Shut Up and Kiss Me (Happy Endings 2)

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.”

16

You Could Break My Heart

Nolan

* * *

When a woman lets you know what she wants, you should give it to her.

First, I follow her command. After I slam the door closed, I grab Emerson’s face and haul her close.

A hard, wet kiss comes next.

I grip her tight as I take her mouth the way she likes. The way I learned in Las Vegas.

Possessively.

I drag my thumb along her jaw, pressing roughly as I kiss her with rabid intensity. With hunger and a little hurt because she likes that.

Her noises tell me how much as I give a nibble that turns into a bite. I drag my teeth along her bottom lip, and she goes boneless in my arms. I have to band my arm around her waist, and I don’t fucking mind at all. I don’t mind one bit as I dig my fingers into her lower back, holding her close.

I kiss her without mercy. There’s nothing soft about this locking of lips. It’s all edges and corners, teeth and bones.

It’s also about fucking time.

Then I break the kiss for a second. “Want to see you. How you look when you’ve been kissed by me,” I rasp as I drag my hands down her face, drinking her in.

Her eyes are glossy, her lips already bruised. “How do I look?”