Page 71 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

Besides, adding kerosene to this worry fire Emerson is building won’t help. Maybe my role is to extinguish a few of her fears with some... calm.

“And we’re just going to be okay with that,” I reassure her. I reach for her hand, and... Fuck it.

I don’t just squeeze it. I don’t just give a friendly pat. I thread my fingers through hers and clasp her hand in mine.

It feels right.

It just does , and there’s nothing more to it than that.

The Green Ant is all the weird food rage. The trendy tapas restaurant in Tribeca is known for its green ant guacamole—yes, as in made with ants—and its grasshopper tacos.

A beefy man with slicked-back hair and a passion for, well, unusual combos is the mastermind behind the new eatery. His name is Romain.

“Convince me,” Emerson challenges the chef. “Pretend I’m a reluctant patron and I don’t want to eat grasshoppers. But you want me to try them.”

“Hand to God,” Romain says, pressing his palm on the stained front of his chef whites. “You’ll have a foodgasm.” He sets down a long tray of appetizers for us, a dipping bowl of guacamole in the center. With a lopsided grin, he adds, “And it tastes like chicken.”

“Ah, but see, that’s not enticing to me either. I’m the resident vegetarian.” Emerson’s eyes glint playfully. “Which means I get out of eating grasshoppers on a technicality. Booyah!”

The big man pats her hand. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ve got some vegan grasshoppers right here for you.” Then he dips his hand under the counter and pulls out a slate gray plate, setting it in front of her.

Her eyes pop. Whoa. Dude is good.

“You have vegan grasshoppers? Just like that? You pull them out of your pocket?”

Shock, thy name is Emerson Alva.

Romain shrugs, no big deal style. “Make them myself. They’re like crunchy pumpkin seeds.” He points to the asparagus covered in seeds and stage-whispers, “Because they are pumpkins seeds.”

My fearless co-host clutches her heart like she’s swooning. “Someone loves a vegetarian,” she croons. “Just marry me, Romain.”

The chef laughs. “I like her. She’s a keeper,” he tells me, and I flash her a smile.

Maybe it’s even a deliberately sexy smile.

Wait—call it a knowing grin.

And that feels good. Better than good, especially when she returns it with a little bob of her shoulder, a twirl of her hair, and—best of all?—a lingering gaze that heats me up.

All her attention lasers in on me as she tries the vegan grasshoppers. And I’ll take it because, at this moment, a little bit of Emerson’s attention is better than nothing.

But there’s a show to film. I tear my gaze away from her and turn back to Romain. “Tell us about this place. How’d you start it?”

“It’s about a girl.”

Emerson scoots closer. “This I have to hear.”

“There was this girl in the neighborhood where I grew up. She was beautiful, and I fell in love with her from afar. But she wouldn’t be seen dead with someone like me—no prospects not in her league.

So, I saved up some money for a gift to show I was worthy.

I gave her a box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day and professed my love.

And she? Well, she tossed it in my front yard and said I’d never amount to anything.

That box might as well be full of chocolate-covered grasshoppers or ants.

She’d never touch them.” He heaves a sigh but then smiles wickedly.

“I suppose I was determined to prove her wrong.”

“And convinced many more than her to like grasshoppers. Very impressive revenge.” I raise a hand to high-five. It takes balls to launch a restaurant to prove a snotty girl wrong.

He leaves me hanging, though, and holds up a finger.

“But wait. It’s not only a revenge story.

There’s a love story too.” He stretches a meaty paw to point toward the door.

“Down the street there? There’s a button shop.

A few years ago, I met the lady who runs it, and she’s now the love of my life. And having our baby.”

Emerson awws, clasping her heart. “So, revenge turns to love turns to baby makes three.”

“A lucky chance, if you will,” Romain says.

“I’ll raise a vegan grasshopper to luck,” she declares, then clasps my shoulder. “And so will this guy, since he’s a keeper too.”

“Yeah, sometimes luck goes your way,” I say.

But I’m not looking at the chef or the camera.

I’m looking at her hand on me, where she’s not letting go. I don’t want her to. I want to steal this moment where we’re allowed to flirt, to tease, to touch.

Maybe this is the kind of luck you make for yourself.

Like holding her hand on the train.

Like making sure we keep doing our own thing.

Like trying, then trying again.

And like enjoying this directive from the network to lean into our je ne sais quoi.

It’s weirdly freeing. It gives me permission to enjoy this feeling in my chest, kind of warm and hazy like curling up in a cozy bed at night, like lying by a fireplace when it snows, like tangling up with sun-kissed skin on a hammock.

That’s how I feel with Emerson, this woman who’s been by my side through thick and thin, through ups and downs. Who hasn’t ever judged me. Who’s never said I’m not enough.

But this feel-good, heady sensation will fade, and I’ll be left with the bills like I was before.

Focus, man. Focus.

I snap to it, pick up a chip, and taste the ant guacamole. “Holy fuck, this is hella good, dude,” I say.

Romain thrusts his arms in the air. “Revenge is a dish best served with insects,” he shouts.

I don’t dispute him there. Those sound like words to live by.

But there are other words to live by too. Words like work hard, look out for yourself, be smart.

Emerson and I double down, balancing two shows. At the end of each day, I’m more tired than I’ve been in ages. But it’s a good kind of tired that I feel deep in my bones.

Three weeks in, we head up the elevator near midnight, yawning ceaselessly. When I reach my room at last, I press my face against the door and let out an over-the-top snore.

Laughing, Emerson comes up behind me, pets my hair, and whispers, “Me too.”

“That’s nice,” I whisper, meaning her touch.

I expect her to take her hand away, but she doesn’t. Instead, she strokes down, and then she glides her fingers through my hair, running her nails along my scalp. I shudder, not tired anymore. My pulse spikes, shooting up, blasting through the roof of the hotel.

I’m on fire everywhere.

The air around me shimmers, and my desire spins sharply, intensely, then distills into one wish.

I turn around, buzzing with want. Her hand drops to her side.

“I should go,” she says, a hint of regret flashing in her eyes. Is she worried she made a mistake touching me?

“You don’t have to,” I say.

“I do, though,” she says sadly, and she wheels around, turns away, and opens her door.

My heart thumps loudly in my chest, saying follow her . My brain says go to 1205 .

I picture the train, and the Long Food shoot, and the luck, and the looks, and the way she shared her secret with me on the streets of New York.

I think of all the things I haven’t yet told her.

My heartbeat thrums so loudly I can’t hear anything else. I cross the ten feet or so to her door, and I knock.

When she answers, her big green eyes are wide, eager.

Her lips part.

She waits.

And I speak.

“Listen, I can’t stop thinking about Vegas, or you, or us.

I know you don’t do casual, and that we said it can’t happen again.

I know the show means the world to us.” I pause to take a breath, then I drag my hand through my hair.

“But I want to say it’s really hard to be with you every second and to feel this way for you. And I don’t know what to do.”

With a buoyant smile, she grabs my shirt and twists the fabric. “Nolan?”

“Yeah?”

“Just shut up and kiss me.”