Page 101 of The Wild Card

“You hummed. In the elevator.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything.” He squeezes my shoulder before letting go. “I’ve known you for three years. I’ve never seen you like this. And yeah, maybe it started fake. But the way you look at her? The way you talk about her? That’s not fake, man. That’s the most real thing I’ve ever seen from you.”

I don’t know what to say.

“She’s too good for me,” I finally manage. “She’s sunshine and warmth, and I’m—”

“A grumpy asshole with a heart of gold who’s too scared to admit he deserves good things?” Foster smirks. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He’s quiet for a moment, studying me. “You know why this freaks you out so much?”

“Enlighten me.”

“She’s got wife energy.”

I stare at him. “What?”

“Emmie. She’s not the kind of girl you just… date for a while and move on from. She’s the kind you keep.” He tilts his head. “You’ve never pictured yourself putting a ring on someone’s finger, have you?”

My silence is answer enough.

“Yeah.” He nods slowly. “That’s what I thought.” He steps back, nodding toward the other room. “Come finish the game. And maybe, just maybe, consider the possibility that you’re wrong about what you deserve.”

He disappears back to the poker table.

I stand in the kitchen for another minute, staring at nothing, wondering how in the hell you fix something inside you that’s so fundamentally broken.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Everything in its Place

Emmie

“Okay, stop. I can’t watch this anymore.”

Crew glares at me over the cutting board, knife frozen mid-chop. “I’m cutting an onion. What’s wrong?”

“Your technique is all off. You’re going to lose a finger.”

“I’ve disarmed suspects with my bare hands. I think I can handle an onion.”

“Disarming suspects and dicing onions are two very different skill sets.” I hip-check him out of the way and take the knife. “Here. Watch. You want to keep the root end intact, see? Then slice horizontally, then vertically, then across. Perfect dice every time.”

He watches with the intensity he probably reserves for tactical briefings. “Why does the root end matter?”

“It holds everything together. Keeps the onion from falling apart while you cut.”

“That seems… unnecessarily complicated.”

“That’s cooking, babe. Controlled chaos.”

The endearment slips out before I can stop it. We both freeze.

“I mean—” I start.