Page 40 of The Wild Card

But watching Emmie laugh at something Josh says, her shoulder still pressed warm against mine, I’m starting to think being screwed might not be the worst thing in the world.

Chapter Nine

Girl’s Night

Emmie

“Okay, start from the beginning.” Sadie shoves a container of noodles at me and tucks her legs underneath her on the couch. “And don’t leave anything out. I want every single detail about this insane arrangement you’ve gotten yourself into.”

We’re having dinner at her place tonight—pad thai—and I’m basically spilling the tea on the current state of my life. “It’s not that insane.”

“You signed a seventeen-page contract without reading it and accidentally agreed to be some guy’s fake girlfriend.”

“When you say it like that—”

“There’s no other way to say it, babe.” She stabs a piece of chicken with her chopsticks. “Spill.”

So I spill.

I tell her about the look on Crew’s face when he told me about Alaska, his therapy, and why he can’t leave Dallas. I share stories about our Chinese food dinner and meeting his friends at happy hour. Then, I take a long drink from my wine glass and tell her about the negotiation—the boyfriend duties I added, including the mandatory cuddling clause that made him look like he was about to have a stroke.

Sadie grins. “You demanded cuddles? In a legal document?”

“Fair is fair. If I have to hold his hand in public, he can snuggle with me once a week.” I twirl noodles around my chopsticks. “I figured if I’m fake dating someone, I might as well get something out of it. There’s a real cuddling deficit in the world, Sadie. I’m solving it one grumpy FBI agent at a time.”

She snorts. “How did he react?”

I scrunch my nose. “Like I’d suggested we rob a bank together. He tried to say no, and I told him the deal was off.”

“Power move.” Sadie shakes her head.

“He wanted ten minutes. I wanted thirty. We compromised.”

“This is the weirdest relationship I’ve ever heard of.”

“It’s not a relationship. It’s an arrangement.”

“Sure, babe.” Sadie grabs her phone and holds it up. “I saw the Instagram photo. And I have questions. Because he looked hot but also kind of terrifying? Like a serial killer who lifts.”

“He’s not a serial killer.”

“I said who lifts.” She shrugs. “He looks like he could either protect me from a home invasion or be the home invasion.”

“That’s… weirdly accurate.”

“So what’s he like? Up close and personal? He’s hot, obviously. But what does the photo not show? Give me the details. The vibes. The energy.”

“The energy?”

“You know what I mean. Is he intense? Brooding? Does he smell good? These are important questions.”

I think about him in the kitchen this morning, reaching over me to grab a mug from the top shelf. His chest against my back, his arm brushing mine, the smell of him—clean laundry and something warm and male underneath, like cedar or sandalwood. I’d frozen with a silicone spatula in my hand, completely useless, while he said “excuse me” in that low voice, and I forgot how words worked.

I feel my cheeks warm. “He’s, um… tall.”

“Tall.”

“Very tall. Like six-four. With these, um, broad shoulders. Dark hair, that he keeps short. And gray eyes that seem to see right through you.”