Page 157 of The Wild Card

“You have a pedestrian palate,” she informs me.

“I know.”

“I’m going to fix that.”

“I know that too.”

She grins and steals a bite off my plate, and I think about how I want to do this forever—sit across from her in restaurants, watch her eat, listen to her talk about food with the same intensity I bring to tactical briefings.

After dinner, I pay the check before she can argue and lead her outside.

“That was amazing,” she says, looping her arm through mine. “Thank you.”

“The night’s not over yet.”

“There’s still an ‘after’?”

“There’s still an after.”

I guide her back toward our building, but instead of going to the apartment, I take her to the service elevator.

“Where are we going?”

“Up.”

The elevator opens onto the rooftop access. I push through the door, and Emmie gasps.

I spent an hour setting this up earlier today—blankets spread across the concrete, pillows piled in a nest, string lights borrowed from Mrs. Clemson in 9B draped along the half-wall, and a bottle of wine chilling in a bucket. I press a couple of buttons, and the speaker begins playing something soft and low.

“Crew.” Her voice is barely a whisper. “You did this?”

“You said you wanted to see the stars. We’re in Dallas, so it’s not perfect, but on a clear night, you can see—”

She kisses me before I can finish.

This one isn’t soft. This one is heat and hunger and everything we’ve been holding back. Her arms wrap around my neck, pulling me down to her, and I lift her off her feet without thinking about it.

“The blankets,” she murmurs against my mouth.

“What?”

“Take me to the blankets.”

I do.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Starlight

Emmie

The rooftop takes my breath away.

Not because it’s fancy—it’s not. It’s our building’s rooftop; it’s concrete with large industrial-sized air conditioning units lined up in one corner. But Crew has transformed it into something out of a movie.

Blankets layered on the concrete, thick enough to be comfortable. Pillows piled into a nest that looks impossibly inviting. String lights draped along the half-wall, casting everything in a warm glow. A bottle of wine chilling in a bucket, two glasses waiting beside it.

And above us, the sky. Dallas isn’t known for its stars—too much light pollution, too much city—but tonight is clear, and I can see them. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds, if I look hard enough.