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.
22
Melt or Break
Nolan
* * *
This guy.
His smug face is the last thing I want to see. I don’t want to watch his lips curl in slow motion, painful milliliter by more painful millimeter, into a slick grin.
Max points a long finger at the table where Emerson and I sit. “Ilene left her straw. She asked me to fetch it.”
My face reddens, cheeks flaming. I can’t believe we were busted by this Bourdain copycat who thinks he’s the shit.
I grab the straw, thrust it at him. “Here you go. Wouldn’t want her to be without it,” I say, cool as all the cucumbers in the summer salads in this city.
“She does love her straws,” Max says, still smiling like a pussycat.
I steal a glance at Emerson. Her face reads Oh hell, oh fuck, oh no.
In spite of the horror on her face, her eyes say she’s dying to know if Max is going to Saks with Ilene. Sounds like a Dr. Seuss book, and as much as it pains me, I fall on that sword for Detective Emerson. “Have fun at Saks,” I remark evenly, like he didn’t just score a juicy are-they-or-aren’t-they secret to clutch in his paws.