Shut Up and Kiss Me (Happy Endings 2)

“Yes. Shopping. It’s a thing,” Max says.

Somehow, I don’t roll my eyes. It’s hard but I manage.

“Yup. It sure is.”

He puffs out his chest, stands a little taller. “So, this has been quite interesting.” His dark eyes shift from Emerson to me and back as if adding up the evidence.

“It’s very interesting,” I say evenly.

Dude, you saw the evidence. It’s not complicated. Now make yourself scarce.

“And on that note,” Max says with one more knowing glance our way, “I’m off.” He strolls to the door, looks back over his shoulder, and zings, “Oh, and best of luck.”

When he’s finally gone, Emerson blows out the biggest breath in the city.

“Nolan,” she says, her tone stretched thin, her face mired in worry.

I know what to do. I hate it, but it’s the only choice.

“Em,” I begin heavily, feeling like I’m ripping off a piece of my heart. “I think we should cool it.”

She freezes. Silence consumes her for several terrible seconds until her voice trembles, “You do?”

I hate myself, but this is necessary. I grab her hand under the table and squeeze it. “There’s too much at stake. I don’t trust that guy. We’re not doing anything wrong, but what if Hayes is right? What if Ilene meant it when she covered her ears that day we met and said she didn’t want to know? What if the mystery is what sells our show?”

Her lower lip quivers, but she nods. She’s so damn tough, even as her eyes shine with tears. She nods again, several times, then tugs her hand out of mine.

My hand is cold without hers, my heart hollow.

“Of course,” she says.

“Just because . . . it’s too risky. We both want—”

“I know,” she says, a bit sharp.

Sharper than I expected.

That stings too, but I deserve it. I should be telling her she’s incredible. That she’s energizing, engaging, vulnerable, funny, kind, and the only woman I want. That she makes me want to be the kind of guy who deserves her, a guy who can give her everything.

“I know, Nolan. It was foolish of me to kiss you like that,” she says, suddenly cool, suddenly collected.

I blink, surprised, and correct her. “I kissed you.”

“But I needed it,” she says, stabbing her chest with her finger, annoyed with herself. “That was the problem. I needed it because I’m way too obsessed with the show and making it work, and it’s making me do and say things, and you had to shut me up with a kiss. It’s my fault.”

“It’s okay to need things. Or need a kiss,” I say. Except, why am I arguing with her about kissing? That’s not helpful.

“It’s not okay,” she says, building up a head of steam, and I want to defuse it for her. That’s my instinct.

“Em, I’m sorry. I just . . .” I trail off because I don’t have the tools to reassure her about this. “I just don’t know what to say.”

When she shutters her expression, I know those were the wrong words to speak. That’s a break-up line, through and through. Because that’s what I just did. I broke it off with her.

She stands, smooths her black shirt, grabs her backpack, and points to the door, and everything feels wrong.

Us ending feels wrong.

But if we don’t end it, we miss our chance at the dreams we’re chasing, barely catching.

She waves broadly to the street outside. “I have a quick call. My mom. She wanted me to call her. I’m going to do it in the room. I’ll meet you in an hour at Break—”

I jump in. “Melt My Heart.”

“Yes. That.” Her answer sounds strangled. “The best grilled cheese in the . . .”

She doesn’t finish. Maybe she can’t. She just purses her lips and leaves.

Everyone is leaving.

Everything is a mess.

Most of all, my dumb heart, because I think I just broke up with the woman I’m madly in love with.

23

Doing it Again

Emerson

* * *

It seems wrong to indulge in such grilled cheese decadence today.

As I bite into the gooey, oozy Gouda, its deliciousness is a slap in the face.

How can anything taste good after I’ve been dumped?

The crowd gathers around our table. We’ve got quite an audience for this episode. I chew seductively, then lick the corner of my lips.

Someone calls out, “Give it that killer groan.”

I do as they ask, with a long purr of praise. “So good.”

Nolan grins at me, flirt in his eyes, a clever tilt to his lips. He seems barely affected by our split this morning.

But then, I doubt the break-up rule book has a proviso for this twisted situation—act turned on by the food you sample with the man who dumped you.

Evidently, I’m a damn good actor because, as I ham it up, giving the fans the full foodgasm, no one seems to have a clue that, a little while ago, the man across from me scooped out my heart with a serrated melon ball spoon.