Page 37 of The Wild Card

Josh’s jaw drops. “You did what?”

“It made sense at the time.”

“Oh, this is going to be amazing.” Josh is grinning now, delighted by this information. “I thought you were, like, a monk. Everyone thinks you’re a monk.”

“I’m not a monk.”

“You turned down Ramirez from forensics. She’s hot.”

My phone buzzes. It’s Emmie.

Emmie: hey, still at happy hour? sadie bailed on me and i’m bored. can i crash?

I stare at the message. This is probably a bad idea. Introducing her to Foster and Josh in a social setting, where alcohol is involved and questions will be asked—

“Is that her?” Foster cranes his neck to see my screen. “Tell her to come. I want to meet the woman brave enough to agree to date you.”

“That’s not—”

“Tell her.” He kicks me under the table. “Come on. You need to practice being believable anyway, right? Consider this a test run.”

He has a point. I hate that he has a point.

Emmie: be there in 20, she responds before I can overthink it. save me a seat!

Twenty-three minutes later, the door swings open, and there she is.

Emmie’s wearing jeans that hug her hips and a green sweater that makes her eyes look more gold than hazel. Her hair’s down, tumbling over her shoulders in loose waves, and she’s got that smile on—the one that makes her whole face light up like she’s genuinely happy to see everyone in the room.

She spots our table and waves, weaving through the crowd.

I watch Foster’s gaze track her as she walks. Down, then up. Lingering a second too long on the curve of her ass in those jeans.

Something hot and ugly flares in my chest. I want to reach across the table and break his nose. Which is insane. This is fake. She’s not actually mine. Foster can look at whoever he wants. It doesn’t matter.

“Hey!” Emmie slides into the booth next to me, close enough that her thigh presses against mine. She smells like vanilla and something citrusy, and I have to actively stop myself from leaning into it. “Sorry I’m late. Couldn’t find parking.”

“Emmie, this is Foster.” I gesture across the table. “My partner. And Josh. The rookie.”

“The girlfriend.” Foster extends a hand, grinning. “I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you, which is very on-brand for this guy.”

“Sounds about right.” She shakes his hand, then Josh’s. “I’m Emmie. And I’m going to need you to tell me every embarrassing thing you know about this man.”

“How long do you have?” Foster asks, smirking.

“All night.”

“Don’t encourage him,” I say.

“He meal preps on Sundays,” Foster offers. “Same five meals. Every week.”

“I’ve seen the containers.” Emmie grins. “Little labels and everything.”

“Efficiency isn’t a personality flaw,” I mutter.

Foster snorts. Then his elbow jabs into my side—sharp, deliberate.

I turn to glare at him. “What?”