Ha. So there. I fold my arms across my chest, adopting a stern stare as my eyes stray to his empty plate. He ate the Full Monty Cheeseburger before I sampled the veg one. “And what are you giving your beef burger, Mister Mean Judge?”

  A lazy shrug is his answer. And damn, he’s good at those sexy shrugs. They reel in the viewers.

  The man flings a careless glance at the carnivorous carnage on his plate. “I can only give mine . . . a seven point two.”

  “You’re such a hard judge,” I tease.

  “And you’d accept nothing less.”

  “That is true.” I lift my veggie burger and take another bite, savoring the taste. Nolan watches the whole time, and as my tongue flicks against the corner of my lips, his hazel eyes darken a bit.

  Maybe that’s wishful thinking on my part.

  Or dangerous thinking, really, the way those risqué thoughts come with a flutter in my chest.

  Stupid flutter. Inconvenient thing.

  I kick it aside. I won’t let a flutter get in the way of my goals.

  It’s my turn to close out the episode, so I laser in on the camera. “And that’s our review of Harriet’s Burger Hut on this episode of How to Eat a Banana.”

  I stop recording with a flick of my finger, just like I stopped the flutters. Been doing both for years.

  Next comes my favorite part of the job. Meeting fans always makes me feel like a big deal when I’m so not. But for a few minutes after we shoot, I can pretend.

  I can pretend, too, that I’ve made all my dreams come true.

  The fans who watched our live recording encircle us, equipped with cell phones and Sharpies. A fair-skinned redhead from the crowd bounces over to the table, along with a brunette with an olive complexion. “I just love you guys so much. Can we take a pic?”

  With a twinkle in his eyes, Nolan flashes a panty-melting grin, aka his regular smile. “Only if you can be in it too,” he says, all warm and inviting.

  If flirting were a class, this man wouldn’t just be the best student. He’d teach an expert course.

  And every session would be packed.

  The redhead blushes. “Yes, please,” she says, then hands the phone to her friend.

  I expect the woman to line up between Nolan and me, but she scoots next to him instead, her shoulder to his shoulder, nudging him closer to me. Her photo choreography leads to Nolan slinging an arm around me, which leads to my libido whispering dirty ideas about my friend and colleague.

  So annoying, my overactive imagination, when she gets these wayward notions. I call her Nancy. A name makes backtalk much more satisfying.

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