“Yes,” he mumbles.

  “What? I didn’t hear you.”

  “That’s all accurate,” I put in. It’s my turn to look out for him as she outlines the ups and downs of his recent years.

  “Well, let me just say—living with your brother . . . that is such a great millennial life hack,” Evelyn says with admiration.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Nolan says drily. I can hear his sarcasm, but I know him. Hopefully, she can’t tell. “It’s my DIY life.”

  “Perf. You two are all Gucci.” She swings her phone to us. “Sign this memorandum saying you won’t talk smack about Dot and Bette, and then you can shoot.”

  Wow. This kid is a shark. “I want you repping me someday,” I say as I sign her memo.

  “Let us know if you take on more clients,” Nolan adds as he signs.

  “I will, but let’s be honest. I have a lot of calculus homework, so it’s probably not going to happen.”

  “Understandable,” I say solemnly.

  She points to the hall then returns her attention to her phone. “Oh my God, that’s so extra,” she says to the screen, and we’re done with the sixteen-year-old Great White.

  This is a dream kitchen, and Nolan has a woody for it.

  “I want to marry this kitchen,” he says of the palace where we’ve set up the taste test.

  “I want to have babies with it,” I put in.

  “Let me tell you, sweetie pie,” Dot says, “this kitchen has seen some action, if you know what I mean.” She adds a bawdy wink.

  “You’re such a bad girl.” Bette laughs then smiles for the camera. “Now, did you know it’s my favorite time of day, Dot?”

  “Bedtime?”

  “Try again,” Bette says.

  “Wine o’clock?” Dot offers.

  “Girl, it’s taco time.”

  We spend the next few minutes indulging in the food we brought, finishing with the tacos, then Bette starts in again.

  “Now, I have a bone to pick with you, Dot.” She shakes a finger at her bestie. “How can you have been my friend for years but never once taken me to Tacos El Gordo?”

  “Shame on me. Just shame, shame, shame.” Dot lowers her head but quickly snaps it up. “This just means we’re going to need regular recs from Nolan and Emerson. These two know where everything good is, from the Brussels sprouts to the egg sandwiches to these divine tacos. Will you two please keep sharing your faves?”

  Nolan flashes a panty-melting grin. “You two will always get special treatment,” he promises.

  And hearts flutter.

  “But you know what I really want to try?” Nolan continues. “Those zucchini nachos you were teasing me about. Don’t hold out on me now.”

  Dot slides a tray to us. “Never. You can have everything you want. But, Nolan,” she chides, “we have a ladies-first philosophy here.”

  “But of course,” he says, then scoops up a zucchini nacho and offers it to me.

  From his hand.

  He’s feeding me the chip, the fucking ham.

  When in Vegas . . .

  I part my lips and crunch into it, and my taste buds shimmy. When I finish, I lick my lips. “Look, I know I have a rep for loving stuff, but I just do! This is a double I’d do it again. I’m giving it a nine point one.”

  Our hostesses bump hips. “We got it going on,” Bette sings, then flaps her hand at Nolan. “Your turn, bad cop.”

  He takes a chip, chews, then groans in absolute delight. When he’s done, he takes a deep breath, then issues a declaration: “I’m giving this an eight point nine two.”

  Dot and Bette squeal.

  “He hasn’t given anything close to a nine in months,” I say.

  “If you gave us a nine, I would know you were sucking up,” Dot says. “So, I like this score a lot.”

  Maybe we are sucking up a little, but for a good cause. This is special, the chemistry the four of us have, and I can’t help but think YouTube will see it too. We will be hard to beat, and maybe this is it—our chance.

  At their party later, Dot and Bette introduce us to friends and family like we’re the special guests. It’s heady, and I feel all kinds of floaty. I can’t help but admire what Nolan achieved—this last-minute opportunity at a win we need.

  That gratitude blooms inside me over the evening, as swing music plays, as guests indulge in cauliflower tater tots and Greek salad skewers, and as conversation flows like the Bellagio Fountains. This night is an unexpected oasis in the middle of all the work-my-ass-off weeks.

  It’ll end, of course, when we hit the Hyundai to haul our butts across state lines in the middle of the night. But even the prospect of the drive looks brighter than it would have yesterday.

  As the party winds down, Dot and Bette tug us down the hallway to a quieter section of the house.

  “Listen, cuties,” Bette begins, touching my shoulder lightly. “We are so glad you made your way out to Vegas.”

  “And at the last minute too. We’re just so tickled,” Dot continues, all the Texas charm dripping in her voice. “We love meeting new friends, and you’re good people.”

  “So, we wanted to thank you in a special way. We have a little parting gift for y’all.” Bette points to the living room. “Evelyn can give it to you.”

  My cup of gratitude overfloweth. “You ladies are the best.” I hug them both. “And I’ll edit the video tonight and send it to Evelyn in the morning for approval.”

  Dot smiles. “I know it’ll be fabulous. But you do that, or Evelyn will have my hide.” She faux shudders.

  “We won’t let you incur her wrath,” Nolan promises, then does his whole kiss-on-the-top-of-the-hand routine, eliciting giggles and you’re the bests.

  As they return to their guests, Nolan starts toward the living room, but I grab his arm. He’s next in the Emerson love fest. “Hey. This was an amazing idea you had, reaching out to them. I have a good feeling about this.”

  A smile spreads nice and easy on his lush lips. “Yeah?” He sounds so happy, like I’ve thrilled him with the compliment.

  “I do. You found a great opportunity. Is it crazy that I feel we’re onto something?”

  “I told you we’d get lucky in Vegas,” he says, those playful eyes straying to my ladybug charm.

  His stare lasts longer than usual. My skin heats under his gaze, my emotions flipping from gratitude to . . . desire.

  Ugh.

  It’s so annoying having a charming, sexy, fun best friend I want to bang.

  But I’ve dealt with it for years.

  I’ve got this.

  I reroute to friendship.

  But when Nolan pulls his gaze away, dragging a hand through his hair, he looks like he’s clearing away his thoughts.

  Were they the same thoughts as mine? Is he resetting too?

  Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. Oh, my.

  That’s a little terrifying.

  But it doesn’t matter. I refuse to obsess over things that won’t happen. I can’t.

  “And now we’re getting out of Vegas,” I say, focused on the plan, only the plan. “We’ll need lots of caffeine for our drive. What do you think the gift is? Hot coffee? Chocolate? Kale chips?” I ask as we walk down the hall.

  “I’m praying for snacks. We can indulge on our midnight road trip,” Nolan says.

  We reach the living room, where Evelyn’s waiting by the door, empty-handed. Maybe it’s not snacks, then.

  Evelyn twirls the charm on her phone. “Thanks again for coming. Dot and Bette had such a good time with you, and since they’re friends with the women who own The Extravagant, they wanted to get you a suite there tonight. I don’t know if you already have a hotel room but—”

  “We’ll take it,” Nolan and I say at the same time.

  6

  Roller Coaster Kiss

  Nolan

  * * *

  I don’t know why people say they remember something like it was yesterday. I don’t remember half the details of yesterday. What the hell did I wear when I met Emerson outside her morning TV show gig, or chow down on with Jason after an evening workout, or listen to while I packed my overnight bag?

  No clue.

  But I have a photographic memory of the way Emerson licked her lips when she finished that veggie burger earlier in the week.

  I can picture with crystal clarity the way the black bridesmaid dress she wore to her friend Katie’s almost-wedding clung to her chest when she modeled it for me.

  And here’s another thing.

  I’ve got total recall on that kiss in Vegas. Maybe that means my dick has an excellent memory. Fine, my dick didn’t get a kiss, but he definitely paid attention and filed all the data away in Dick Central Storage, where all the important data is kept.

  I’d just returned from France. I’ve got nothing against that country, but it was a relief to get far, far away from Inés Delacroix. My family had warned me against her. My brother and dad both thought she was bad news.

  Spoiler alert—they were right.

  That woman was more toxic than a nuclear reactor. Little-known fact—relationships qualify as radioactive when one person is faithful and the other has a couple lovers on the side. Inés had four, so I needed several decontamination showers after returning to the States.

  My friends wasted no time urging me to get back out there.

  “Now that you’ve escaped the evil clutches of your ex, it’s time to take advantage of your single status again,” my friend TJ had said over text. “And that should start in Vegas.”

  He had a point. Our friends from the Quesadilla Club in college—Dina and Lauren—were getting hitched, so they invited the whole crew to Vegas for the wedding. It seemed like a perfect weekend, a chance to hang out with friends and fellow food lovers. Maybe I’d enjoy a rebound or just enjoy time with my buds. I was cool with whatever, I’d told TJ.

  And so I went to Vegas, ready to have a good time before I started a new gig as a sous chef in San Francisco, a respite before I moved in with a bunch of roommates I found online.

  The bride and bride hosted about ten of us, giving out chips as wedding favors. The night before the wedding, we broke out the purple ones and hit the blackjack tables at the New York, New York Hotel.

  One by one, our friends went bust and decided to hit the roller coaster ride—TJ and Flynn, Dina and Lauren, and the rest of them peeling away from the tables.

  But I was playing well, so I stayed in the casino, Emerson by my side. I was up by five hundred dollars and contemplating staying in, flipping the chip between my fingers, when Emerson rubbed her hands on her thighs.

  Her nervous tell.

  She’d done it in college when she was stressed about a test.

  She did it when she was worried about her sister’s medical appointments.

  My attention shot away from the card game. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  She drew a shuddery breath, her eyes straying toward where our friends had disappeared. “I have to tell you something.”

  “Fire away,” I’d said, then left the table, cashing out.

  “I hate roller coasters,” she blurted out, rubbing her palm on her jeans again.

  I pressed my hand on top of hers and squeezed. “You don’t have to go, then,” I said gently. “We’ll meet them when they get off.”

  But Emerson seemed to shuck off her anxiety with a crisp nod. “No, I want to do it. Callie used to love them. When we were kids, we used to ride them together, and she can’t ride them anymore. Her heart, and all. She wanted me to ride this on my trip.”

  I was confused. “But she knows you hate them?”

  “Yes. But here’s the thing: I used to love them too. Then last summer, I read a news article about a roller coaster that got stuck upside down for five minutes. I told John about it, and he proceeded to tell me every single terrible thing that had ever happened at amusement parks, chapter and verse. He had the facts at his fingertips.”

  I sneered at the mention of her ex, Useless Fact Freddie. “That guy was a fucking tool. He was incapable of having fun. He had to tell you the amount of fat in every food, the risk of slipping in the shower, and the chances of falling out of a roller coaster.”

  “Yes, I believe he’s what’s known as a buzzkill. Anyway, point being, Callie and I recently decided to do this thing where we face our fears. And she already did hers. Ergo . . .”

  “It’s your turn?”

  “Yup, and she killed it at hers. Here’s a pic.” Emerson whipped out her phone, slid her thumb across the screen, and showed me a shot of her and her sister . . . holding a pink, fleshy, veiny, foot-long, super-powered rabbit toy.

  “Yeah, that scares the fuck out of me too,” I said, taking in the super-size schlong. “You could smack someone in the face and take out an eye.”

  She snorted. “Yes, that was the fear she had to get over. Losing an eye,” she deadpanned.

  I studied the pic. “Was your sister scared of a dildo?”

  Shaking her head, Emerson stuffed the phone in her back pocket. “No. Of buying one. She’d never gone to a sex toy shop before. So, I took her to my favorite, where I get all my toys.” Emerson smiled and set her hand on her heart, beaming at her sister’s accomplishment—a complete contrast to the pinball game my brain was playing, buzzers whirring, lights flashing because . . . sex toys. “And I swear, I’ve never been so proud of her.” She pretended to choke up. “She was a big girl, asking all sorts of questions about the vibe’s ability to deliver toe-curling Os.”

  “Wow. That’s inspiring,” I said drily, mostly to keep from asking a litany of questions that shot up unexpectedly in my head. What kind of toy do you like? and Does it make you shake all over in pleasure, grab the sheets, and scream my name?

  “And now it’s my turn to face my fears,” she said. “But I need help.”

  Her eyes implored me, but I couldn’t resist. “You sure you don’t need to run another sex toy errand?”

  A laugh fell from her pretty lips. What did those lips look like when she used her favorite toy?

  “Roller coasters first. Sex toys another time,” she said, then squared her shoulders. “Will you ride with me?”

  Before I could even fashion an answer, my brain pinged with questions: Had I always been attracted to her? Had I never realized it till we talked about sex toys? Or had I never admitted it to myself?

  I didn’t have the answers. But I knew she’d asked for help, and that meant it was friend time, not the horn-dog hour.

  “Yes. I will.”

  We marched to the roller coaster and tucked our phones and my glasses into a locker. As we moved through the line, I psyched her up like a coach working with a boxer. I rubbed her shoulders, said you can do this, and reassured her that we’d have fun like she did when she was younger.

  Then, we reached the front of the line.

  “After you,” I said, a proper gentleman as I gestured to the cars.

  She stepped in, and I joined her. The seat belts came down, snapping us in place.

  “Have I ever told you my recipe for pancakes?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, tilting her head, curious.

  As the car lurched away from the platform, I told her precisely how I made amazing blueberry pancakes. As it chugged up the first killer hill, she reached for my hand and clasped my palm, then threaded her fingers with mine. Tight, and a little sexy too. She stroked the top of my hand while sliding her fingers in and out of mine.

  It was . . . weirdly erotic.

  While talking about pancakes in the chilly Vegas night air, we rose above the city, and she turned me on as I settled her down.

  When we neared the top, she stroked faster and I talked quieter. The moment was wildly arousing in ways I never expected, like she was seducing me with her fingers.

  New thoughts raced through my head.

  She’s sexy.

  She’s fun.

  She’s the friend I want to fuck.

  When we shot downhill, she screamed her lungs out—“Oh my fucking God” style, saying my name over and over again.

  “Oh God, Nolan, oh God, Nolan, oh God, Nolan.”

  My adrenaline shot through the roof from the roller coaster, the speed, the thrill. Her hair whipped her cheeks. Her face flushed red. She screamed my name like she was coming.

  Every desire I’d suppressed about Emerson rose from the depths of a sea of dirty thoughts, burst through the surface, and reared up like Poseidon the Giant Prick.

  That ride unlocked the sea monster of lust in my brain.

  Thanks, thrill ride.

  The roller coaster slowed and finally stopped, and we jumped off. Emerson turned, ecstatic and victorious, and flung her arms around me. “I could kiss you.”

  I was too twisted in my own filthy mind to do anything but flash her a dopamine-charged grin. “I won’t stop you.”

  Letting go of my shoulders, she grabbed my face and pressed a buzzy, heady kiss to my lips.

  Just a thank-you kiss. I knew that. It was as chaste as a kiss on the lips could be. But I craved more, so before she could step away, I inched closer, hand on her face, holding her jaw. “Just one more kiss,” I whispered.

  Her chin tilted up like I’d said the perfect thing. “Okay,” she said, all breathy and full of want.

  We kissed once again. It was no longer an exuberant oh my God kiss. It was slow and sweet, with a question in it. It was a do you feel it too? kiss.

  I felt it.

  She sure as hell seemed to feel it.

  It was an unexpected coda to the wilder kiss. An encore that said Yes, I want to kiss you again.

  We stopped a few seconds later, blinking, breathing fast. She swept her hand along her hair, still messed up from the ride. “Wow.”

  “Yeah. Wow.”

  But there was no time to bask in the moment. The other riders had filed off, and we had a picture to pick up at the photo booth and then friends waiting.

  Once we grabbed the image, we found our group in the concourse of the hotel. We joined Dina, Lauren, TJ, Flynn, and the others, and went to a dance club.