Page 130 of The Wild Card

He finally looks at me, and there’s something raw in his expression. Something unguarded.

“You deserve someone who can give you everything, Emmie. The family, the future, all of it. Someone who doesn’t have to fight his own brain just to function like a normal person.”

“Can we just…” I set down the wine bottle. “Can we not talk about this? Can we just… be? For a minute?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—” I look at the space between us on the couch. “Can we cuddle? I know that’s weird, I know we’re not—I just had a horrible day and I really need—”

“Yeah.” The word comes out quiet. Rough. “Okay.”

I don’t wait for him to change his mind. I crawl across the couch and tuck myself against his side, my head finding that spot on his shoulder that always felt like it was made for me. His arm comes around me slowly, carefully, like he’s handling something fragile.

We don’t speak. The documentary plays on. Murphy resettles himself across both our laps, purring.

“Emmie.”

“Hmm?”

“If I was capable of this—” He stops. Starts again. “If I was the kind of guy who was capable of love and romance and… things like that. You’d be the girl I’d want.”

A tear slips down my cheek. “Crew—”

“I just needed you to know that.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my face into his shoulder so he won’t see me cry.

“Shh,” I whisper. “Just hold me. I still have twelve more minutes.”

He huffs out a sound—not quite a laugh, but close.

“Twelve minutes?”

“Mandatory cuddle time. Those were the terms.”

“That contract is void.”

“Some clauses are forever.” I snuggle closer, breathing him in. “Just… twelve more minutes. Please.”

His arm tightens around me.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Twelve more minutes.”

We both know it’ll be longer than that.

Neither of us says a word.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Housewarming

Emmie

I finish the book on a Tuesday.

The last sentence lands on the page, and I just… stare at it. Twelve months of work. Three hundred and forty-two pages. A cookbook about cooking for the people you love, written almost entirely about a man who doesn’t know I love him.

The irony isn’t lost on me.