Page 59 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

BATHROBES WILL SAVE ME

Emerson

This is not the Teddy Bear Inn.

This room is an advertisement for a Vegas getaway weekend. It’s the setting for City of Sin fantasies.

Just look at the dreamy blue lights glowing along the floorboards. Just listen to the soft, sultry music piping into the sumptuous suite.

And check that out—the decadent view as lights from The Invitation across the street flash in the floor-to-ceiling window of this suite. They blink RSVP tonight .

The plush sapphire-colored carpet hugs my shoes and reminds me to remove those dirty little fuckers.

I kick off my ankle boots as the cool of the air conditioning wraps around us. “Are you sure we’re allowed to stay here?” I joke. “Or will they realize we don’t belong and toss out all the riffraff?”

Nolan brings his finger to his lips. “Shh. If you don’t tell anyone we don’t belong, I won’t either.”

“It’s a deal,” I say as Nolan toes off his shoes too, then sets down his bag. I put mine on the floor, taking a moment to drink in the rest of the suite.

A cushy purple couch commands center stage in the living room area, along with a glass table and a sleek bar with an ice bucket behind it.

And there’s probably a bed around the corner. I mean, duh. All hotel rooms have beds.

Still, my palms sweat at the thought.

Which is silly.

Nolan has crashed many a time at my place and slept on my couch after late-night planning sessions.

Since this hotel suite has a sofa, we’re not going to share a bed, so why does the prospect of setting my eyes on a regular old hotel mattress unleash a flurry of tingles down my spine?

I can handle a bed.

No big deal.

I rub my palms on my jeans, trying to erase the rush of anxiety as I pad past the couch, around the corner, and?—

Holy mother of sex beds.

Does anyone ever sleep in this bed? It’s like the hotelier said to the interior designer: give me a bed for banging.

And the designer said: at your sexy service.

The cover is red.

The pillows are white.

The headboard is a silvery, padded thingie, perfect for slamming your palms against when you’re riding a hot guy’s face.

Whoa.

What the hell was that, Nancy?

Must banish my libido to the timeout chair.

This is just an ordinary bed. In a standard hotel room. I’ve slept in beds before. Plus, Nolan and I will work tonight. This is a work trip, after all. We’ll focus on the show that’s poised to take off.

I won’t focus on my overactive imagination that wants to straddle Nolan and ride him cowboy. Ride him cowgirl. Ride him till the cows come home.

Wait, wrong analogy.

I’ll get on my horse and trot away. Yup, that’s more like it.

I wheel around and hook my thumb toward the couch, so I can get as far away from the rodeo bed as possible. “I’m going to grab my laptop and edit the video. You can do the socials.”

Nolan leans against the entrance to the bedroom. “Mind if I shower first? Don’t know about you, but I kinda can’t resist a hot hotel shower.”

The steed I rode off on bucks. Whoa, Nellie.

“Shower? Like without clothes? Now?” I squeak.

Nolan tilts his head, studies me like an oddity in a curio shop.

And I am. “Usually I shower naked,” he says, drawing it out.

“But hey, I can try it with clothes on if that’s your recommendation.

Is that what you’re saying? I should stand under the hot water in my shirt and jeans? ” He plucks at his Smiths T-shirt.

Giving a careless shrug, I try to play it cool. “I mean, probably clothes-free is best, if I’m being picky.”

“Cool. Will try it that way. Naked and all.”

“And I’ll edit,” I say.

With a laugh, he says, “Yes, you mentioned your editing plans.”

Well, I meant it, clearly. I will edit and not think of you in your birthday suit, showering. I will not picture joining you. I will not imagine asking you to bite me, bruise me, leave marks.

“The sooner I edit, the sooner we can show our video to Evelyn and then submit it to YouTube for the contest,” I say, focusing so damn intently on our goals.

Our business goals.

And business partners don’t share beds. “I’ll sleep on the couch,” I blurt.

Or maybe I croak it. I’m a frog, clearly. A horny toad.

“No, I’ll sleep on the couch, Em,” Nolan says, his lips curving into a grin. “But are you okay? You seem kind of... hyper.”

“Me? Hyper?” My pitch hits glockenspiel range.

“Just a little.”

I’ve got to slice that notion off at the knees. “I’m good. I’m great. Just excited. I want to do a good job on the video. I want it to be amazing. I always edit best right after we shoot, and this room is super conducive to work so...”

I’m ridiculous. A shower is just a shower. A room is just a room.

We’re friends. Partners. Dreamers.

But we won’t be lovers.

I draw a big breath and shoo him away. “Go. Shower. Indulge. Use their fancy bodywash. I bet they have big, fluffy bathrobes too.”

“God, I hope so,” he says drily as he grabs his bag. “There’s nothing I love more than a robe.” Nolan heads to the bathroom and I hear him groan from a room away. “Emerson, this bathroom’s fucking heaven. You’ll want to spend the night in it.”

I smile like a pageant girl with Vaseline-slicked teeth. Yup. This is us. Buddies sharing a suite.

Just like we share a show.

Once the door to the bathroom clicks shut, I dive onto the couch, bury my face in a pillow, and scream.

Then, I get my act together and call for help.

Sitting up, I grab my phone and tap out a quick message to Katie.

Emerson: Random question. On a scale of one to ten, how dangerous is it to share a hotel room with the guy you work with?

Katie: I feel like this might be a trick question.

Emerson: So the answer is... not dangerous at all. Cool. I’ll just carry on.

Katie: I’m going out on a limb here... but does this mean you and your hottie co-host with the cute glasses and the charm and the sex eyes and the tight T-shirts are shacking up tonight?

Emerson: You’re so mean. Thanks for mentioning he’s cute and bangable. Also, we’re just sharing a room.

Katie: Ah, is this where I tell you stay strong, girl, in the face of the bangable guy ?

Emerson: Yes! But I’ll be fine. There’s nothing to stay strong about.

He’s given me no reason to think he wants to do the hotel bed horizontal shimmy-shimmy, bang-bang.

.. So really, I just needed to put the hypothetical sex question out there for you to dismiss and then send it packing for the night.

Katie: So that was a dismiss-the-hypothetical-possibility-of-sex text?

Emerson: And it worked! Yay! I’m no longer sex-crazed.

Katie: Miracles happen!

Closing the thread, I turn down the music in the suite and get to work as the patter of hot water fills my head.

Nolan’s naked a wall away.

Nolan’s hands are sliding down his trim belly.

Nolan’s tipping his head back under the stream.

“Gah!” I need to check myself into a perv-no-more rehab center. “Focus, girl. Just focus.”

And with a deep, soldiering breath, I manage the Herculean task.

I blot out the sound of the shower and I edit the hell out of the video, working my ass off instead of picturing his naked one.

Until he strides out fifteen minutes later, a towel wrapped around his waist, his dark hair slicked back and wet, his black glasses on.

I look up. My jaw tries to come unhinged when a droplet of water sails slowly down his trim chest, heading straight for his happy trail. My tongue is jealous of the droplet.

“Whew, it’s a sauna in there,” he says, waving a toned arm toward the bathroom.

That arm.

His happy trail.

My hormones.

I ache so badly that I need an ice pack between my goddamn legs. “Cool,” I mutter, then with iron will, I return my eyes to the screen.

There. I did it.

For now.

Nolan declares the video a work of brilliance, and I send it to Evelyn, set the laptop on the bed, then hit the shower myself. Once I’m out, I implement my plan of libido attack to make it through the night.

Wrapping myself in a thick, fluffy bathrobe, I march into the living room, presenting the other oversized robe to Nolan. He’s changed into a T-shirt and basketball shorts.

“It’s bathrobe time.” I waggle it in front of him. “Do it.”

He flubs his lips, then shrugs. “When in Vegas.”

“I have one more thing for us,” I say. “A little surprise.”

His hazel eyes twinkle with delight. “I love surprises.”

I head to my bag and grab two packaged facial masks, grateful I bought an extra one when they were on sale at CVS the other week.

“Want to do a face mask with me?”

He arches a brow. “A face mask?”

“They’re fun. These are grapefruit. Have you ever done one?”

“No.”

“Self-care for the win. Let’s do it.” Because there is nothing sexy about goop on your face.

Face masks paired with oversized terry-cloth robes are proven lady-boner killers. No one has ever wanted to smash her face against her friend’s when he was wearing a face mask. I am brilliant on a scale of one to Einstein.

“I’m game,” Nolan says. That is one of the things I love about him. His easy attitude. His laidback style. His charm.

I mean, that’s what I love about him as a friend . I am only thinking friendly thoughts as he sheds his shirt and dons his robe.

We head into the bathroom, and five minutes later, his stupidly handsome face is covered in slippery pink goop, and I am a genius.

“Admit it. I look like a gumball,” he says, peering closely in the mirror.

Yup. Friendship talk only. “And I am a stick of cotton candy,” I say. “Now we leave these on for fifteen minutes.”

Nolan tips his head to the bedroom. “Want to watch those how-to-make-jam videos?”

Yes! How-to videos, face masks, and friendship rituals. We change rooms and he flops on the bed next to the laptop.

The sex bed.

No big deal, no big deal, no big deal.

I settle in next to him, near but not too close, and flick open the screen.

A notification pops up—a beautiful, tempting envelope icon with Evelyn’s name. “Open it,” I whisper reverently.

Her reply is short and sweet— This is a go! Can we post it tonight so their subs get it in the morning?

Nolan points at the screen in wild excitement. “Yes. The gods of the home page will love this.”

I love this. “Tell her yes. I’m shaking too much to reply.”

“I got your back.” He taps at the keyboard, then uploads the video too.

But I’m still shaking. Everything feels possible. I picture my bills. The student loans. The amount I owe. The amount I wasn’t supposed to owe.

I think of the chance this partnership represents and I can’t stop trembling with excitement.

“Breathe, Emerson. Breathe. It’s going to be great,” Nolan says softly, squeezing my shoulder.

“It is,” I say, choosing to believe.

And when I do, the nerves slink away.

We watch a jam video, debating whether we want to make a strawberry one at some point. Things seem right between us again, like the reset worked. The hotel room didn’t win.

I lift a hand and touch the stiff mask on my face. “Want to do the face mask crack ? My friend Jo and I do it when we face mask on FaceTime.”

“That’s a thing? Face masks on FaceTime?”

“It’s so a thing.” I grab the arm of his robe and tug. “C’mon. We have to do it in front of the mirror.”

Nolan swings his legs out of bed, and we take our spots in front of the double sinks, smiling big and crazy so our pink peels can crack.

I laugh. He laughs. We are so fine.

As he scrubs off his mask, I do the same.

When I’m done, I pat my face with a towel and return to the bed. Nolan follows me there and sets a hand on his cheek. “Do I look fabulous?”

“So fierce,” I agree, then we settle in and pick a show to chill out to— That’s What She Said. Quirky rom coms are my jam. His too.

He scoots a little closer to me, maybe to see the screen better. As he inches over, the space between us halves. Wait, quarters. It’s the size of one banana.

You could fit a banana between us. That’s all that separates me from the man in this bed.

What if we closed the distance the rest of the way?

His clean scent fills my head, making me wonder about those what-ifs.

Nolan straightens his shoulders and stares at my face. “Hold on.”

I hit pause on the show, but not my imagination. “What is it?” I ask, breathy at the way his eyes study me so intensely.

“You have a spot here you missed.” He tugs his bathrobe cuff down closer to his wrist, which loosens the belt tie a notch, then raises his arm and scrubs at my cheek with the cloth.

“Almost gone,” he says, then wets the tip of his finger and dusts it along my jawline.

Goose bumps sweep up my skin.

Nolan rubs a little more, stroking my jaw. My breath catches. I swallow around the knot of longing, trying desperately to hide my arousal.

From the slide of his finger on my face.

From the nearness of his lips.

From the warmth of his touch.

From that exposed skin as my eyes drift down to the V of his chest. I want to put my mouth on his skin, want to bite him and kiss away the ache.

Screw face masks. Forget robes.

I wave the white flag.

“Almost gone,” he whispers, brushing my face, stirring up years of unchecked emotions, lust, desire.

I am overcome.

Lifting my hand, I touch his chest, my palm against his skin igniting a flare of heat in my belly. Slowly, because this is a turning point, I look up, unsure what I’ll see but certain what I want.

I search his face for an answer to my first move. Those hazel eyes shimmer with need.

“Can I kiss you?” Nolan asks.

“Do it. Please ,” I whisper.

And he RSVPs tonight.