Page 81 of The Wild Card

Foster and Sadie exchange a look that I pretend not to see.

* * *

The patio out back is mostly empty—just a couple taking selfies by the string lights and a group of women laughing over a shared dessert. Crew guides me toward the far corner with a hand on my lower back, and I lean against the wrought-iron fence, tipping my head back to look at the sky.

“Stars are hard to see in Dallas,” I say. “Too much light pollution.”

“You can see them from my balcony sometimes. Late at night, when most of the city’s asleep.”

I turn to look at him. “Do you do that? Stay up late and look at stars?”

“Sometimes. When I can’t sleep.”

“Which is often?”

He doesn’t answer, but the slight tension in his jaw tells me everything.

I want to reach out and smooth that tension away. Want to press my thumb to the furrow between his brows and tell him he doesn’t have to carry everything alone anymore.

We’re quiet for a moment. Music drifts out from the restaurant, something with a lot of accordion and trumpet. The spring air is warm but not oppressive, carrying the smell of mesquite and grilled onions.

“Today was fun,” I say.

“Yeah.”

“You had fun. Admit it.”

His mouth twitches. “I had… an acceptable time.”

“That’s basically a rave review from you.” I bump his shoulder with mine. “See? You’re capable of enjoying things. It just takes some convincing.”

“Some forcing.”

“Gentle encouragement.”

“You threw me in the pool.”

“You needed it.”

He laughs—actually laughs—and the sound does something warm to my chest. I want to bottle it. Keep it somewhere safe. Pull it out on dark days and remember that I made Crew Jensen laugh.

“Emmie.”

The way he says my name makes me look up. He’s watching me with that expression again—the one from the pool, from the couch, from a dozen moments I’ve been cataloging and pretending not to analyze.

“What?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps looking at me like he’s trying to figure something out, like I’m a puzzle he can’t quite solve.

“You’re staring,” I whisper.

“I know.”

“Why?”

He steps closer. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body, can smell the soap on his skin and something underneath that’s just him.

“I don’t know.” His voice is low, rough. “I keep trying to stop.”