Page 44 of The Wild Card

Sadie follows me to the door, helping me carry the gown in its garment bag. “Keep me updated, okay? I want to know how the cuddling goes, the touching practice, and basically everything.”

“You’re living vicariously through me.”

“Obviously. My love life is boring. Yours is a romantic comedy waiting to happen.”

I sling the garment bag over my shoulder. “If this is a rom-com, I’m definitely the mess of a main character who drives the audience crazy.”

Sadie grins. “That’s the best kind.”

I head home with a borrowed dress and too many thoughts, wondering what exactly I’ve gotten myself into—and if maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to get out.

Chapter Ten

Feelings in Aisle Six

Crew

I don’t know how I ended up at the grocery store with Emmie Marshall on a Sunday morning.

Actually, that’s not true. I know exactly how. She needed ingredients for a recipe she’s testing. I needed protein and eggs. She said, “We might as well go together,” like it was the most logical thing in the world, and I couldn’t think of a reason to say no.

So here I am, pushing a cart through the produce section while she squeezes avocados like she’s selecting something priceless.

“This one’s perfect.” She holds it up, triumphant. “See how it gives just a little? Not too soft, not too firm.”

“It’s an avocado.”

“It’s the avocado. There’s a difference.” She sets it in the cart like she’s placing a crown on a pillow. “You can’t just grab any avocado, Crew. That’s how you end up with brown mush or a rock that won’t ripen for six days.”

“I’ve never bought an avocado in my life.”

She stops and stares at me. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I don’t eat avocados.”

“You live in Texas.”

“And?”

“And that’s—” She shakes her head. “We’re fixing that. I’m making you guacamole this week. Real guacamole. Not the stuff from a tub.”

“Guacamole comes in tubs?”

“Unfortunately.” She shudders and moves toward the tomatoes.

I follow with the cart, watching her work. She touches everything, smells the cilantro, holds the limes up to the light, and has a full conversation with herself about whether she needs one jalapeño or two.

“Two,” she decides. “In case one’s a dud.”

“How can a pepper be a dud?”

“No heat. It happens. You bite into it expecting spice, and you get… bell pepper vibes.” She wrinkles her nose. “Devastating.”

I don’t know why I find this entertaining, but I do.

An older woman reaches past us for a bag of lemons, and Emmie shifts to give her room.

“Oh, those are good ones,” Emmie says, nodding at the woman’s selection. “I got some last week. Super juicy.”