Page 23 of The Wild Card

A tour. Bigger print run. My breakout book.

I look at my sad three paragraphs and want to scream into a pillow.

My phone buzzes a third time. Sadie.

how’s the hot roommate situation?? *wide eye emoji*

I type back: I’m trying to WORK

Sadie: so that’s a yes on hot. tell me everything

Me: there’s nothing to tell. he’s my roommate. that’s it.

Sadie: uh huh. and you definitely haven’t thought about climbing into his bed to spice things up?

I put my phone face-down on the table. I love Sadie, but she has no filter. Or boundaries. Or sense.

I need to focus. I need to write this book, hit my deadline, get paid, and not become homeless. That’s the plan. That’s the only plan.

Everything else—the hot roommate, the confusing late-night contract delivery, and the way he looked at me like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words—is a distraction I cannot afford.

I crack my knuckles, take a breath, and start typing.

Comfort food isn’t about the recipe. It’s about the feeling. That first bite that tells your body: you’re safe here. You’re taken care of. Someone made this for you.

It’s not perfect, but it’s something.

I keep writing.

* * *

The cookies are almost perfect.

Golden brown edges, soft centers, chocolate chips still melty. I pull the tray from the oven and inhale deeply, letting the buttery sweetness wash over me. This is batch number four today—I’m testing ratios of brown sugar to white—and I think I’ve finally nailed it.

Recipe testing is the only thing that’s gone right today. My word count is pathetic, my agent’s optimism is giving me hives, and I’ve been thinking about Crew’s shirtless chest at inappropriate intervals all afternoon.

But the cookies? The cookies are flawless.

I’m transferring them to a cooling rack when I hear the front door open.

Crew walks in, and something’s off. I can tell immediately. His shoulders are tight, his jaw clenched, and there’s a tension radiating off him that makes the air feel heavier.

“Hey,” I say. “You okay?”

He drops his keys in the dish by the door and unclips his holster, setting it on the high shelf by the entrance. “Fine.”

He is not fine. Even I can read that, and I’ve known him for only about forty-eight hours.

“Bad day?”

“Something like that.” He glances toward the kitchen, nostrils flaring slightly. “What’s that smell?”

“Chocolate chip cookies. Batch number four.” I gesture to the cooling rack. “Want one? They’re therapeutic.”

He hesitates, and I can practically see the internal debate happening behind those gray eyes—probably calculating the caloric impact on his precious protein shake schedule. “No thanks, I’m good.”

“Come on,” I coax. “One cookie won’t kill you.”