Page 8 of The Wild Card

“No. No, it’s—” She laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “It’s the very top of my budget, honestly. Like, scraping-the-ceiling top. But it’s still way better than anything else I’ve found in this area, so.” She shrugs, that sunny smile flickering back into place. “I just need to, you know, actually finish this cookbook so my publisher sends me the rest of my advance. No big deal. Just my entire financial future riding on whether I can make beef bourguignon sound sexy.”

“Can you?”

“Ask me again in two months when I’ve either made my deadline or had a complete breakdown.” She says it lightly, like a joke, but something in her expression tells me the deadline is very real and very much breathing down her neck.

Good. She needs this. That’s leverage.

The thought rises unbidden, and I push it down. I keep going through my questions. Cleaning habits, noise tolerance, how she handles conflict. She answers everything with the same scattered honesty, occasionally going off on tangents about her cookbook, her family, or her inability to keep houseplants alive.

By the end of the interview, I have a clear picture.

Emmie Marshall is disorganized but not dirty. Friendly—probably too friendly. Desperate for stability. And exactly the kind of woman guys bring home to meet their mothers. The kind who’d fit seamlessly into a work dinner, charming everyone without trying….

Daniels would take one look at her and think, finally, Jensen found someone who can put up with him.

This could work. It could actually work.

I stand. “Give me a minute. I need to grab the roommate agreement.”

“The what now?”

“It’s just something I put together. All pretty standard. It outlines expectations, responsibilities, and house rules.” I’m already heading toward my office. “I’ll just be a minute.”

In my office, I close the door and pull up the file on my laptop. Seventeen pages. Noise policies, cleaning schedules, guest protocols. Every contingency covered, every expectation spelled out.

I stare at the document.

Then I click to add a new section.

Section 7: Additional Arrangements

My fingers move across the keyboard. Girlfriend duties. Minimum requirements. Duration of arrangement. Attendance at work functions. Social media presence. Believable affection in public settings.

I pause, cursor blinking.

Twelve hundred is the top of her budget. She said it herself—her entire financial future is riding on a cookbook deadline. If she signs this and finds the girlfriend clause later, she’ll feel trapped.

Which, she will be. But still.

I scroll back up to the rent section and change the number. Nine-fifty a month.

It’s not guilt. It’s strategy. Lower rent means she’s more likely to stay. More likely to go along with things.

I bury the clause on page fifteen, sandwiched between the cleaning schedule and maintenance request procedures. Easy to miss if you’re skimming.

She’ll skim. Everyone skims.

My conscience stirs, a quiet voice that sounds annoyingly like Dr. Reyes. This is manipulative. You’re taking advantage of her desperation.

I silence it.

This is survival. She needs a place to live; I need a reason to stay in Dallas. The discounted rent balances the scales. That’s fair.

I print the document, tap the pages into a neat stack, and head back to the living room.

Emmie’s on the couch, Murphy in her lap. The cat—my cat, the one who hisses at strangers and once drew blood from a delivery guy—is purring like a motorboat while she scratches behind his ears. It took him months to warm up to Foster. Hell, it took him months to warm up to me.

“I hope this is okay,” she says when she sees me. “He just jumped up here and started rubbing against me, and I didn’t want to be rude—”