That’s me.
That’s us.
Those are our new friends.
I stay frozen for long seconds, gulping in air, trying to adjust to this new reality.
Then I let it hit me blissfully in the chest. I jump. I gasp. I scream. “NOLAN!”
There’s a rustle of covers and a quick wake-up yawn. “What? What’s going on?”
I rush into the bedroom as Nolan tumbles out of bed, morning wood tenting his flamingo boxers.
Big time.
Like, my eyes can’t stop eating up the view.
That good morning bulge—straight out and proud—is thoroughly distracting. Lick my lips as my lady parts purr distracting.
Must resist.
Must stay strong.
Why am I here? Right. The phone!
I waggle it at him, this proof that we accomplished a crazy, wild goal that seemed out of reach. We went for a Hail Mary pass and scored a touchdown to win the game.
“Home page. Home page, home page, home page, home page, home page,” I sing.
Nolan’s realization happens in slow motion, and it’s a beautiful thing to witness. His eyes sparkling, his lips curving, a shocked puff of breath falling from his mouth.
Then a whispered wow.
He closes the distance between us, padding across the sapphire rug. His arms circle my waist. He lifts me up in a huge hug and spins me around once. When he stops, we still embrace, holding on so damn tight.
“I think we’re almost there,” he says, and there’s such relief and desperation in his tone.
“I think so too,” I say, my voice nearly breaking.
He squeezes harder, sighing happily against my neck, a fluttery breath ghosting over my skin. “I need this so much. I really need to get my shit together.” It’s like a confession, the kind of thing you’d only share with your closest friend. Something that shows your soft underbelly, all the things you want to change when you look in the mirror.
“You do have your act together,” I reassure him.
“Barely.” He’s so hard on himself. He has been for some time. In a family of overachievers, Nolan sees himself as the odd man out. His brother’s an NFL quarterback. His father started his own business, which paid for part of their college tuition. “I’m the guy scraping by as I couch surf. Last time I had my own place, I shared it with three roomies, and it sucked.”
“But maybe not much longer,” I say, choking up too.
“I want to get my own place. I want to pay off this . . .” He can hardly bring himself to say it.
I swallow around the knot in my own throat. “I know. Trust me, I know. Same, same.”
The student loan.
At least, that’s what I call it.
“Me too,” I echo, my chest tight, tears pricking the back of my eyes. “But it’s happening. You figured this out. You found Dot and Bette, and you made this happen. You do have your act together.”
Nolan tugs me closer, his arms tighter still.
I dip my face against his neck. He smells like sleepy mornings, and like our sex hours ago, and a little like me and him. My head is spinning, and my heart is cracking open.
I need to let go. All these emotions are churning like a gathering storm of wishes and wants, smashing into things I can’t have.
Dalliances in duos don’t work. Sex can ruin a friendship, and it can sure tank a partnership. Especially if one person—raises hand—suffers from out-of-control feelings.
Last night was surely just sex to him. But I know myself—it could be more to me, and that’s why we need to leave it at one and done. We’ll stay the course and make sure this career high goes even higher.
I untangle my octopus arms from his neck, slide them off him, step back.
Smoothing my hands over my shirt, I try to blink away the emotional moment and focus on the rest of this day, then the next, then the one after that.
“We need to get on the plane and get home to plan more episodes. Maybe we can hit it hard around Wine Country to mix it up? Do some fresh reviews, have lots of fresh content for our new viewers?”
“Love it.” He scratches his head, then holds up a wait-a-minute finger, those flecks in his hazel eyes saying he has a plan. But first he walks around the bed to grab his glasses from the nightstand and puts them on. “I wish our flight didn’t leave so soon. What if we had time to visit a bunch of places in Vegas and get content from a new city?”
“Maybe we can change to a later flight,” I suggest. “Do four or five reviews. Stock up.”
A city-wide smile lights his face. “Brilliance and beauty,” he says.
“Hustle and charm,” I say, then point to the bathroom. “Get ready.”
Ten minutes later, he’s out of the shower, wearing peacock boxers that make me smile and ache at the same time.