Page 63 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

I’ve said the wrong thing yet again. I think I know the right thing—it’s been working through my brain for a few minutes now—but I have to say it. Since Emerson does have a big mouth, and she used it to make a point—one I ignored.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I shouldn’t have said anything to that ... guy .” I grumble the last word. “It wasn’t my place, and you’re right. You have a huge mouth, and you’re perfectly capable of turning a dickhead down.”

Her expression softens, and her lips part. “Why do you assume he’s a dickhead?”

“Because you have terrible taste in men,” I say.

She rolls her eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

I want to tell her, You can’t be with another guy who doesn’t get you. Or respect you. Or treat you well . Instead, I say, “So, I’ll let you break their hearts next time.”

“Gee, thanks.”

My gaze stays locked on hers. “Let’s just.. . get back to how we were, okay?”

She gives a faint smile, maybe one of relief. “I’m sorry too. Sorry that things have been weird.” She swipes a hand across her cheek, then lets out a long breath. “It’s just... I don’t do casual sex, Nolan. I don’t know how to act afterward.”

It’s a confession, and I’m damn grateful. Finally—fucking finally—we’re talking about the elephant in the room.

“I get it,” I say softly, reaching for her hand, squeezing it. In a friendly way. “Let’s just be ourselves? We’ve done it for years. We can do it again.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry; this was stupid. I’m not interested in seeing anyone either.” Then she laughs. It’s a wonderful sound, a relieved sound, and her shoulders relax. “I think we needed to be really awkward and weird.”

“Maybe we did,” I say with a smile.

She grins too, her eyes lively. “I mean... the sex was great. But this friendship is better. Irreplaceable.” She gestures from her to me. “Just being able to talk to you freely. Right? I don’t want to lose it. That’s what matters.”

I park my hands behind my head, lasering in on one thing. “So, you thought the sex was great?”

She rolls her eyes and throws a napkin at me. “You’re such a guy.”

“I am.”

Just like that, all the awkwardness leaves the premises.

Too bad I still want her. But you don’t always get what you want.

That night, I grab a bus and head to the ballpark, clicking on my news app along the way to catch up on what I like to call Stories That Don’t Want to Make Me Stab My Eyes Out.

I’ve carefully culled the articles served up to me to include developments in food science, the weirdest new eateries, uplifting animal stories, updates in green energy, and listicles I can’t resist, like Seven Breakfast Cereals You Have to Eat Before You Die and Twenty Best Autocorrects Ever .

Hmm. Do I want to read about The Green Ant, a new pop-up restaurant in New York that serves organic insects, or an ode to why Cinnamon Toast Crunch is life-changing? As my thumb hovers over the BuzzFeed list, a text pops up from TJ.

I pick door number three: a text from a friend.

TJ: True fact—you were wondering if Emerson was thinking of your dick on your show today when she said only certain kinds.

Nolan: True fact—you are a warlock.

TJ: Yes! My mind-reading superpower is top-notch.

Nolan: Is that really what you want for a superpower? Mind-reading? A mind is usually a filthy place.

TJ: I’m all for mining filth. Makes my job easier. Inspiration, baby! Also, it kills you that I can tell what’s going on in your pretty little head. So, the amusement factor works for me too.

Nolan: Awesome. I’m just a circus monkey to you.

TJ: Accurate. Also, I have this extra box of Count Chocula in my cupboard from the last time you were here. Want me to save it for you?

Nolan: Guess who can read minds now? That question means... wait for it... you miss me!

TJ: Not. At. All.

Nolan: Cool. I don’t miss any of you assholes in New York either.

That is a huge lie. I do miss my buds in New York, and I had a blast when I was there solo a few months ago.

Wouldn’t mind being back there now.

Sometimes New York feels like it’s mine, a place where I could do what the song says— make it there .

Tonight, I just need to make it to the ballpark, so I shoot the breeze with TJ for a few more stops then bound off the bus when the stadium comes into view.

My dad’s waiting outside the gates—he’s taking Jason and me to a Cougars baseball game tonight. He grabs beers for us, then guides us to the seats he snagged at the first-base line.

Dad only sits in the best seats.

Drinks the best beer.

Has the best kids.

Jason points to the field. “I’ll be with you guys in a minute. I need to say hi to Grant.”

“Show-off,” I tease.

My brother just shrugs and smiles as he makes his way to the edge of the stands to chat with the team’s starting catcher, one pro-baller to another.

Once I sit, my dad parks a hand on my shoulder. “Shall I call you King of the Home Page, son?”

It’s a compliment of sorts, but I don’t like talking work with him. “Sure, Dad. That won’t be weird at all,” I say drily.

“You’re getting there. But you know my offer stands,” he says, lifting his beer and taking a long pull.

This is why I don’t like talking work—because he’ll make me an offer once again.

“I know, and I appreciate it. But hey, do you think the Cougars will extend their winning streak tonight?” I ask.

I know what’s next. The fatherly pat. The serious look. The worry in his eyes. I try to avoid it, but I can’t.

“I mean it, son. Do you need any help? I’ve got franchises opening in Palo Alto, Menlo Park, Pier 39, Sausalito... You can take your pick of Mister Cookies.”

My father built a cookie business from scratch years ago. The shop franchises put my brother and me through college. It funded our lives. He’s the classic self-made man, doing it all, taking care of his kids.

“No, I’m fine. Things are taking off,” I say, knocking back some more beer as I check out the animated race cars on the jumbotron. Jason is still chatting with the catcher.

“That’s fantastic,” my dad says. “It’s amazing how quickly you guys have risen to the top.” Unspoken, but there, is the implication that we could fall just as quickly, and that when we do, he’ll be waiting.

A weight sinks in my gut. Cookies are awesome, but I don’t want to run a cookie franchise. I don’t want shit handed to me.

My brother didn’t have anything handed to him.

My dad didn’t either.

“Or you could just crash on Jason’s couch forever,” Dad says with a wink.

I tense as my little brother bounds up the aisle, taking the steps in twos.

“Did Jason say something to you? Like he doesn’t want me there?” I ask Dad quietly.

But my brother has eagle eyes and ears. “Yeah, I said, ‘Please get rid of my personal chef. It’s so hard when he’s there.’” Jason drops in the seat next to me and gives me a noogie. “Dude, you are welcome, like, forever.”

Ah, fuck. I love this guy so damn much. Emerson is right. Jason has never once given me a hard time about his paying for cooking school and then my not being a chef.

And yet, I don’t want to be his personal chef any more than I want to be a cookie man. I need to get my own place again. Something that’s just mine. I need my own career—one I launched with hard work and no handouts.

I picture the latest letters from the bank for that dumbass IOU, the due soon notice stamped on the statements. Jason would pay it in a heartbeat, but I won’t ask him.

Nope. No fucking way.

It’s up to me. I have to pay off this last debt on my own, and I have to make this show with Emerson a success. There are no other options.

If I sleep with her again, I’ll fuck up this chance.