Page 48 of The Wild Card

“I was planning to build up to it, but I think we both need this.” She tugs my hand, pulling me toward the hallway. “Trust me.”

I don’t trust anyone. That’s the problem. But I’m following her anyway, past the kitchen, past my bedroom door, to the room at the end of the hall.

Her room.

I’ve seen it from the doorway—the fairy lights, the explosion of throw pillows, the quilt that looks like it’s been loved for decades. But I’ve never been inside. It feels like crossing a line I can’t uncross.

She pulls me through anyway.

“Okay.” She surveys the bed, then starts rearranging pillows. “Shoes off. Lie down.”

“Emmie—”

“Shoes. Off.”

I toe off my shoes and stand there like an idiot while she fluffs pillows, adjusts blankets, and creates what looks like a nest in the middle of her bed. A nest. For us. To lie in. Together.

This is fine. I’m fine. I’ve cleared buildings with active shooters inside. I can handle a bed with too many throw pillows.

“Okay. Lie down. On your back.”

I lower myself onto the mattress, stiff as a board. The pillows are soft. The quilt smells like her—vanilla and something floral. My heart is pounding like I’m about to breach a door, not lie on a bed surrounded by throw pillows with embroidered sayings.

But breaching doors, I’m trained for. Lying on a bed while a beautiful woman arranges herself next to me? Not in any manual I’ve ever read.

Emmie climbs up next to me. “Scoot over. Give me room.”

I scoot. She settles against my side, and then—

“Put your arm around me.”

I lift my arm. The movement feels jerky, unpracticed. Because it is. When’s the last time I held someone like this? Have I ever?

She tucks herself underneath it, her head finding the curve of my shoulder like it was made to fit there. Like this is easy. Like people do this all the time.

Maybe they do. Maybe this is normal for everyone else.

“Hand here.” She guides my palm to rest on her hip. Her skin is warm through the thin fabric of her leggings, and my brain short-circuits for a second. Just—complete loss of signal, try again later.

“And relax your shoulders. You’re tense.”

“I’m always tense.”

“I know. That’s why we’re doing this.” She shifts to get comfortable, and her hair brushes my chin. It’s soft and smells like coconut. I want to bury my face in it.

I don’t. Obviously.

But the wanting—that’s new. Or not new, exactly. Just usually easier to ignore. Usually not pressed against my side, warm and real and here, treating me like I’m someone worth being gentle with.

I don’t know what to do with that.

“Now, this is cuddling. See? Not so scary.”

I don’t know what to do with my other hand. I’m unsure where to look. I’m hyperaware of everywhere we’re touching—her head on my chest, her palm flat against my stomach, her leg tangled with mine.

“You’re still tense,” she murmurs.

“Give me a minute.”