Page 57 of The Wild Card

I listen to her talk, watching the way the streetlights play across her face, and I think about everything I’m not saying.

This doesn’t feel fake anymore.

I don’t want it to end.

But I don’t say any of it. Because I’m Crew Jensen, and I don’t know how to want things I can’t control. Wanting Emmie Marshall feels like the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done.

So I just drive.

And wish I were brave enough to kiss her.

Chapter Thirteen

Practice

Emmie

I can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me.

Not at the gala—though that was something too. Not even the way his eyes went dark when I walked out in the green dress, the way he’d said “beautiful” like he truly meant it.

No, I’m thinking about the car ride home. The silence that wasn’t awkward but also wasn’t comfortable. The way he’d gripped the steering wheel like he was holding himself back from something.

From what, exactly?

That’s the question that’s been rattling around in my head for two days. Two days of cohabiting with a man who helped me with my necklace clasp, who seemed jealous of Foster’s attention, who almost kissed me in the hallway, and then drove me home in complete silence as if nothing had happened.

Men are confusing.

Grumpy, emotionally constipated FBI agents are worse.

I’m standing at the bathroom mirror, still half-asleep, toothbrush hanging out of my mouth, when the door swings open.

“Oh—”

Crew freezes in the doorway.

He’s fresh from his morning workout, which means he’s shirtless. Which means I’m staring at his chest. Again. Because apparently, I have zero self-control when it comes to his stupid perfectly sculpted torso.

But that’s not the worst part.

The worst part is that I’m wearing underwear and a tank top. That’s it. No bra. No pants. Just cotton boy shorts with little strawberries on them and a white tank that’s definitely thin enough to see through.

His eyes drop. Just for a second. Then snap back up to my face like he’s been burned.

“Sorry.” His voice comes out strangled. “I didn’t—the door wasn’t locked.”

I yank the toothbrush out of my mouth. “I forgot to lock it.”

“I should’ve knocked.”

We’re both just standing there. Him in the doorway, me at the sink, toothpaste foam at the corner of my mouth. His chest is doing that thing where it rises and falls a little too fast.

“I’m going to—” He gestures vaguely behind him.

“Yeah. Yes. Good idea.”

He backs out of the bathroom and closes the door, and I slump against the counter, heart hammering.