Page 79 of The Wild Card

Chapter Eighteen

Tex Mex

Emmie

Mi Cocina on a Saturday night is chaos in the best way.

The sizzle of fajitas on cast iron. Margaritas the size of my head. Chips and queso appearing on the table before anyone even orders. The hostess seats us at a big semi-circular booth in the back—me, Crew, Sadie, and Foster, who invited himself when he heard me mention dinner.

“I love this place,” Sadie announces, already flagging down a waiter. “I need a mambo taxi immediately. Maybe two.”

“Pace yourself,” I warn her.

“It’s Saturday. I have no pace.”

Crew slides into the booth next to me, his thigh pressing warm against mine. He still smells faintly of chlorine from the pool, mixed with whatever soap he used in the shower.

The afternoon sun left its mark on him—there’s a golden glow to his face that makes him look younger somehow. More relaxed. Less like an FBI agent and more like a guy who spent the day chasing his fake girlfriend through a pool. His hair’s a little messier than usual, like he didn’t bother to style it, and there’s a relaxed set to his shoulders I’m not used to seeing.

Pool day was good for him. Good for both of us.

I’m still thinking about the way he looked at me when I jumped in the water. The way he’d chased me through the pool and caught me around the waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Earth to Emmie.”

I blink. Sadie’s waving a menu in my face.

“What?”

“I asked what you’re drinking.” She grins. “You were staring at your boyfriend with heart eyes.”

“I was not.”

“You absolutely were,” Foster confirms. “It was disgusting. Very cute, but disgusting.”

I grab a menu to hide my burning cheeks. “I’ll have a margarita. Mezcal. On the rocks. Salt on half the rim—”

“Cointreau, not triple sec, light on the sweet stuff,” Crew finishes.

Everyone stares at him.

“What?” He shrugs.

Sadie mouths oh my god at me across the table. I kick her under the booth.

But my stomach is doing something fluttery and warm because he does pay attention. He always has. He knows how I take my coffee, knows I hate the crust on sandwiches, knows I need exactly two pillows to sleep. He notices everything, catalogs it away in that organized brain of his, and then deploys the information so casually, like it’s nothing.

Like remembering my complicated drink order isn’t the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me.

Get it together, Marshall.

The waiter arrives, and I do, in fact, order my complicated margarita—frozen this time instead of rocks, just to keep Crew on his toes. He orders a beer. Foster gets something called the El Jefe that comes with a mini bottle of Coronita upside down in it.

“Showoff,” Sadie mutters.

“It’s called culture.”

The food arrives in waves: sizzling fajita platters, a massive bowl of guacamole made tableside, cheese enchiladas smothered in verde sauce. I pile my plate high and dig in, groaning at the first bite.