Page 16 of The Wild Card

And then he’s gone, disappeared into his room, door clicking shut behind him.

I look down at Murphy, who’s now grooming himself on the kitchen floor like nothing happened.

“Your dad’s a little intense, huh?”

Murphy meows.

“Yeah.” I grab a bottle of water and head toward my room. “I kind of noticed that too.”

My bedroom glows warmly with fairy lights, my grandmother’s quilt soft beneath me as I settle in for my first night in my new home.

It’s quiet. Strange. The sounds are all wrong—the hum of an unfamiliar refrigerator, the creak of floorboards I haven’t learned yet.

But there’s pasta in my stomach and a purring cat who’s somehow found his way onto my bed, and a roommate who might be the most confusing man I’ve ever met.

I think about his face when he tasted the pasta. That tiny crack in his armor. I think about his ears turning pink when I basically called him a smoke show.

I think about the way he washed my mug without being asked, even though it clearly bothered him to wait.

Crew Jensen is a puzzle— all sharp edges and careful control, with something softer underneath that I don’t think he lets many people see.

I want to see it.

Which is probably a terrible idea, given that we’re roommates and I just signed a seventeen-page contract I definitely should have read more carefully.

But that’s a problem for future Emmie.

Current Emmie is exhausted, full of carbs, and ready to sleep in an actual bed for the first time in three weeks.

I pull the quilt up to my chin and close my eyes.

Tomorrow, I’ll start figuring out my new life.

Tonight, I’ll just be grateful I found one.

Chapter Four

Restless

Crew

I can’t sleep. Not that it’s unusual. Insomnia and I are old friends, the kind who don’t actually like each other but keep showing up at the same parties. Most nights, I lie here and run through case files in my head, count backward from a thousand, or do the breathing exercises Dr. Reyes taught me.

Tonight, none of that is working.

Every time I close my eyes, I see her.

Emmie, standing in my kitchen with a wooden spoon in her hand, pointing it at me like a weapon. The way she said “non-negotiable” as if she actually expected me to listen. The way I did listen, which is maybe the most disturbing part.

I ate pasta tonight. Carbs. Cheese. Things that are absolutely not on my meal plan. And it was so good I almost groaned out loud.

I roll onto my side and punch my pillow into a different shape. It doesn’t help.

Now I’m thinking about the way she smiled when I took that first bite. Like she’d won something. Like making me eat was some kind of victory.

It was, I guess. No one has made me deviate from my routine in years.

I think about her laugh when Murphy showed her his belly. The way her whole face lit up, hazel eyes going bright and warm.