Page 154 of The Wild Card
“You’re not mad?”
“Why would I be mad? You put thought into this. You wanted to share something with me.” She rises on her tiptoes and presses a quick kiss to my jaw. “Give me five minutes to change. I think I have leggings that won’t completely destroy your concentration.”
“I make no promises.”
She grins and disappears back into her room.
I stand in the hallway, heart pounding, trying to process what just happened. I messed up. I admitted I messed up. And she didn’t run. Didn’t sigh. Didn’t look at me like I was too much work.
She laughed and kissed my jaw and went to change into leggings.
Hm. Maybe I can do this after all.
* * *
Five minutes later, she emerges in black leggings, a fitted tank top, and sneakers. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail now, and she’s scrubbed off the lipstick.
She’s somehow even more beautiful like this. Relaxed. Real.
“Better?” she asks.
“You looked incredible before.”
“And now?”
I let my eyes travel down her body—the curve of her waist, the length of her legs in those leggings.
“Now I’m going to have trouble concentrating.”
“Good.” She grabs her purse—a smaller one this time—and loops her arm through mine. “Let’s go learn how to fight.”
“Defend,” I correct. “We’re learning to defend.”
“Same thing.”
“It’s really not.”
She’s already pulling me toward the door, and I let her, because apparently that’s what I do now. Let Emmie Marshall pull me wherever she wants to go.
I can think of worse fates.
* * *
The Bureau gym is empty at this hour, which is the point.
Emmie looks around as I swipe us through the security doors—the weight room, the cardio equipment, the sparring mats visible through the glass windows.
“This is where you work out?”
“Most days, yes.”
“It’s very… institutional.”
“It’s a federal building.”
“Right.” She grins. “Very on-brand for you.”
I lead her past the main gym to the private training room I reserved. It’s smaller, more intimate—padded floors, mirrored walls, a few pieces of equipment pushed to the corners.
