“Good idea,” the second voice says, and they’re already moving farther away.

I give it another thirty seconds, trying to ignore the lightning rushing through my veins as Emmitt’s tongue brushes against my lips.

Then I finally pull away, lowering myself to the flats of my feet.

Emmitt’s hair is slightly mussed, and his brown eyes are blown wide as he stares down at me, pupils dilated. His lips are red, kissed raw, and his cheeks are splotchy with color.

My own face is burning, and I distract myself by running a hand through my hair, brushing it out of my eyes. “I never understood why that worked in the movies.”

A pause—and then Emmitt laughs loudly, throwing his head back. The knife in my stomach climbs higher, puncturing my heart instead.

“Thank you, love,” Emmitt says, offering me a loose grin. “I owe you one.”

I forcibly gather myself, tucking my hair behind my ears. “Don’t you forget it, love.”

22

After we go the NBC store and find Emmitt a suitable disguise, we return to the concourse. I lead him toward the main Starbucks, since they have a sectioned-off seating area with outlets, and I can charge my phone. It’s the only place in the entirety of Rockefeller Center I’ve ever been able to plug my charger in.

We sit down, me carrying a blueberry muffin, him holding a black coffee. As I take my seat, I pull out my phone to film our surroundings, and Emmitt considers me with a tilt to his head.

There’s something different in the air between us—something unspoken that I can’t put a name to. It’s as if we’ve reached some sort of truce. I guess faking a make out with someone is something you can’t exactly take back.

“Why are you always filming?” he asks.

I stop picking at my muffin, looking up at him. I consider snapping that it’s none of his business, but for some reason, I can’t bring myself to. “My dream school is the University of Southern California,” I say, my gaze dropping back to the table. “When I’m in California, I’m sure I’ll feel homesick. So I thought I’d spend senior year recording the world around me, so I can remind myself what New York City is like—and remember that California is the right place for me at the end of the day.”

Emmitt makes a low noise. “What’s wrong with New York?”

I shake my head. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me,” he says, shifting closer and resting his hands on the small table in front of us.