Page 53 of The Wild Card

“That’s me.” Emmie extends her hand with that warm, open smile that makes everyone trust her instantly. “Emmie Marshall. It’s so nice to finally meet you both.”

“Emmie’s a cookbook author,” I offer, thinking that seems like something a boyfriend would say.

Margaret’s face lights up. “A cookbook author? How wonderful! I’ve been trying to get Richard to eat better for years. What kind of recipes do you write?”

And just like that, they’re off.

Emmie talks about her books—comfort food, cooking for people you love, making healthy eating feel indulgent instead of punishing. Margaret asks a dozen questions, genuinely interested. My boss listens with an amused expression, occasionally interjecting to complain about his wife’s attempts to limit his red meat intake.

“She makes this lemon chicken,” I hear myself say. “It’s, uh… really good.”

Everyone turns to look at me.

Emmie’s grinning when she meets my eyes, and Daniels and Margaret exchange a look—the kind married couples give each other when they’re communicating without words.

“You two are adorable,” Margaret declares. “How long have you been together?”

“A few months,” Emmie says smoothly. “We were roommates first, actually. He put out an ad, and I answered it, and…” She shrugs, leaning into me. “Here we are.”

“Best decision I ever made,” I say, surprised to realize I mean it.

Emmie’s hand tightens around mine.

“Well, I think this calls for a celebration,” Margaret announces. “You two should come to dinner next weekend. I’ll make my famous pot roast, and Emmie can give me cooking tips.”

“Oh, we couldn’t impose—”

“Nonsense. I insist.”

Emmie glances at me, a question in her eyes. We didn’t plan for this. We didn’t anticipate the fake relationship extending beyond tonight, beyond the gala, into actual social obligations with my boss and his wife.

But she’s already smiling, already nodding, already saying, “Actually, why don’t you come to our place? I’ll cook. I insist.”

Margaret looks delighted. “Richard, did you hear that? A home-cooked meal from a professional cookbook author.”

“I heard.” Daniels is watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Sounds like we’ve got plans.”

The conversation continues—schedules compared, dates proposed, wine preferences discussed—but I’m stuck on two words.

Our place.

She said “our place” like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like we’re actually building something together instead of playing pretend.

The rest of the evening blurs together. More small talk, more appetizers, more of Emmie’s hand in mine. She gets me to try scallops wrapped in bacon and some kind of tuna thing on a cracker. I get her a drink from the bar—her complicated margarita order, which I’ve memorized now—and she looks at me like I just handed her diamonds.

“You remembered,” she says.

“I told you. Good memory.”

“For drink orders?”

“For things that matter.”

She goes quiet, something shifting in her expression. Before I can figure out what it means, Daniels appears at my elbow.

“Jensen. A word?”

I follow him to a quieter corner of the ballroom, leaving Emmie chatting with Margaret about the differences between French and Italian cooking techniques.