Page 177 of The Wild Card

“And the woodwork! Emmie said he did all of it by hand. By hand, Robert. Our future son-in-law.”

“Linda. Maybe we should’ve called first.”

“Why would we call? It’s a surprise!”

Emmie closes her eyes. Takes a breath through her nose like she’s accessing a deeper reserve of patience.

“Okay. The bedroom.” She turns and surveys the damage. The sheets are tangled. A pillow’s on the floor. It also probably smells like sex. My shirt from last night is draped over the footboard, and her underwear is hanging off the nightstand lamp in a way that I’d normally find amusing.

“We don’t have time to deal with all this,” I say. “Just close the door.”

“If my mother opens the door—”

“I’ll block it with my body.”

“My hero.” She grabs the pillow off the floor, chucks it onto the bed, kicks my shirt under the frame, and pulls the door shut like she’s sealing a crime scene.

We move to the main room. I do a quick scan—the living area looks fine. Kitchen is clean, that’s a plus. I grab the coffee maker and start a pot because if there’s one thing that reads normal Saturday morning and not you just interrupted your daughter mid-orgasm, it’s coffee.

Three knocks on the front door. Then Linda’s voice, sweet as honey. “Emmieeee! Surprise, sweetheart! We brought brunch!”

Emmie looks at me. I look at her. She’s flushed, hair wild, flannel buttoned wrong, still slightly out of breath from either the sex or the panic. Probably both.

I probably don’t look much better. My shirt feels like it might be inside out. I check. It is.

I yank it off and flip it. Emmie watches me, and for a split second her eyes track down my chest and her expression goes somewhere that is not helpful right now.

“Stop it,” I say.

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me like that while your parents are on the porch. If I didn’t have a visible hickey and your father outside my door, we’d be back in that bedroom in about three seconds.”

Her cheeks go darker. She bites her lip, and I have to physically turn away from her.

“Get the door,” I say. “Before I do something that gets me killed by a retired football coach.”

She takes a breath, smooths the flannel, and opens the door.

Linda Marshall enters our cabin the way a hurricane enters a coastline.

“OH, look at this place!” She makes a beeline straight for Emmie, casserole balanced in one hand.

She grabs Emmie’s left hand, yanking it toward her face like she’s appraising a diamond at auction. She tilts it in the light, makes a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a squeal. ”Oh, sweetheart.” Then she looks at me with glassy eyes—and nods once. “Good job, honey. You did good.”

She continues past Emmie, taking it all in. “The beams! Robert, look at the beams. And the floors—Emmie, honey, why didn’t you tell me about these floors? Is this reclaimed wood? It’s reclaimed wood, isn’t it? Crew, did you do the floors yourself?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Beautiful. Just beautiful.” She sets the casserole on the counter and pulls me into a hug that lasts long enough for me to wonder if she’s checking my neck.

She is. She’s absolutely checking my neck.

When she pulls back, her eyes flick to the hickey. One beat. Two. A smile spreads across her face—the kind of smile that contains multitudes, none of them innocent.

“It was a bug,” I mutter, heat crawling up my neck.

She doesn’t say anything. Not yet. She just pats my cheek and turns back to the kitchen.