“Same here,” Hayes says.
Ilene flicks her gaze to Emerson, her last hope. “You should try the clear juice,” Ilene tells Emerson.
Emerson smiles thinly, then shrugs. “Sure.”
A minute later, Ilene plonks a tumbler on the table, hands Emerson a metal straw, and says, “Bon appétit.”
Emerson lifts the tumbler, takes a sip.
Ilene nods enthusiastically. “Really good, right?”
“Just yum,” Emerson says, overly enthused.
Ilene takes another long drink of her just juice. “So, we want you to get cracking with our crew. What have you got, what have you got, what have you got?”
Whoa. Did she just ask three times? She must really want to know. Good thing we came prepared. “I can send over a list of our top choices, but let me go through them now,” I say, then rattle off our picks. “It’s a mix of new restaurants, as well as those that are weird, off-the-beaten path, and a little bit sexy. We also wanted to feature the chefs at each place and tease out their stories.”
“We’ve researched places where the chefs or owners are real characters, so we want to add that interview element, but keep it tongue-in-cheek,” Emerson puts in.
“Since that’s our style,” I add.
“And we love your style!” Ilene shouts. Literally shouts. Then, the pink-haired turbo executive draws a big gulp of her beverage, nodding the whole time. “Perf. Your ideas are just perf.” She finishes her juice, claps her hands, and whistles. “The chefs, the stories, the food judging. Gah, I just love it all. And the two of you.” She shimmies her shoulders. “Your cha-cha-cha is just delish.”
Actually, I don’t think that’s just juice. I think it’s just coke.
“And I love all these big plans. Especially the sex-ay ones,” Ilene adds, then leans into a long, dramatic pause. “Which brings me to my quest-tee-ohn-ay. I have to know. Are you two together?” She slaps up a hand in the air as a stop sign. “Wait. I can’t ask that. I’m not allowed. Don’t answer.” She covers her ears. “Tra la la.”
Emerson and I trade what-the-hell-is-happening glances.
Hayes mouths she’s excitable.
No shit.
When Ilene removes her earmuffs, she folds her hands, takes a deep breath. “Just keep that magic je ne sais quoi between you two going. Know what I mean?” She adds an exaggerated wink.
The cha-cha-cha made it quite clear to me what she means, so I simply nod.
Emerson hums like she’s taking this all in. “Yeah, I think I do.”
When the meeting ends, Ilene blows air kisses, then darts out.
“She wants us to be Rachel and Ross,” Emerson says in her wake. “She wants that sexy sitcom/are-they-or-aren’t-they energy. Right?”
Hayes cuts in. “No one is saying you need to change things up. Just be yourselves. And if being yourselves involves flirting like you’ve always done, so be it.”
“But what she’s saying is sex sells. Right?” Emerson presses. She hasn’t yet met a question she’s afraid to ask.
He shakes his head, wags a finger. “No. What sells more is not knowing if the couple is sleeping together. What sells is mystery. What sells is the what-if. And on that note, I have another meeting.”
He leaves, and I meet Emerson’s green eyes, seeing all sorts of what-ifs, and knowing, too, that I can’t have them.
I swallow them down, gesture to her silver tumbler. “How was it?”
She shoves my shoulder. “You sneak.”
“Ouch!” I pretend it hurt.
“Why did you make me fall on that Just Juice sword?”
Ah hell. I can’t resist. “You love swords.”
That earns me a well-deserved eye roll. “I had coffee,” she says, imitating me.
“Well, why didn’t you try to get out of it like I did?”
“I was trying to be nice to, oh, you know, the executive in charge of our show.”
“Aww. Was that hard for you? Being nice?” I tease.
She shoves my other shoulder. “Almost impossible.”
I adopt an intensely serious expression. “I’m so proud of you. Your devotion to the cause is truly admirable,” I say. “The cause of How to Eat a Banana.”
“And now the cause is us sorta, maybe acting . . . sex-ay?” she asks, imitating Ilene.
“Yeah. I mean,” I say, lifting a hand to brush a chestnut strand from her shoulder, “it shouldn’t be hard, should it?”
She bites her bottom lip, shakes her head. “It shouldn’t be. That’s the problem.”
Yeah, it is the problem, so I change the subject. “So, what was in that juice?”
“Water, Nolan. Just water.”
The next morning, I wake early to go for a run. In the lobby, I do a double take when I spot a familiar bearded, bespectacled guy trundling a suitcase across the marble floor to the elevator banks.
The Wine Dude. Marcos Ramirez is one of the YouTube stars I considered reaching out to about the contest.
“Marcos,” I call out, and he turns to me.
“Hey, man. You’re in New York again?” he asks after we bump fists.
“I am. Just doing a thing for Webflix.”