Page 50 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

I CALL HER NANCY

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.

When Nolan curls his hand around my shoulder, squeezing it, an irritating little burst of tingles kicks around in my chest.

Shut up, Nancy.

I smile for the camera phone.

When the picture is done, the redhead thrusts a purple Sharpie my way. “Can you both sign my shirt?”

I kind of can’t believe we have any fans for this crazy endeavor, let alone ones who want me to mark their clothing in permanent ink. But the data doesn’t lie, and more than one million YouTube subscribers tune in to our show. It still feels surreal.

The redhead spins around so we can sign her back.

I’m the good cop vegetarian, I write. And Nolan pens, I’m the bad cop carnivore .

After they take off, we chat with a few more fans and take pics with others as the waitstaff wipes down nearby tables, prepping to open again for the dinner crowd.

Finally, the rest of the fans filter out until only a perky blonde remains. “I’m Marie,” she says, “and I just wanted to say you guys are so cute. When I heard you were shooting in the Mission, I left work early to meet you. I watch almost every episode with my sister.”

A pang lashes my heart at the last word. “That must be so fun,” I say, a little wistful.

“It is. We try all the local places you go to. And when you offer suggestions for an at-home equivalent, we rush out to the grocery store and grab those items to try too.”

“Rock on, Marie.” Nolan gives her that stomach-flipping smile. “And do you and your sister rate the food, as well?”

The woman beams. “Yes! We play along with what you guys do. We judge when you judge.”

“So, are you the good cop or the bad cop?” I ask.

With a hint of a smile, her eyes drift to Nolan. “Bad cop. Like Nolan. And when I watch alone, I play along too,” she says, directing those comments to my co-host as she bats her lashes at him, in all his bespectacled hotness.

I bet that’s not all she’s playing with when she watches him.

“You’re my favorite YouTube star, Nolan,” she gushes, clutching her chest, then she turns to me. “You’re so lucky to be with him.”

And here we go again.

With a kind laugh, Nolan shakes his head, pointing a thumb my way. “We’re just friends.”

It’s the truth.

Except for that one night. But that was a few years ago, so who cares?

Not me.

And not Nancy.

The blonde seems delighted with this intel. “Oh, you’re not?”

Nolan hauls me closer, hooking his arm around my shoulders. “Emerson is my BFF. She knows all my secrets,” he whispers.

“Every last one,” I say. That’s how it goes with friends.

“That’s very good to know,” the cheery blonde says, and I bet in three, two, one, she’ll ask him out.

I’ve seen this happen a thousand times before. I’m chill with it. So’s Nancy.

Marie steps in front of me, her body language cutting me out of the scene. Okay, Marie. Message received.

“So, Nolan. Do you want to grab a coffee later?” she asks him with a twirl of her hair.

I inch away and out from under his arm, since, whatever. He’s cute; ladies like him. I’m not territorial.