Page 77 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

TA-TA FOR NOW

Emerson

A few days later, I’m still a little sore in all the good ways. Along my hips. On my ass cheeks. Between my thighs.

The bruises ache beautifully.

They make me feel in ways I haven’t before. They make me think about things I didn’t want to consider.

Like how the hell to lifehack my way into Nolan’s heart without confronting the uncomfortable reality of my so-called terrible taste.

Only, probably not this second since Ilene emailed last night and requested a check-in. Like that’s not foreboding at all.

Part of the contract calls for regular meetings, so let’s get regular!

We said yes, of course. We’ll see her, finish our shoots over the next week, then what? Do we return to San Francisco and wait? Check out of our swank hotel, then couch surf while we stay here and shoot videos for our YouTube channel?

It feels like limbo.

I could convince Jo to let me sublease her place, but I’m not in her income bracket. I can’t ask her to take a hit on rent for me.

There are too many what-ifs.

But this is a fact—we’re meeting Ilene, and it’s time to camouflage my collarbone again.

Once I’ve blended foundation and powder over my bites, I meet up with Nolan downstairs, and we hustle out of the hotel to check in with Ilene before our shoot today. Melt My Heart, where we’re filming today, is a specialty sandwich shop that supposedly has the most orgasmic grilled cheese anywhere.

Well, good grilled cheese is toe-curling.

A few blocks away, the pink-haired executive waits for us at the counter of an austerely black-and-white café called Good Morning.

She points to the menu with her particular vim and vigor.

“I tested this place yesterday, and it is the best! Good Morning only serves turmeric beverages, and turmeric is one of the foods that will change your life. You must try the Straight Turmeric Morning Blast-Off. It’s life-changing,” she says.

“Thanks, but I just had a coffee,” Nolan replies, all deadpan and mischief.

He beat me to it again. I shoot daggers at him with my eyes.

“But I’m sure Emerson would love one,” he adds with the sweetest smile.

I glare harder. I might torture him with my mouth later, licking and sucking but refusing to draw him all the way in for a good, long time.

Wait, that doesn’t sound like torture, except maybe the most exquisite kind.

Ilene spins toward me, her big eyes imploring. “Emerson, join me. You have to. Pretty please? I insist.” She presses her palms together.

“Sure. I’ll do a turmeric latte,” I say, plastering on a smile. Yay, I get to drink gross coffee blends . Maybe the milk and foam will mask the disgusting taste. A woman can hope.

A few minutes later we grab a table, though it’s more like a seat on a concrete slab at a concrete bar. Good Morning takes “stark” to new levels. Nolan and I sit next to each other across from the woman who holds the fate of our career in her hands.

Ilene riffles in her purse for a gleaming silver metal straw, which she raises in victory before dropping it in her tumbler. She sips some straight turmeric smacking her lips in satisfaction.

I smile as I lift the white mug, bracing myself for the hell of a turmeric latte. Yum . Ilene beams, her white teeth gleaming.

“So, everything is going great. Super great. We love what you’re doing. Just keep doing it,” she says.

That’s nice but a little vague. “Is there anything you want us to change?” I ask.

Nolan jumps in to ask, “More interviews? Less interviews? Do you want more focus on New York? Different types of places? We can go divey or upscale, food truck or pop-up—we’ve got a long list of spots.”

Ilene nods thoughtfully, taking another sip. “Interesting, very interesting.”

Umm. What’s interesting? Which one? I don’t want to put her off, so I toss out more ideas. “I’ve always thought it would be fun to give tips on surviving dinner parties,” I begin.

Her eyes twinkle, saying go on.

“Like a funny little segment on how to make small talk when the guest next to you can only talk about traffic or the weather,” Nolan adds. We brainstormed this concept together. “Or project management software.”

We agreed project management software is trés boring.

“Yes! That happened to me the other night,” Ilene says.

“Dinner parties are straight from Sartre. As in, hell is other people .” Ah, so she’s a philosophical health nut.

Truly, this city takes all people. “Though, supposedly Sartre said his quote was misunderstood. Or so my dinner party partner told me. Whatevs! I say he got it from some other dinner party.”

Maybe we’re onto something. “So, that could be a fun addition,” I say, hoping to capture more of her enthusiasm. “Along with more of the judging, maybe even getting audiences involved. Possibly some of the red-carpet treatment, too, like the others are getting.”

Another sip, another nod. “Audience involvement. I just love it,” she says, sounding like I proposed inventing gravity when it didn’t exist before.

“Should we sketch out some of those ideas?” Nolan asks, as eager as I am. “Try to work them into the show?”

“Nah! Just keep doing what you’re doing,” she says, then checks her watch. She takes one more sip. “Gah. Gotta go. I’ve got an appointment at Saks.” She jumps up. “TTFN.”

Then, she vanishes like a superhero, disappearing out of the café in a flash of pink hair and rocket fuel.

I stare at Nolan, my heart an anvil. “She couldn’t even take time for ‘ta-ta for now,’” I say forlornly.

He smiles softly. “It’s fine.”

“Is it, though? Jo is leaving, and Ilene gave us less than four minutes of her time. I just feel like we’re falling behind. Don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” he says, his eyes gentle. “But I’m trying to enjoy what we have.”

We as in him and me, or we as in the show? That’s what I should ask, but I’m too afraid of the answer.

“So, what do we do?” I grab his arm, squeezing his hard bicep. I want to gift wrap our chances with a big red bow, and that’s just dumb. But I want what I want. “What do we do to win?”

“We might not, Emerson. We might just have to be happy with what we have,” he says, the calm in the center of my storm.

Like he’s always been.

He’s my point of balance. My safe harbor.

My heart goes smushy at the thought. But still, I want so much. I want this success so deeply. I want it for him. “Nolan, what if?—”

He leans in and silences me with his mouth.

When his soft, firm lips cover mine, the world spins away. My head goes pleasantly blank, my body delightfully warm and tingling.

And I give in.

To whatever we can be.

Nolan wraps a hand around my head, curling his fingers through my hair.

He slips his tongue into my mouth, deepening our connection, pulling me closer as he kisses me in a very public display of affection, giving me a very not-safe-for-work kiss.

With the sweep of his mouth, I forget everything except the taste of his lips, the scent of his skin, and the way I feel when I’m in his arms.

Safe. Safe and thrilled, all at once.

Questions flick through my head. Will audiences like the mystery of us if we’re no longer a mystery? What if there’s no more what-if? And the biggest one of all—will I let myself have this ?

But logic is hard to locate when he’s shutting me up with a kiss like he knows me, cares about me, and wants me.

Evidently, sometimes I just need kissing.

When he breaks away, I don’t have any more answers to the career questions, but I’m coming closer to the personal one.

I’m inching nearer to understanding my walls—and maybe how to scale them.

Let go of the past. Say goodbye to the things I clutch too tightly. Release my guilt. I want to tell Nolan I think I finally know why I’ve had terrible taste.

“Nolan . . .” I try to say more, but the words stick, and I look away from his hazel eyes to catch my breath. I’m still so dizzy from his lips I can’t form thoughts into words.

So dizzy that it takes a few blinks to register who it is smirking down at me.

Max Vespertine.