Page 6 of The Wild Card

Probably.

But for the first time since Daniels dropped the bomb, I feel something other than panic.

It’s a plan. Ridiculous. Ill-conceived. And almost certainly doomed.

But it’s a variable I can control.

And right now, that might be the only thing that saves me.

Chapter Two

The Interview

Crew

Three days and four disasters later, I’m starting to think Foster’s fake girlfriend idea might actually be my only option.

Disaster One showed up twenty minutes late, reeking of weed, and asked if I was “chill about parties.” Disaster Two had a pet snake. Not a small snake. A six-foot boa constrictor named Princess that he assured me was “very friendly” and “only escaped sometimes.” Disaster Three seemed promising until she mentioned her boyfriend would be staying over “most nights” and wanted to know if I had a problem with that.

I had a problem with that.

Disaster Four was a guy named Kevin who chewed gum with his mouth open during the entire interview and kept calling me “bro.”

So when the knock comes at 2 PM on Thursday—my last scheduled interview—I’m not expecting much.

I open the door.

The woman on the other side is mid-catastrophe. She’s juggling a tote bag, a purse, her phone, and a Tupperware container, and as I watch, her keys slip from her fingers and clatter to the floor.

She’s also beautiful.

That’s the first thing I notice, before the chaos fully registers: honey-blonde hair escaping from a messy bun, bobby pins sticking out at odd angles, bright hazel eyes with flecks of gold, and curves that her floral dress does nothing to hide.

Then she opens her mouth, and the beautiful part gets buried under an avalanche of words.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, that’s so—hold on—” She crouches to grab the keys, and the Tupperware nearly goes too. She catches it against her chest, straightens, and blows a strand of hair out of her face. “Hi. I’m Emmie. Emmie Marshall. I’m here about the room? I know I probably look like a disaster right now, but I promise I’m not usually this—okay, no, that’s a lie, I’m pretty much always like this, but I swear I’m a good roommate. Or I will be. I’ve never actually lived with a guy before, so I can’t technically prove that, but—”

She stops. Takes a breath. Her cheeks flush pink.

“I stress bake,” she says, thrusting the Tupperware at me. “Chocolate chip cookies. I know it’s weird to bring food to a roommate interview, but I had all this nervous energy and my friend Sadie said I should just lean into it, so. Here.”

I look at the cookies. Then at her.

She’s short—five-four, maybe—with curves, freckles, and hazel eyes that are watching me like she’s genuinely worried I’m about to slam the door in her face.

She’s chaos. Absolute chaos.

“Uh, come in,” I hear myself say.

Her whole face lights up. “Really? Oh, thank goodness I was worried the cookie thing was too much. My brother said it was excessive. He told me to just act normal, but then I thought, what even is normal, you know? So I stress-baked anyway because that’s just what I do when I’m anxious, and—” She steps inside, still talking, her eyes scanning the apartment. “Wow. This place is… really clean.”

“Is that a problem?”

“No! No, it’s great. I love clean. I’m not a slob or anything. I’m just…” She gestures vaguely at herself. “Chaotic? But in a contained way. Like, my mess has a system. It doesn’t make sense to anyone else, but it makes sense to me.”

I have no idea what that means, but I gesture toward the couch. “Have a seat.”

She sits, then immediately pops back up. “Should I take my shoes off? I didn’t even ask. Sorry, that’s so rude. I should have asked.”