Page 51 of The Wild Card

For the cuddling. For the stories. For not running away when I showed her who I really am.

“For showing me,” I say.

She squeezes my hand.

And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I don’t want to be anywhere else.

Chapter Twelve

The Gala

Crew

I check my reflection in the hallway mirror. The tux fits perfectly, my hair is styled neatly, and my cufflinks—the only pair I own—are secured.

I look like a guy who has his shit together.

Funny how appearances work.

“Almost ready!” Emmie calls from her room. “Two minutes!”

“Take your time.” I have no idea why I said that. I never say that. I have a schedule, and two minutes late means we’ll hit traffic on 75 and arrive at 7:04 instead of 7:00, which means—

Her door opens.

And my brain stops working.

She’s wearing green. Deep emerald green that makes her eyes look like honey in sunlight. The dress hugs her curves like it was made for her, silk sliding over her hips, a slit up one side revealing a dangerous amount of leg. Her hair is down, falling in soft waves over her bare shoulders, and there’s something sparkly at her ears that catches the light when she moves.

She’s not merely pretty tonight.

She’s outright devastating.

“Well?” She does a little spin, and I watch the fabric move with her, clinging in all the right places. “Does it work? Sadie let me borrow it, and I wasn’t sure if it was too much, but she said—”

“It works.” My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat. “You look… good.”

“Good?” She raises an eyebrow. “I squeezed into shapewear and glued my boobs into this dress for good?”

“You look beautiful.” The word slips out before I can stop it. “Really beautiful.”

Her cheeks flush pink, and she drops her gaze, suddenly shy. “Thanks. You, um… you clean up nice too.”

I’m staring. I know I’m staring. I can’t stop.

“Oh, wait.” She turns, sweeping her hair over one shoulder. “Can you help me with this? The clasp is being difficult.”

There’s a delicate gold chain around her neck, the clasp hanging open at her nape. She’s holding the two ends together, waiting.

I step closer.

My fingers brush the back of her neck as I take the clasp from her, and she shivers. Just slightly. Just enough for me to notice.

The clasp is tiny and fiddly. My hands aren’t made for delicate work—they’re made for tactical gear and trigger guards—but I manage to hook it closed on the second try.

“There.”

She turns to face me, and we’re close now. Close enough that I can smell her perfume—something warm and vanilla—and see the gold flecks in her eyes. It looks like she has that uh, mascara stuff on. Maybe eyeliner too. Emmie’s always pretty, but tonight she looks gorgeous.