Page 64 of The Wild Card

Daniels and Margaret leave around nine, full of food and wine and promises to do this again soon. Margaret hugs us both—twice—and makes Emmie promise to text her the recipe. Daniels shakes my hand at the door and says quietly, “Good job, Jensen. I mean it.”

Then they’re gone, and it’s just us.

Emmie slumps against the closed door, exhaling. “I can’t believe it. We did it.”

“We did it.”

“They bought it. They totally bought it.” She’s grinning, bright and relieved. “We’re amazing. We’re incredible. We should win awards for this.”

I’m smiling too, I realize. Actually smiling. “You were incredible. I just sat there.”

“You called me your girlfriend. Without flinching.” She pushes off the door, moving toward me. “That was impressive.”

“It wasn’t hard.”

The words come out before I can stop them, and Emmie goes still.

We’re inches apart. I can see the gold flecks in her eyes, the slight part of her lips, the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

I want to kiss her.

I want to kiss her so badly my hands are shaking.

“Emmie.” Her name comes out like a prayer. “Tell me to stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Looking at you like this.” I lift my hand, brushing a strand of hair from her face, and she leans into the touch. “Wanting things I shouldn’t want.”

“What if I don’t want you to stop?”

The question hangs between us, heavy with possibility.

I cup her face in my hands. She’s so soft. So warm. I stroke along her jaw with my thumbs. Her eyes flutter closed, and she tilts her chin up, and I’m right there, a breath away from finally—

My phone rings.

The sound shatters the moment like glass. We both jerk back, the spell broken, and I fumble for my phone with hands that won’t stop trembling.

Foster’s name flashes on the screen.

“I have to—” I gesture at the phone.

“Yeah. No. Of course.” Emmie takes a step back, then another. Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing uneven. “I should, um. Clean up. The kitchen.”

“Emmie—”

“It’s fine. Take the call.” She’s already retreating, putting distance between us. “We can talk later.”

She disappears into the kitchen, and I’m left standing in my living room, phone buzzing in my hand, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to go back to pretending after that.

I answer the call.

“This better be important,” I growl.

“Well, hello to you too,” Foster says. “Bad time?”

I look toward the kitchen, where I can hear water running and dishes clattering. Emmie putting things in order.