Page 153 of The Wild Card

Another meow, deeply skeptical.

“You’re a cat. Your opinion is irrelevant.”

He turns and walks away, which feels like a commentary.

At 6:56, I’m standing outside her bedroom door. My hand is raised to knock. I’ve been standing here for approximately forty-five seconds.

Just knock. You’ve breached buildings. You’ve testified in federal court. You can knock on a door.

I knock.

“Coming!”

Shuffling sounds. A muffled curse. Something falls over.

The door swings open, and my brain goes offline.

She’s wearing a dress. Deep green, the color of pine trees, with thin straps and a neckline that hints at things I’m trying very hard not to stare at. Her hair is down, loose waves around her shoulders. Minimal makeup—just enough to make her eyes look even bigger, her lips slightly pinker.

She’s beautiful. She’s always beautiful. But right now, knowing she did this for me—

And then it hits me.

The dress. The heels. She thinks we’re going somewhere nice. Somewhere that matches how incredible she looks. And I’m about to take her to a gym.

Shit.

“Hi,” she says.

“You look—” I clear my throat. “You look incredible.”

“Yeah?” She does a little spin, and the dress flares around her thighs. “I wasn’t sure about the green, but Sadie said—”

“Sadie was right.” I run a hand through my hair, already feeling like an idiot and we’re only ten seconds into this date. “Emmie, I—I think I messed up. Fuck.”

Her smile falters. “What do you mean?”

“The first part of tonight. I planned—” I exhale. “I should have told you what to wear. I didn’t think. I don’t do this. Planning dates, and, uh—” I’m rambling now, which I never do. “You might need to change.”

“Change?” She looks down at her dress, then back at me. “Where are we going?”

“It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

“Crew.”

“The gym. I booked a private room. I was going to teach you self-defense—finish what we started with the contract, but for real this time. And then dinner, and then—” I stop. “It made sense in my head. Take you somewhere that’s mine, show you that part of my life. But you’re wearing a dress, and heels, and you look like that, and I’m an idiot who doesn’t know how dates work.”

I brace for disappointment. Annoyance. Maybe even anger. Something.

Instead, she laughs.

Not at me—with me. Warm and surprised and genuinely delighted.

“You planned a self-defense lesson for our first date?”

“I told you I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Crew.” She steps closer, smoothing her hands down the front of my shirt. “That’s the most you thing you could have possibly planned. I love it.”