Page 142 of The Wild Card

The afternoon drags on.

We take a walk down to the creek—all four of us, because apparently we’re not allowed to be alone for more than thirty seconds. I find excuses to touch her: a hand on her lower back as we navigate the rocky path, steadying her elbow when she stumbles, brushing a leaf from her hair.

Each touch is a spark. Each touch makes me want more.

By the time we get back to the cabin, I’m wound so tight I could snap.

“I’m going to split more wood,” I announce.

“You split wood this morning,” Foster points out.

“We need more.”

“We have enough for a week.”

“We need more.”

Emmie catches my eye as I grab the axe. The look she gives me—half sympathy, half heat—does not help.

I split wood until my arms ache and my shirt is soaked with sweat. It doesn’t do a damn thing for the tension coiled in my body.

Dinner is worse.

Emmie makes pasta—something with garlic and tomatoes and fresh herbs that fills the cabin with the most incredible smell. She moves around the kitchen like she belongs there, and I can’t stop watching her. The way she hums while she stirs. The way she tastes the sauce off the wooden spoon. The way she bends over to check something in the oven and those jeans—

“You’re staring,” Foster says quietly.

“I’m aware.”

“It’s kind of pathetic.”

“I’m aware of that too.”

He claps me on the shoulder. “Hang in there, buddy.”

We eat at the small table, knees bumping, elbows brushing. Emmie’s foot finds mine again and doesn’t leave. I eat with one hand so I can rest the other on her thigh, hidden beneath the table.

She shifts in her seat. Presses her leg against my palm.

I take a very long drink of water.

“This is delicious,” Sadie says. “Em, you’ve outdone yourself.”

“Thanks. I was inspired.”

Her eyes flick to mine. I nearly choke again.

Cleanup is an exercise in restraint.

I wash. She dries. Every time she reaches past me to put something away, her body brushes mine. Every time I hand her a dish, our fingers touch.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” I murmur.

“Doing what?” Innocent. Too innocent.

“Driving me insane.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She takes the pot from my hands, her thumb tracing across my knuckles. “I’m just drying dishes.”