Page 38 of The Wild Card

He jerks his chin toward Emmie, then toward the bar. His eyebrows do something complicated that I think is supposed to communicate an entire sentence.

It takes me a second.

Oh.

Drinks. Boyfriends get their girlfriends drinks. Right.

“Emmie.” I clear my throat. “Did you want something to drink?”

“Oh, sure.” She shifts to face me, tucking one leg under herself. “Okay, so—margarita. But not frozen, on the rocks. Salt on the rim, but only half, because full salt is too much. And if they have mezcal, do that instead of tequila. Oh, and ask for Cointreau, not triple sec.” She pauses. “Actually, wait. Do they have Tajín here? For the rim? That would be better. But if not, just the salt. On half.”

I stare at her, brain processing. I wait to see if there’s more.

“That’s it,” she says brightly.

“Mezcal. Rocks. Half rim. Cointreau. Possibly Tajín.”

“You got it.” She beams at me like I just solved a complex equation.

I head to the bar, mentally rehearsing her order, and hear Foster say behind me, “He’s so out of his depth.”

Emmie’s response is barely audible, but I catch it anyway, “I know. It’s kind of adorable.”

I don’t know what to do with that information, so I file it away and order the drink.

This is fine. Everything is fine.

The bartender gives me a look when I relay the order but doesn’t argue. While I wait, I glance back at the table. Emmie’s leaned in, telling some story with her hands, and both Foster and Josh are watching her with matching grins.

She fits. That’s what strikes me. She just… fits. Like she’s known them for years instead of minutes. I don’t fit anywhere. Never have. But Emmie walks into a room, and suddenly she belongs there.

I bring her the drink, and she takes a sip, eyes closing in appreciation. “Oh, that’s good. You did good.”

“I just repeated what you said.”

“And you remembered all of it. That’s impressive.”

“I have a good memory.”

“For complicated drink orders?”

“For everything.”

She holds my gaze for a second, something flickering in her expression. Then Foster clears his throat, and the moment breaks.

“So,” he says, leaning back. “The charity gala this weekend. You ready?”

Emmie straightens. “Oh, right! I’ve been meaning to ask about that. What’s the dress code? Is it like, fancy fancy or business fancy? Because those are very different things, and I need to know how many sequins we’re talking.”

“It’s black tie,” I say. “Formal.”

Her eyes go wide. “I’ll need a new gown. Do you own a tuxedo?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you do.” She shakes her head, smiling. “Okay, I need to go shopping. What color is your tux? Black, I assume? Should we coordinate? Is that cheesy? I feel like that’s cheesy but also maybe expected for a couple?”

“It’s black.”