Page 58 of The Wild Card

That was fine. Totally fine. Just two roommates accidentally seeing each other in various states of undress. Happens all the time. No big deal.

Except I can still feel where his gaze landed. Just for that split second. Like a brand on my skin.

I rinse my mouth, splash cold water on my face, and give my reflection a stern look.

“Get it together, Marshall.”

My reflection does not look convinced.

* * *

By evening, we’ve successfully avoided each other for most of the day. I wrote three usable pages of cookbook content. He did whatever FBI agents do on their days off—probably organized his sock drawer by thread count or something.

But we can’t avoid each other forever. The dinner with Daniels and Margaret is in a few days, and we still haven’t practiced being a couple in any meaningful way.

“We should talk about Saturday,” I say over dinner.

Crew looks up from his chicken—which I made, and which he’s eating without complaint because he’s learned that feeding people is my love language, and resistance is futile. “What about it?”

“We need to practice. The couple stuff.” I push my food around my plate. “We got lucky at the gala. But this is different. They’re coming to our apartment. They’ll be watching us in our space.”

“Our space.”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” I feel my cheeks warm. “I just mean—they’ll expect us to be comfortable together. Natural. And we’re still kind of…” I gesture between us. “Stiff.”

“I’m not stiff.”

“You literally backed out of the bathroom this morning like I was holding a weapon.”

His jaw tightens. “You weren’t wearing pants.”

A laugh falls from my lips, and Crew wears a bashful expression.

We stare at each other across the table. The tension from this morning is back, thrumming under the surface of every word.

“Look,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. “We need to be able to touch each other without it being weird. Hand on the back. Arm around the shoulder. Casual stuff.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“I said fine.” He sets down his fork. “How do you want to do this?”

I wasn’t expecting him to agree so easily. Now I have to actually come up with a plan.

“Okay, um.” I stand up, moving around the table. “Stand up.”

He stands. All six-foot-four of him, towering over me, watching me with those gray eyes that give nothing away.

“Put your hand on my lower back.”

His hand hovers for a second before settling against the curve of my spine. Warm. Large. I can feel each individual finger through the thin fabric of my shirt.

We’re close. Closer than we’ve been since the cuddling—which happened in the dim light of my bedroom, with the safety of bedtime drowsiness between us. This is different. Bright kitchen lights. Fully awake. Fully aware of everywhere we’re touching.

His thumb moves. Just slightly. A small sweep across my lower back that might be accidental or might be something else entirely.

“What else?” he asks, his voice low.