Page 42 of The Wild Card

Sadie’s eyes light up. This is her love language—playing dress-up with her closet, which is roughly the size of a small studio apartment.

“Oh, we’re doing this.” She’s already on her feet, pulling me toward her bedroom. “I have options. So many options.”

Her closet is a disaster in the best way. Sequins, silk, and velvet are crammed onto hangers, shoes are piled in the corner, and a jewelry box overflows on the shelf. It’s the exact opposite of Crew’s minimalist aesthetic, and I feel instantly at home.

“Floor-length, you said?” She’s already rifling through dresses. “What color? Any color? Should you coordinate with him?”

“His tux is black. So… anything goes?”

“Perfect. That means I can put you in this.” She pulls out a deep emerald gown with a slit up the side and thin straps. “Try it on.”

I strip down and immediately regret the pad thai—every delicious, bloated noodle sitting in my stomach like a betrayal. My reflection doesn’t help: a sports bra the color of a Band-Aid, gray boy shorts, and enough carbs in my system to fuel a marathon I’ll never run.

“Ready?” Sadie asks, holding up the dress.

My food baby and I exchange a look. We are not ready.

“Suck it in,” Sadie instructs, yanking the zipper.

“I’m sucking.” I hold my breath like my life depends on it. “Why didn’t you stop me at the second container?”

“You were stress-eating. I’m not a monster.”

The zipper makes it up, barely, and I turn to face the mirror.

Oh no.

The fabric is gorgeous—silky, emerald, hugging every curve I have—but my underwear situation is a disaster. My nude sports bra is visible through the thin straps, and my boy shorts are creating a panty line that could be seen from outer space.

“Okay, the dress is a yes,” Sadie says. “The granny panties are a hard no.”

“They’re not granny panties. They’re comfortable.”

“They’re visible through the slit. You need a thong. And one of those sticky bra things.”

“I hate those. They never stay.”

Sadie only shrugs and grins at me in the mirror. “You’ll deal.”

I turn, looking at myself from different angles. The green makes my eyes pop, and the slit shows off my leg without being too much. I look like someone who belongs at a black-tie gala. Someone who might actually be dating an FBI agent.

“Your roommate is going to lose his mind,” Sadie says.

“That’s not the goal.”

“Maybe it should be.”

“Sadie.”

“I’m just saying.” She adjusts one of the straps. “You’re hot. He’s hot. You’re already fake dating. Would it really be so bad if it became… not fake?” She winks once for good measure.

I stare at my reflection, thinking about Crew’s rare half-smile, the way he remembered my entire complicated drink order, and the soft look he gets when he talks about Murphy, like he can’t believe something loves him back.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “He’s so closed off. I don’t even know if he’s capable of a real relationship. He told me he’s never had one. Ever.”

“Never?”

“Never. No girlfriends. Just occasional hookups. He said he doesn’t know how to let people in.”