Page 73 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

FLASH MOBS AND RECLUSIVE CHEFS

Emerson

I once told Nolan I don’t do casual sex because I don’t know how to act afterward.

Right now, I do know how to act because there is sex and then there is intimacy, and that was both.

So I don’t have to act at all. I can just be... me.

Nothing felt casual about sleeping with Nolan. Thirty minutes later, I’m still basking in the afterglow as I slide my arms into a robe and tie it tightly.

“Robes are cool,” I say with a sexy little jut of my hip as I leave the bathroom, post-shower.

“Maybe on you,” Nolan says, hooking the towel around his waist.

I flop down on the bed, and he joins me.

Perhaps this is when the awkwardness sets in. I can feel it creep up on me, but I swat it away with words. “Are you going to spend the night?”

He strokes his chin as if deep in thought. “It’s a long way back to my place. I don’t really want to do the walk of shame,” he says, and I swat him.

Then I snuggle into my pillow. “I think I’m a pervert.”

He laughs, drops a kiss to my neck, chases it with a nibble. “Why’s that?”

“Hello? You should know. Every time we sleep together, I’m like more, please, bite me, hurt me, smack me. ”

He laughs. “God, it’s so awful. A woman who knows her mind.”

I turn to him, running a hand over a messy lock of his hair, tucking it behind his ear. He’s all warm and lovely right now, all boyfriend-y.

I can’t see him as just a friend any longer, or just a business partner.

My heart somersaults.

And my big mouth can’t stay shut.

“What are we doing?” I mince no words, meeting his gaze straight on.

“Debating where to sleep,” he says with a hint of a grin.

“Yes, I’m clear on that,” I say.

He tugs at the robe’s belt. “Well, if you take this dumb robe off, I can curl up with you, and we can sleep. Or not sleep,” he says, waggling his eyebrows. But before I can ask again, he presses a soft kiss to the shell of my ear. “We’re doing...”

I wait for him to finish, my pulse slamming against my skin.

“I guess what we’re doing is figuring out just how terrible your taste in men is,” he says with a wry smile.

I roll my eyes then close them, feeling a little hollow. If he can’t say what he wants, there’s no way this can become what I crave.

The mattress shifts. It dips near my face. Nolan’s weight is on me, and I open my eyes to stare up at a hunk of a man straddling me.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” he says, “but I want to do it again. And it’s not just the sex I want... It’s you.”

My whole body goes shivery. That’s enough. Truly enough for me now. “Stay the night, please,” I say again.

“You couldn’t kick me out if you tried.”

Talk about blue.

I stare at my neck in the bathroom mirror. My neck is the color of an alpine lake.

My phone buzzes on the counter with a text from Nolan.

Are you ready? We’re cutting it close, and I know you won’t want to miss the cereal.

I love cereal with a passion, but I also need to deal with this evidence.

Five minutes! Meet you downstairs.

I lean closer to the mirror, swiping on more foundation, then more powder over the mark. Almost gone. But I can’t resist. I press a finger to the center of it, and sensation rushes through me.

An aftershock—maybe the reverberations from last night.

I set my hands on the vanity, close my eyes, and let the images rush in. Sex isn’t everything, but it sure is something.

When you finally have the sex you long for, the kind that makes you feel like yourself, it’s so hard to imagine that ending.

But there’s so much more at stake.

When I open my eyes, I run my fingers over the ladybug charm. “What would you do?” I ask softly, wishing my other half would answer. Wishing I could turn to her.

My throat tightens, so I take a deep, calming breath and concentrate on finishing my makeup.

My phone pings again once I’m done. This time, it’s Jo.

I have my interview today! Wish me luck.

I write back. Sending you all the ladybug luck in the world.

An elevator ride later, I’m scanning for a sign of Nolan when a voice rumbles past my ear.

“Good morning, Emerson Alva.”

I turn to say hello to Max. He’s holding a demitasse of espresso. His dark gaze searches my face. Could the man be more intense? I’d guess a resounding, gong-clanging no.

“Hi, Max. How’s everything going?”

“Well,” he answers in between sips, pinky up. “Incredibly well. I’ll be interviewing Raven at La Fontaine today.”

Shut the front door. “He’s like the Banksy of chefs. Raven hardly does any interviews.”

Max holds up his free hand, waggling one finger. “His interview with me is the first he’s done in years.”

Wow. “That’s big time. Good on you.”

He gives a crisp nod. Then his eyes dip to my collarbone—just a moment before he jerks them back up. “I trust it’s the same for you.”

Without waiting for my answer, he turns on his Doc Martens and walks the other way.

No, dude, I’m not hanging out with reclusive three-Michelin-star chefs who’ve given zero interviews. I’m eating cereal shakes and grading Froot Loops pancakes.

With a deep breath, I spin around, shaking my head, and nearly walk into Evelyn.

And Dot.

And Bette.

My God, it’s a food show contestant convention this morning. “Hi, Dot. Hi, Bette. Have they got you leading a Times Square tour today?” Because they’re both wearing I Love NY shirts.

“Yes! And supposedly, there’s going to be a flesh mob for us,” Dot says.

Evelyn rolls her eyes. “Flash mob.”

“Yes, that.”

Webflix is rolling out the red carpet for them. And for Max. “That sounds wild,” I say, trying to sound legit buzzed for them.

I am happy for them.

Of course I am.

Dot leans, her eyes widening, then she inches closer to me. “Sweetie, you missed a teeny, tiny spot,” she whispers, then points gently to my bruise. “Might want to get a touch more powder.”

My cheeks pinken. “Thanks.”

I spot Nolan lounging on a couch, chatting with Marcos. I give him the sign for I’ll be right back , then I scurry to the ladies’ room, grab some powder from my backpack, and paint over the evidence of last night.

When I finish the work, I stuff my makeup back into my bag, but my hands are shaking, my breathing shallow.

I try to let go of the worries.

I want to stop worrying. Truly, I do.

But I also just want .

I want to pay off the loan. I want to do right by Callie. I want to stay friends with Nolan. I want to be his lover. I want our show to succeed. I want it to succeed for him , most of all. I know that man—know his needs and his secret hopes. I want to fulfill them all for him.

This all seems too much to ask.

I stuff my concerns down to the bottom of my bag, cover them up, and put on a grin.

In the lobby, I find my co-host and the Wine Dude. “Hey, Marcos,” I say to the bearded fellow.

“Hey Em,” he says. “Let me know if the Cinnamon Life low-cal milkshake is all that. I’ve been jonesing to try it.”

“I’m sure it’ll go great with a Merlot,” I say stupidly. Since what I really want to say is How are they wooing you today? Tell me everything .

Marcos just gives me a that was a strange response look, then smiles kindly on his way out.

“You okay?” Nolan asks, guiding me outside to a waiting Lyft. As I get in, I catch a glimpse of Marcos sliding into a sleek black town car.

My stomach craters.

“No,” I say, with a gulp.

Nolan climbs in and shuts the door, then he takes my hand in his, covers it. “What’s wrong, honey?”

Oh God.

Honey .

Nothing is wrong now.

Everything is butterflies.

I dip my chin, my hair curtaining my face. He brushes it back, cups my jaw, and gently turns me toward him. “What’s wrong?” he asks again.

“I just . . .”

“You’re worried everyone else is doing better?”

I nod. “It’s stupid. It’s so stupid.”

“It’s not,” he says, then presses a kiss to my forehead. “But you have to try to let it go. Okay?”

I nod, a little shaky. “I just want it, though. For us. For you.”

His eyes do something I’ve never seen before. They tighten with something like pain.

“Are you okay?” I ask, turning the question back on him.

He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I will be.”

I sense there’s something he wants to tell me, but the car pulls up to the cereal joint. It’s time to focus on the job and not on this kernel of worry that’s sprouting and digging roots inside me.