Page 67 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

THERE IS NO JUST

Nolan

“Get your butt over here right now, Nolan McKay!”

Not that I planned on ignoring Bette, but there’s no one on earth who could deny her a hug right now.

Her arms stretch out wide; her smile wraps around the city. She’s decked out in jeans and a San Francisco Hawks jersey with a pink gingham bandana pinning back her dark hair.

I cross the distance in the lobby, and she sweeps me up in a hug. “What the heck are you doing here, you cuties?”

Funny, I could ask the same of her and Dot.

And I’m dying to know.

The platinum blonde turns to me, parks her hands on her hips. “Exactly! To what do we owe the pleasure of seeing you sweeties again?” Her blue eyes swing around the lobby, landing on Emerson, right beside me.

There are more hugs, then James darts aside with a quick excuse me as he whips his phone from his pocket. Guess he won’t be giving any answers.

“Webflix picked up our show,” Emerson says brightly.

Dot’s jaw drops.

Bette claps. “That is so fantastic. I’m so stinking happy for you. We got a show too. Can you believe it? Maybe we’ll all be TV stars,” Bette says, adding jazz hands.

A throat clears. “Dot. It’s getting late. You need to get to sleep soon.” It’s the boss. Evelyn’s telling it like it is, ordering her grandma and her grandma’s friend around. The girl in fishnets and motorcycle boots seemed to just appear out of thin air. Maybe she’s magic. I wouldn’t be surprised.

“Sleep, yes, but what I also need is a nightcap. On the rocks. And a cup of cocoa for you, Ev,” Dot says.

The teen rolls her eyes. Because of course she rolls her eyes.

“And the first photoshoot is at ten in the morning,” Evelyn continues, then nods at me, then Emerson. “Good to see you two again.”

“And you. But...” My brow narrows, and I try to figure out how Evelyn’s pulling this off. “Don’t you have school?”

She stares at me, her eyes saying duh . “Zoom. Obvs.”

“Right. Obvs,” I echo.

Evelyn ushers Dot and Bette away, and Emerson and I leave the midtown hotel in a flurry, furtively glancing behind us as we push through the revolving doors.

Once we’re out on the street, Emerson tugs my elbow, yanks me farther away, her finger on her lips.

“I don’t think they can hear us now,” I say out of the side of my mouth.

“You never know,” she says, then when we’re around the corner, she stops, flaps an arm in the direction of the skyscraper hotel. “What’s going on? Something is up.”

She sounds wildly suspicious, and maybe I should be too, but I want us to focus on our show, not on nefarious subplots we’ll never untangle.

“Looks like they got picked up too. I’m guessing Webflix is on a buying binge for food shows?

” I suggest. That makes as much sense as anything.

“We just have to do what we came here to do.”

With her jaw set hard, Emerson seems determined to get to the bottom of it. “But both of us? At the same time? And we were together with them on YouTube.” She lifts a skeptical brow. “It feels like something is going on.”

I wouldn’t bet against her, but I don’t know who’s bluffing and who’s not. “Look, we don’t know. But we’re in New York again, and we have a meeting with the executive tomorrow. For tonight, let’s see the crew.”

That was my idea. Did I also arrange to get together with friends on our first night here for a particular reason?

Yes. Yes, I did.

The way I see it is the more time I spend with Emerson in a group, with cameras, with everyone around us, the less tempted I’ll be to get her alone, back her against the door of 1208, dip my face to the soft skin of her neck, and tease her with my tongue and mouth.

Like I wanted to do in my brother’s house a week ago.

Like I want to do now as we walk across Twenty-Third Street. Good thing walking and kissing is, well, not a thing.

Maybe I can just spend the next month walking, and I’ll be able to resist kissing the breath out of her.

It’s like a reunion at Gin Joint when TJ joins us along with Jo, Emerson’s good friend. Easton and Bellamy are on their way, Jo notes as we grab a velvet couch and a man with golden pipes croons old standards on a piano.

As the guy in the dapper suit sings “Baby Won’t You Please Come Home,” Emerson wastes no time going full Agatha Christie. After we order drinks, she catches Jo and TJ up on the Dot and Bette sighting.

“So, what do you think? Why are they here?” Emerson asks our friends.

I laugh, pointing my thumb at her. “She can’t ever stop working.”

“But it’s weird, right?” she asks, undeterred. “Feels like it has to be something.”

TJ lifts his old-fashioned and swirls it, his brown eyes intense as he answers. “My advice? Don’t try to figure out Webflix’s intentions. You’ll be wrong. Big companies like that have their own agendas, and you can’t ever truly get to the core of them.”

“Seriously,” Emerson presses, rubbing her hands along her thighs, a sign she’s getting worked up, “you’re all about motivation. What do you make of Dot and Bette being here while we’re here?”

“Emerson,” I cut in, setting a hand on hers to try to calm her anxiety. “You’re going to drive yourself nuts trying to figure this out.”

Jo’s blue eyes light up like sparklers. “Ohh! What if there’s a new reality show? YouTube stars vie against each other on streaming services,” she suggests.

“Not helpful, Jo,” I mutter.

Emerson runs with it. “Right? Or what if Webflix is going to surprise us. Hey, you’re doing the show together! ”

“I highly doubt that,” I say, reaching for my beer. “They would have told Hayes. So why don’t we just ask him tomorrow when we see him for our intro meeting with Webflix?”

“Fine,” Emerson says with a sigh that says she’ll only let this go for now, not forever. “But I think it’s something.”

TJ lifts his glass in her direction. “You’re right, though, Em.

A cigar is never just a cigar. The powers that be at Webflix want something.

They’re putting pieces in motion to get what they want.

Don’t mistake it for anything else. We all do what we do because we want things. No one is ever motivation-less.”

Someone’s got to put a pin in this detective game, so I try once more. “C’mon, man. You don’t think they’re doing it because they just like both shows?”

TJ scoffs. “There is no just. We don’t just avoid relationships. We don’t just have issues with commitments. There’s always a wound, always a reason, and always a motivation. And there’s definitely no just because .”

Trouble is, he’s probably right.

We are wired for fear. We are wired to avoid pain. We are wired to fuck up, and most of all, we are programmed to want.

Voraciously.

What I want is this.

Literally this.

New York, friends—and a chance.

The next morning, Emerson and I meet with the network executive overseeing our show at a smoothie shop on Madison Avenue.

“I feel like I should be in LA,” Emerson whispers as we arrive at Just Juice on Madison Avenue to see Ilene Brancuso.

Snickering, I point to the sign. “Better tell TJ there is a just when it comes to juice.”

Shoes click on the sidewalk, and I turn to Hayes, looking sharp in a purple shirt and black pants as he strides toward us.

He greets us, then motions us closer. “Listen, I’ve made some calls about the gingham grannies. No one is sharing any details with me yet, but I’ll see what I can sniff out later today. For now, let’s just go in there, tell her your ideas, and get sign-off. That’s what matters.”

“Of course,” I say.

Emerson smiles. “I promise I won’t be a dick.”

Hayes claps her shoulder. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Inside the shop, a woman with pink hair and buff arms waves us over to her table.

A large silver tumbler sits in front of her, a metal straw in it.

“You must be our new stars,” she says, then stands and shakes hands with all of us.

“I’m Ilene.” She gestures to her silver straw.

“I bring extras. Straws are so gauche. But I have metal ones for everyone.”

“That’s great,” Emerson says. “Straws are the devil. But they are fun for innuendo.”

Ilene winks. “That’s what we love about you. That naughty mouth of yours.”

“And I’m not afraid to use it,” she says.

“What can I get you two?” Ilene asks.

I squint at the minimalist menu behind the counter. Hard to pick between celery juice, kale juice, and clear juice, but I’m going to find a way to do it. “I had a coffee at the hotel. I’m good.”

“Same here,” Hayes says.

Ilene flicks her gaze to Emerson, her last hope. “You should try the clear juice,” Ilene tells Emerson.

Emerson smiles thinly, then shrugs. “Sure.”

A minute later, Ilene plonks a tumbler on the table, hands Emerson a metal straw, and says, “ Bon appétit .”

Emerson lifts the tumbler, takes a sip.

Ilene nods enthusiastically. “Really good, right?”

“Just yum,” Emerson says, overly enthused.

Ilene takes another long drink of her just juice. “So, we want you to get cracking with our crew. What have you got, what have you got, what have you got?”

Whoa. Did she just ask three times? She must really want to know.

Good thing we came prepared. “I can send over a list of our top choices, but let me go through them now,” I say, then rattle off our picks.

“It’s a mix of new restaurants, as well as those that are weird, off-the-beaten path, and a little bit sexy.

We also wanted to feature the chefs at each place and tease out their stories. ”

“We’ve researched places where the chefs or owners are real characters, so we want to add that interview element, but keep it tongue-in-cheek,” Emerson puts in.

“Since that’s our style,” I add.