Page 156 of The Wild Card

She’s smiling. That bright, warm smile that makes me feel like I’m standing in sunlight.

“One more technique,” I say. “Then we’ll go to dinner.”

“What’s this one?”

“What to do if someone pins you against a wall.”

Her breath catches. “Show me.”

I guide her backward until her shoulders meet the mirrored wall. My hands bracket her head, my body close but not quite touching.

“In this position,” I say, my voice lower than I intend, “most people panic. They push against the attacker’s chest, trying to shove them away. That’s a mistake.”

“Why?”

“Because it puts you in a power struggle you’ll probably lose.” I lean closer. “Instead, you go for vulnerable targets. Eyes. Throat. Groin.”

“Groin.” She’s slightly breathless. “I don’t know, Jensen. Seems a shame to damage something I might have plans for later.”

My brain short-circuits for a full three seconds.

“Focus,” I manage, though my voice has dropped about an octave.

“I’m very focused.” Her eyes flick downward, then back up. “Trust me.”

I clear my throat. “The goal is to create a moment of distraction, then escape.” My thumb brushes her jaw—not part of the lesson, just because I can’t help it. “Make sense?”

“Perfect sense.”

Neither of us moves.

“Crew.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you going to kiss me, or are you going to keep talking about self-defense?”

I grin, then I kiss her.

It’s soft at first—a question, not a demand. Her hands come up to grip my shirt, pulling me closer, and the question becomes an answer. I press her into the wall, one hand sliding into her hair, the other settling on her waist.

She sighs against my mouth, and the sound undoes something in me.

“We should—” I pull back, breathing hard. “Dinner. We have a reservation.”

“Right.” Her eyes are dazed, her lips slightly swollen. “Dinner.”

“Crew.” She cups my face, forcing me to look at her. “Take me to dinner. But know that I’m going to be thinking about this—” She gestures between us, at the wall, at everything. “The entire time.”

“That makes two of us.”

* * *

The restaurant is everything I hoped—intimate, candlelit, with a menu that makes Emmie’s eyes light up. She orders three different appetizers just to taste them, and I end up eating half of everything because she keeps pushing plates toward me. And she doesn’t even seem mad that my planning is terrible and she’s dressed for the gym at a nice dinner. Though the restaurant is pretty casual, so it’s not like she sticks out in a bad way. She’s still the most gorgeous woman here. I wish I could tell her that, that I could say sweet things and be more… I don’t know, just more.

“Try the burrata. Crew. Try it.” She groans around a bite.

I try it. It’s good. Everything’s good. But mostly I just watch her—the way she closes her eyes when something tastes particularly amazing, the way she gestures with her fork when she’s explaining why the pasta is perfectly al dente, the way she laughs when I admit I can’t tell the difference.