Page 58 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

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.

We didn’t dissect the kiss. Maybe because it was too short. Or maybe because it was long enough to matter. And if it mattered, it was a risk. One that could tip us out of the friend zone.

Later that night, as the wedding party fanned out to our rooms, Emerson set a hand on my arm then showed me the pic of us from the ride. We looked joyful. “Thank you for going with me. You’re my best friend. Well, best friend who’s not my sister.”

"I know, Em,” I said. “I know.”

She frowned. “Shit, sorry. I don’t mean to qualify it.”

But I got it completely. “I don’t feel second best. You can’t replace a twin.”

She smiled sadly. She knew what was coming sooner rather than later with her sister. “That’s why this means the world to me—like you do.”

I understood her one hundred percent. Our friendship mattered more than a kiss. We couldn’t do that again.

Made sense, really. I was a mess from Inés, and she’d been fucked over by guys she’d dated. Plus, her focus was on her sister, and I didn’t want to lose a friend either.

It was just a roller-coaster-fueled kiss, and it wouldn’t happen again.

So, here we are in the same city. We’re still best friends, but we’re also a helluva lot more. Best friends and business partners. Double whammy.

But, hey, if we avoid roller coasters, it won’t be a problem. The Extravagant doesn’t have one, so we’ll be fine. Just fine.

We check into the hotel without any fuss, Emerson handing over a credit card for incidentals as we gawk at the jewel-themed opulence in the lobby. When the clerk gives us two key cards, I’m poised to walk away.

Emerson spins back to look at the clerk. “Oops. Meant to ask. Are there two queens? A king?”

The woman at the desk glances down at the monitor then flashes a grin. “A king and a large pull-out sofa. Will that work for you?

“Perfect,” she says.

And it is perfect. There’s room for two in this hotel suite.

We head to the elevators. “Inquiring minds want to know—do you want to go to The Parrot Club?” she asks.

It takes me a few seconds to register her meaning—the comedy club with the talking birds. But I shake my head. “Nah, let’s just edit the episode and hit the hay.”

She doesn’t answer right away. She takes a few seconds. “Excellent plan.”

We step into the elevator and head upstairs. The ride lasts forever. I study the posters, reading one about the room amenities, advertising them as fully equipped.

Equipped for what?

But I don’t ask because another question blasts across all my gray matter: Is she thinking of roller coaster kisses?

On the twelfth floor, we walk together into a luxury hotel room, and it feels like we’re at the first drop on an amusement park ride.