The man flings a careless glance at the carnivorous carnage on his plate. “I can only give mine . . . a seven point two.”
“You’re such a hard judge,” I tease.
“And you’d accept nothing less.”
“That is true.” I lift my veggie burger and take another bite, savoring the taste. Nolan watches the whole time, and as my tongue flicks against the corner of my lips, his hazel eyes darken a bit.
Maybe that’s wishful thinking on my part.
Or dangerous thinking, really, the way those risqué thoughts come with a flutter in my chest.
Stupid flutter. Inconvenient thing.
I kick it aside. I won’t let a flutter get in the way of my goals.
It’s my turn to close out the episode, so I laser in on the camera. “And that’s our review of Harriet’s Burger Hut on this episode of How to Eat a Banana.”
I stop recording with a flick of my finger, just like I stopped the flutters. Been doing both for years.
Next comes my favorite part of the job. Meeting fans always makes me feel like a big deal when I’m so not. But for a few minutes after we shoot, I can pretend.
I can pretend, too, that I’ve made all my dreams come true.
The fans who watched our live recording encircle us, equipped with cell phones and Sharpies. A fair-skinned redhead from the crowd bounces over to the table, along with a brunette with an olive complexion. “I just love you guys so much. Can we take a pic?”
With a twinkle in his eyes, Nolan flashes a panty-melting grin, aka his regular smile. “Only if you can be in it too,” he says, all warm and inviting.
If flirting were a class, this man wouldn’t just be the best student. He’d teach an expert course.
And every session would be packed.
The redhead blushes. “Yes, please,” she says, then hands the phone to her friend.
I expect the woman to line up between Nolan and me, but she scoots next to him instead, her shoulder to his shoulder, nudging him closer to me. Her photo choreography leads to Nolan slinging an arm around me, which leads to my libido whispering dirty ideas about my friend and colleague.
So annoying, my overactive imagination, when she gets these wayward notions. I call her Nancy. A name makes backtalk much more satisfying.
When Nolan curls his hand around my shoulder, squeezing it, an irritating little burst of tingles kicks around in my chest.
Shut up, Nancy.
I smile for the camera phone.
When the picture is done, the redhead thrusts a purple Sharpie my way. “Can you both sign my shirt?”
I kind of can’t believe we have any fans for this crazy endeavor, let alone ones who want me to mark their clothing in permanent ink. But the data doesn’t lie, and more than one million YouTube subscribers tune in to our show. It still feels surreal.
The redhead spins around so we can sign her back.
I’m the good cop vegetarian, I write. And Nolan pens, I’m the bad cop carnivore.
After they take off, we chat with a few more fans and take pics with others as the waitstaff wipes down nearby tables, prepping to open again for the dinner crowd.
Finally, the rest of the fans filter out until only a perky blonde remains. “I’m Marie,” she says, “and I just wanted to say you guys are so cute. When I heard you were shooting in the Mission, I left work early to meet you. I watch almost every episode with my sister.”
A pang lashes my heart at the last word. “That must be so fun,” I say, a little wistful.
“It is. We try all the local places you go to. And when you offer suggestions for an at-home equivalent, we rush out to the grocery store and grab those items to try too.”
“Rock on, Marie.” Nolan gives her that stomach-flipping smile. “And do you and your sister rate the food, as well?”
The woman beams. “Yes! We play along with what you guys do. We judge when you judge.”
“So, are you the good cop or the bad cop?” I ask.
With a hint of a smile, her eyes drift to Nolan. “Bad cop. Like Nolan. And when I watch alone, I play along too,” she says, directing those comments to my co-host as she bats her lashes at him, in all his bespectacled hotness.
I bet that’s not all she’s playing with when she watches him.
“You’re my favorite YouTube star, Nolan,” she gushes, clutching her chest, then she turns to me. “You’re so lucky to be with him.”
And here we go again.
With a kind laugh, Nolan shakes his head, pointing a thumb my way. “We’re just friends.”
It’s the truth.
Except for that one night. But that was a few years ago, so who cares?
Not me.
And not Nancy.
The blonde seems delighted with this intel. “Oh, you’re not?”
Nolan hauls me closer, hooking his arm around my shoulders. “Emerson is my BFF. She knows all my secrets,” he whispers.