Shut Up and Kiss Me (Happy Endings 2)

“Want lunch? This place has great salads, sandwiches, veggie burgers. You name it.” Ilene smiles at me unapologetically. “I’m a vegetarian too, so I thought it’d be perf. Hope you don’t mind. And I am soooo hungry I could eat a whole plant.”

The woman is a hoot. “I’m an equal opportunity eater,” I say.

“And I love veggie sandwiches,” Emerson puts in.

Ilene flashes her a knowing grin then winks. “I know. I’ve watched every single episode of your show.”

When we’ve placed our orders, I wait for Ilene to ask for a charcoal shake, or a hemp seed smoothie, or a grass platter. Instead, she reaches for a glass of ice water, drops a straw in it, and drinks, then sighs happily. “So, how’s it going?”

“Great,” I say, wondering when she’s going to get around to letting us down easy.

Ilene looks to Emerson. “And you? You look hawt, Emerson. Your cheeks are all rosy red.”

Emerson swallows, maybe a little embarrassed. Or maybe not, since she reaches for my hand and threads her fingers through mine. “I feel fabulous.”

Ilene’s eyebrows climb, and her lips twitch, but she says nothing.

“We’re together,” Emerson adds, and there’s that big mouth on my woman.

I love her big mouth.

“Yes, we are,” I add. “We just wanted you to know. Not that it matters now, per se. But we wanted you to know from us.”

Take that, Max.

“And we know that Marcos got the slot. He’s really talented. You made a great choice,” I add.

But then, back in the hotel, Dot and Bette seemed stoked too. I’m not sure what to make of that.

“Marcos is incredible,” Ilene agrees. “So are Dot and Bette.”

She sips her water then sets it down again. “That’s why I hired them for our new food sub-channel. We had such success with all the food shows that we’re launching an entire sub-channel devoted to cuisine. Let’s be honest—people love to eat.”

Well, yeah. It makes life and stuff possible. “That they do,” I agree.

“And that’s why we want your show to be the lead show on Webflix itself, to attract new viewers and then bring them to the sub-channel. Sort of the marquee property among our food shows. It’ll have top placement, and we’ll promote it . . .”

She keeps talking, but I can’t process the details because I just shot into the stratosphere on a Webflix-fueled rocket.

This is so much more than I ever expected, and it feels surreal.

When Ilene’s done, she says, “So what do you think?”

Emerson turns to me, her green eyes shining, her hand gripping mine, and then everything feels fantastically, terrifically real.

And worth every single bump in the road.

I lean into Emerson, forehead to forehead, and just breathe in the moment. The joy of this news. The thrill of creating something from nothing, building it from the ground up, pouring love, sweat, work, tears, late nights, and wild hopes into it.

For a chance.

When we break apart, Emerson takes off, firing off questions a million miles a minute, and I just sit back and watch my girlfriend, my best friend, my partner steer our ship toward a whole new future.

Yes, every single day was worth it.

Not because of the show, but because of the woman by my side. The person I get to work with. The person I get to love.

27

On a Scale of One to Ten

Emerson

* * *

Ordinarily, I don’t like hot dogs. Which is weird, since, hello? Phallic food is fun. But hot dogs I can take or leave.

Usually, leave.

That was before I found Your Dog Loves These Wieners, a food truck in Central Park with dachshund drawings all over the vehicle and decadent veggie dogs on the menu.

I lift the long dog, bring it to my mouth, and meet Nolan’s eyes. “Will it fit?”

With a snort, he turns to the camera, delivers an aside. “She said the same thing to me last night.”

I roll my eyes. This guy. “Please. I’m the mistress of handling that. I’m talking about this veggie dog, babe.”

“Try it, honey.”

“I will,” I say, then open wide and bite down. And wow. Just holy delicious fake meat, that tastes fantastic mixed with mustard and avocados and pesto and happiness.

I moan around the dog.

“Damn, that’s quite a foodgasm,” he remarks.

“But would you do it again?” a voice calls out from the crowd gathered around the truck.

I meet the young woman’s bright blue eyes, glance at her inked arms, her excited smile. The question echoes through my mind like it did at the vegan café a few months ago when I was missing Nolan dreadfully. When I was trying to figure out all my stuff. What I’d fight for. What I’d ask for. What I could let go of. What I desperately wanted to have.

Now, the question’s easy to answer.

I’d do it all again, every second, because I love where I am. I’m living my best life, not Callie’s or anyone else’s.