Page 31 of The Wild Card
“So,” she clears her throat, “when do we have to sell this thing? The fake relationship?”
“There’s a work event. A charity gala.”
“Okay. When?”
“One week.”
Her eyes go wide. “ONE WEEK?!”
“It’s doable.”
“Crew, I don’t even know your middle name! Or your birthday! Or, like, literally anything about you beyond the fact that you’re FBI, you have a cat, and you hate cuddling!”
“I don’t hate cuddling. I just don’t understand it.”
“Not the point!” She’s on her feet now, pacing the small kitchen. “How are we supposed to convince your boss we’re in a serious relationship when we’ve known each other for three days?”
“We’ll practice.”
“Practice what?”
“Being comfortable with each other. Learning the details.” I stand too, because it feels wrong to be sitting while she’s spiraling. “I can put together a, uh, dossier.”
“A dossier.”
“Background information. Facts about each other. A believable timeline for how we met and how we started dating.”
She stops pacing and stares at me. “You want to make a study guide for our fake relationship.”
“Is that a problem?”
For a long moment, she doesn’t answer. Then, slowly, a smile spreads across her face. Not the bright, easy smile I’m getting used to—something warmer. Almost fond.
“You’re such a weirdo,” she says.
“I prefer methodical.”
“Sure you do.” She picks up her notebook and rips out the page with her boyfriend duties. “Okay. We’ve got one week to turn this into something believable. What’s the plan?”
I look at her standing there in her flour-dusted cardigan and messy bun, holding a handwritten list of demands that includes mandatory cuddling, and I realize I have absolutely no idea what I’ve gotten myself into.
But for the first time, that doesn’t feel like a disaster. It feels like the beginning of something. A new chapter, maybe.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “We start tomorrow. I’ll make the dossier tonight.”
“Of course you will.” She folds the paper and tucks it into her back pocket. “Try to include a fun facts section. If anyone asks, I want to know your favorite movie.”
“I don’t really watch movies.”
“Crew.” She puts a hand on my arm, and I flinch—can’t help it, the reaction hardwired into my body before my brain catches up. But she doesn’t pull away. Her fingers stay, warm and steady, and the touch burns through my sleeve. “That’s the saddest thing you’ve ever said. And you told me about the foster care.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I remain silent.
She squeezes my arm once, then she’s gone, disappearing down the hallway to her room, leaving me standing in the kitchen with a half-eaten plate of cookies and the lingering warmth of her hand on my arm.
I look down at the original contract, still spread across the table. Section 7. The Girlfriend Clause.
What began as a calculated solution to a bureaucratic problem has transformed into something entirely different—something I can’t categorize, something that defies the boxes I’ve built my life around.
