Shut Up and Kiss Me (Happy Endings 2)

His dark eyes light up behind his glasses. “For real? Same here.”

Good thing Emerson isn’t here. Her Spidey senses would tingle and then erupt. “That’s awesome. You’ve got a show with them?”

He crosses his fingers. “Here’s hoping it pans out, but it looks that way. I paired up with Drive-Thru Babe on that YouTube contest, and well, long story short—”

“—she’s here too?”

“You’ll probably see her any day now,” he says.

“Are you two doing a show together?”

“No, but supposedly I need to add all sorts of how-to wine stuff to my show. How to buy wine, how to pick wine, how to pair it with sandwiches. Beyond the quickie reviews I did on my channel.”

And the plot thickens. “Good luck, man,” I say.

“Let’s grab a drink while you’re here,” he says.

“As long as it’s not a red, a white, or a rosé,” I agree with a wink.

“You wine hater,” he calls out.

“You know it,” I say, and as I run through Central Park, I text Hayes, asking him to get some details.

Pretty please and stat.

He writes back in seconds. I’m on it; I’ve got calls out. Will know more soon.

I hope he calls back before Emerson runs into Drive-Thru Babe or anyone else. I don’t want her freaking out before we know the score.

Once I finish my run and shower, I gather her up and get her out of the hotel and away from any more potential random run-ins.

We spend the morning holed up in Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium working on our first script, and I do my best to put YouTube star sightings out of my mind.

I manage it until Hayes calls me on FaceTime. I answer, grab my bag and step outside.

“Listen, I got the details on Dot and Bette and the others,” he says.

Emerson joins me on the sidewalk, photobombing the call by sticking her face in front of my screen. “Tell us everything.”

He’s all serious as he answers. “Webflix is trying out a bunch of foodies from the YouTube contest. They’ll run episodes of several shows, and whichever one is more popular . . .”

With a weary sigh, I finish the thought. “That’s the one they’ll pick up.”

He nods. “Seems that way. Each one has a slightly different vibe. You’re more food and flirt, but they also like the Dot and Bette grandma brand, and they’re playing with new concepts for them too. Then there’s the Wine Dude and the Drive-Thru Babe. There’s also some guy named Max Vespertine. He’s one of those Bourdain types. Rose up on Instagram, I guess. You know him?”

“No, never heard of him. But I’m jealous of his name,” I say.

“Maybe I need to change my last name,” Emerson offers, game for anything. “I mean, I can Google super-cool last names too. I could become Emerson Bardot. Emerson Raven. Or just Emerson X. Just off the top of my head.”

Hayes smiles at her. “Emerson Alva is great. Don’t change a thing. Just be yourself. You guys have come this far with a great concept, great energy, and great chemistry. Just keep it up.”

“We will,” I say, though it feels a little ironic that our partnership with Dot and Bette has now morphed into an Amazing Race competition. But there’s no other way to see it. “It’s a battle royale.”

“Sometimes you have to fight for your seat at the table,” Hayes says.

I’ll have to look for my opening to do just that.

There’s a new rhythm to the show in New York. We have a camera crew this time. We write out scripts. The crew spends more time shooting B-roll of restaurants, of the city, of us.

The show expands too. The segments are more in depth. We prep to do interviews with the chefs.

“What if we’re not as good at the chef interview as Max Vespertine?” Emerson worries as we head down to Chelsea a week later.

“You think just because he has some uber-cool name that he’s going to be as good as Bourdain?”

“It is kind of a hot name, and I watched all his videos. He’s good. All broody thoughtful and intelligent,” she says as we head onto the subway.

And hot? Is he hot too?

But if I ask that, I might as well wear a mood ring that turns green for jealousy. Instead, I nudge her and needle, “Aww, got a crush on him?”

She rolls her eyes. “Please. Those smarty-pants serious guys are not my type.”

I can’t help myself. “What’s your type, then?”

She gives me the side-eye. “I believe you know.”

“Do I?” Ah, hell. I hope she says me. I shouldn’t want that, but I do.

“You said I had terrible taste in men. So obviously, my type is terrible men,” she says, then gives me a sassy smile I want to kiss off her.

“Touché,” I say.

As we get off at Fourteenth Street, she bats her lashes and licks her lips, playing it up. “But I suppose some might say you’re terrible too, Nolan.”