Page 18 of The Wild Card

Right. I’m not wearing a shirt.

I forgot about that.

Her lips part slightly. Her cheeks flush pink. And for a long moment, neither of us says anything. I just watch her taking in the view—my wide, muscled chest and the fine dusting of dark hair covering it.

I should speak. I should hand her the envelope and leave. I should do literally anything besides stand here like a statue, watching the way her throat moves when she swallows.

“I, um.” She drags her eyes back up to mine. It takes visible effort. “Hi?”

“Contract,” I manage. My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat and try again. “The, uh, roommate agreement. Your copy. For your records.”

I thrust the envelope toward her, probably with more force than necessary.

She takes it, fingers brushing mine—just barely. Just enough to send a jolt of heat up my arm.

“Right.” She clutches the envelope to her chest. “Thanks. That’s very, um. Official of you.”

“You should have your own copy.”

“No, yeah, totally. Important legal documents.” She nods, then seems to realize she’s still staring at my chest and jerks her gaze to the wall behind me. “So. Did you need anything else, or…?”

Yes. I need a cold shower and possibly a lobotomy.

“No,” I say. “That’s it. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Neither of us moves.

Her glasses are slightly crooked. I want to reach out and fix them. I want to lift her into my arms and feel those legs wrap around my waist, tube socks and all. I want to do a lot of things I shouldn’t be thinking about.

“Okay then.” She steps back into her room. “See you tomorrow?”

“Sure. Tomorrow.”

She closes the door.

I stand in the hallway for a full thirty seconds, staring at the wood grain, before I force myself to walk back to my room.

This is fine. Everything is fine.

I am in complete control.

* * *

I barely sleep.

By 5 AM, I give up trying. I go through my morning routine on autopilot—run, shower, shave, protein shake that tastes like cardboard after last night’s pasta—and I’m at the office by seven.

The gym is empty at this hour, so I spend an hour punishing myself with weights, trying to burn off whatever the hell is happening in my head.

It doesn’t work.

By nine, I’m at my desk, pretending to review case files while my brain replays the image of Emmie in those tiny shorts and tube socks on a loop. The way she looked at my chest like she wanted to—

“Jensen.”

I look up. Lieutenant Daniels stands in the doorway of my office, coffee in hand, his expression unreadable.