She’s not wrong. But I’ve spent my whole life competing, albeit in my own head, with the guys in my family. Not sure I want to add contention against the lovable, crazy, foodie grannies and everyone else.
Besides, adding kerosene to this worry fire Emerson is building won’t help. Maybe my role is to extinguish a few of her fears with some . . . calm.
“And we’re just going to be okay with that,” I reassure her. I reach for her hand, and . . . Fuck it.
I don’t just squeeze it. I don’t just give a friendly pat. I thread my fingers through hers and clasp her hand in mine.
It feels right.
It just does, and there’s nothing more to it than that.
The Green Ant is all the weird food rage. The trendy tapas restaurant in Tribeca is known for its green ant guacamole—yes, as in made with ants—and its grasshopper tacos.
A beefy man with slicked-back hair and a passion for, well, unusual combos is the mastermind behind the new eatery. His name is Romain.
“Convince me,” Emerson challenges the chef. “Pretend I’m a reluctant patron and I don’t want to eat grasshoppers. But you want me to try them.”
“Hand to God,” Romain says, pressing his palm on the stained front of his chef whites. “You’ll have a foodgasm.” He sets down a long tray of appetizers for us, a dipping bowl of guacamole in the center. With a lopsided grin, he adds, “And it tastes like chicken.”
“Ah, but see, that’s not enticing to me either. I’m the resident vegetarian.” Emerson’s eyes glint playfully. “Which means I get out of eating grasshoppers on a technicality. Booyah!”
The big man pats her hand. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ve got some vegan grasshoppers right here for you.” Then he dips his hand under the counter and pulls out a slate gray plate, setting it in front of her.
Her eyes pop. Whoa. Dude is good.
“You have vegan grasshoppers? Just like that? You pull them out of your pocket?”
Shock, thy name is Emerson Alva.
Romain shrugs, no big deal style. “Make them myself. They’re like crunchy pumpkin seeds.” He points to the asparagus covered in seeds and stage-whispers, “Because they are pumpkins seeds.”
My fearless co-host clutches her heart like she’s swooning. “Someone loves a vegetarian,” she croons. “Just marry me, Romain.”
The chef laughs. “I like her. She’s a keeper,” he tells me, and I flash her a smile.
Maybe it’s even a deliberately sexy smile.
Wait—call it a knowing grin.
And that feels good. Better than good, especially when she returns it with a little bob of her shoulder, a twirl of her hair, and—best of all?—a lingering gaze that heats me up.
All her attention lasers in on me as she tries the vegan grasshoppers. And I’ll take it because, at this moment, a little bit of Emerson’s attention is better than nothing.
But there’s a show to film. I tear my gaze away from her and turn back to Romain. “Tell us about this place. How’d you start it?”
“It’s about a girl.”
Emerson scoots closer. “This I have to hear.”
“There was this girl in the neighborhood where I grew up. She was beautiful, and I fell in love with her from afar. But she wouldn’t be seen dead with someone like me—no prospects not in her league. So, I saved up some money for a gift to show I was worthy. I gave her a box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day and professed my love. And she? Well, she tossed it in my front yard and said I’d never amount to anything. That box might as well be full of chocolate-covered grasshoppers or ants. She’d never touch them.” He heaves a sigh but then smiles wickedly. “I suppose I was determined to prove her wrong.”
“And convinced many more than her to like grasshoppers. Very impressive revenge.” I raise a hand to high-five. It takes balls to launch a restaurant to prove a snotty girl wrong.
He leaves me hanging, though, and holds up a finger. “But wait. It’s not only a revenge story. There’s a love story too.” He stretches a meaty paw to point toward the door. “Down the street there? There’s a button shop. A few years ago, I met the lady who runs it, and she’s now the love of my life. And having our baby.”
Emerson awws, clasping her heart. “So, revenge turns to love turns to baby makes three.”
“A lucky chance, if you will,” Romain says.
“I’ll raise a vegan grasshopper to luck,” she declares, then clasps my shoulder. “And so will this guy, since he’s a keeper too.”
“Yeah, sometimes luck goes your way,” I say.
But I’m not looking at the chef or the camera.
I’m looking at her hand on me, where she’s not letting go. I don’t want her to. I want to steal this moment where we’re allowed to flirt, to tease, to touch.