Page 10 of The Wild Card

I fold the contract and slide it into the envelope I prepared.

“When are you wanting to move in?”

“Is this weekend too soon? I know that’s fast, but Sadie’s couch is killing my back. I really need to get my kitchen stuff set up so I can start testing recipes again, and—”

“This weekend is fine.”

“Really?” Her entire face lights up again, and something about it makes my chest tight in a way I don’t want to examine. “Oh my gosh, thank you. You won’t regret this, I promise. I’m going to be the best roommate you’ve ever had.”

She stands, nearly dislodging Murphy, and extends her hand.

I shake it. Her palm is warm and soft—and she holds on a beat longer than necessary before letting go.

“See you Saturday,” she says, gathering her things in the same chaotic whirlwind she arrived in: bag, purse, phone, keys. She’s halfway out the door when she turns back. “Oh, the cookies! Keep them. Consider it a, um, gift.” And then she’s gone.

A gift. The word sticks in my brain, rattling around like it doesn’t quite fit.

I can count on one hand the number of gifts I’ve received in my life: birthday cards from social workers who spelled my name wrong, a secondhand baseball glove from one of the group homes. There was Mrs. Placket in foster home number six—she tried. She knitted me a sweater for Christmas, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her that wool made me break out in hives. I shoved it in the back of the closet. I got moved three weeks later anyway.

I stare at the Tupperware.

It’s still warm.

Murphy meows at the closed door, a look of betrayal evident.

I stand in my living room, holding a signed contract that she didn’t read, and wait for the guilt to hit.

It doesn’t.

What hits instead is something worse: the image of her smile, the strands of honey-colored hair framing her face, the way she’d looked at me like I was safe.

This is a business arrangement, I remind myself. Nothing more.

But as I file the contract in my office and start preparing for Saturday, I can’t quite shake the feeling that I’ve just set something in motion I won’t be able to control.

Chapter Three

Move In Day

Emmie

I own exactly six boxes worth of stuff. Six. That’s it.

Most of my furniture belonged to my old roommate, which means I’m moving into Crew Jensen’s apartment with a couple of suitcases of clothes, my kitchen equipment, a box of linens, three plants I’m determined not to kill, and a box of books I’ve already read twice.

I pull into the parking garage first, find a spot, and sit in my car for a moment staring at the building through the windshield.

This is fine. This is totally fine.

Gavin’s SUV rumbles into the spot next to me a minute later. He climbs out, walks around to the back, and just… stands there. Staring at the haul.

“This is it?” He looks at the pile, then at me. “Em, this is pathetic.”

“It’s minimalist.”

“It’s depressing.”

“I prefer to think of it as a fresh start.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and try to channel optimism I don’t entirely feel. “Besides, the room comes furnished. I just need to add some personality.”