Page 14 of The Wild Card

And then something happens to his face.

It’s subtle—just a slight widening of his eyes, a softening around his jaw—but I catch it. He takes another bite. Then another.

“This is…” He pauses, like he’s searching for the right word. “Good.”

“I know.” I grin. “I’m a professional.”

We eat in silence for a minute, and I find myself studying him across the table. The sharp line of his jaw. The scar through his eyebrow that I want to ask about but don’t.

He’s not classically handsome. His features are too harsh for that, too severe. But there’s something about him that I can’t stop looking at. An intensity. A presence. That chiseled jaw and the bulk of his muscles.

Also, his forearms are ridiculous. I’m not usually a forearm person, but watching him grip that fork is doing things to my brain.

Focus, Emmie.

“So,” I say, desperate for conversation to distract myself. “Can I ask you something?”

He looks up. Wary. “Depends on the question.”

“Do you, um…” I stab a piece of pasta with my fork, suddenly nervous. “Do you have a girlfriend? I’m just asking because I want to know if I should expect anyone coming around, or whatever.”

He chokes on his pasta and has to grab his water to recover. When he finally looks at me, his expression is somewhere between startled and confused.

“No,” he says. “No girlfriend.”

“Oh.” I blink. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing, I just…” I gesture vaguely at him. At all of him. “I’m surprised, that’s all.”

His brow furrows. “Why?”

Oh God. Why did I start this?

“Because you’re, um. You know.” I gesture again, more frantically this time, like that explains anything. “You.”

He lifts one dark eyebrow. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means you’re…” I take a breath. Just say it. Be normal. “You’re like eye candy. You’re basically a tall, brooding, muscular—I mean, women probably want to climb you like a tree, and I’m just saying if I were single and looking, which I’m not, I mean I am single but I’m not looking, I’m just—” I shove a huge bite of pasta in my mouth. “Never mind. I’m going to stop talking now.”

There’s a long, painful silence.

Crew is staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. His ears—are his ears turning pink?

“Tree,” he repeats slowly.

“Please forget I said that.”

“Climb me like a tree.”

“Immediately. Forget it immediately.” I’m definitely blushing. My whole face is on fire. “I have a condition. I just say things sometimes. Words just fall out. It’s a problem.”

He’s quiet for another moment. Then he clears his throat, looks down at his pasta, and says, “This really is good.”

Subject change accepted. Gratefully.

We finish eating in slightly awkward silence, and I’m loading the dishes into the sink when I remember.