Page 56 of The Wild Card

“I know.”

“You looked like you wanted to hit him.”

I don’t answer. Because yeah. I did. I still do.

Emmie’s quiet for a beat. Then she slips her hand into mine, fingers threading together, and squeezes. “For the record,” she says softly, “I’m not going anywhere.”

I look down at our joined hands. At the way her fingers fit between mine like they were meant to be there.

“Good,” I say.

And I mean it more than I have any right to.

“You think Daniels is buying it?”

“Yeah, it seem so.” I’m looking at her mouth. I can’t stop looking at her lips. “I just stood there. You charmed everyone.”

“Team effort.” She’s still smiling, still glowing, and she’s so close I can feel the warmth radiating off her skin. “We make a pretty good fake couple.”

Fake.

Right.

The word lands like a stone in my chest.

Because standing here with her hand in mine, her perfume in my lungs, her smile aimed at me like I’m someone worth smiling at—none of this feels fake. Not even close.

I want to kiss her.

The realization hits me with the force of a tactical breach. I want to kiss her, and not for show, not for Daniels, not for anyone watching. I want to kiss her because she’s Emmie, and she’s beautiful, and she made me laugh, and she held me while I told her about the foster homes, and all the broken pieces I usually keep hidden.

I want to kiss her because she makes me feel safe and calm… and she’s beautiful.

“Crew?” She’s watching me, brow furrowed. “Are you okay? You’re looking at me weird.”

“I’m fine.” I force myself to look away, to breathe, to remember that this is an arrangement. A contract. Nothing more. “Just tired.”

“We can leave if you want. We’ve made the rounds. Shown our faces.”

“Yeah. You’re right.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears. “Let’s go home.”

Home. Our place. Words that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow mean everything.

We say our goodbyes—hugs from Margaret, a firm handshake from Daniels, promises to confirm dinner plans—and then we’re in the car, the city lights sliding past the windows.

Emmie kicks off her heels with a groan. “My feet are going to hate me tomorrow.”

“You were incredible tonight.”

She looks over at me, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t have done that without you.”

“Sure you could have.” She pulls one leg up onto the seat, rubbing her ankle. “You would’ve just been miserable the whole time.”

“Exactly.”

She laughs, soft and tired, and leans her head against the window. “I had fun, actually. Your boss is nicer than I expected. And Margaret is hilarious. Did you know she used to be a prosecutor? She has stories.”