Page 11 of The Wild Card

Gavin’s got his Serious Big Brother face on—the one he’s been wearing since I told him I was moving in with a guy I met two days ago.

“I still don’t like this,” he says.

“You’ve mentioned that. Several times.”

“Because it bears repeating.” He turns to face me. “You don’t know this guy, Em. You met him once. For an hour.”

“He’s FBI, Gav.”

“So? FBI agents can be creeps too. Creeps with handcuffs.”

“He’s not a creep. He’s just…” I search for the right word. “Intense. But in a structured way. Like, he has a seventeen-page roommate agreement. With tabs.”

Gavin stares at me, his eyes wide. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“Gav, he’s organized. Responsible. The opposite of Brad and his protein powder empire.”

The mention of my old roommate’s nightmare boyfriend does the trick. Gavin’s jaw tightens, but he stacks two boxes and lifts them. “Fine. But I’m coming up. And if I get even a hint of weird vibes—”

“You’ll make his life hell. I know.” I grab my suitcase and hip-check my door closed. “You’re very intimidating. It’s noted.”

The elevator ride to the tenth floor is tense. Gavin keeps cracking his knuckles, which he only does when he’s anxious, and I keep telling myself this is going to be fine. Great, even. Crew seemed nice. Well, not nice exactly. More like… competent. Reliable. The sort of person who probably has a fire extinguisher and knows where the circuit breaker is.

That’s what I need right now. Competence. Stability. Someone who won’t let their boyfriend turn my living room into a CrossFit gym.

The door to 10B opens before I can knock.

And there’s Crew.

I’d forgotten how tall he is. Or maybe I’d blocked it out, because standing in front of him now, holding a box of kitchen utensils, I have to crane my neck just to meet his eyes. He’s got to be at least six-three, with shoulders broad enough to fill the doorframe. Dark hair cropped short. Steel-gray eyes that seem to take in everything all at once.

He’s wearing a simple black t-shirt and jeans, and I try not to notice the way the fabric stretches across his chest. Try and fail because wow. The man is built like he bench-presses cars for fun.

“Hey,” I say, eloquent as always.

“Hey.” His gaze flicks to Gavin behind me, and something shifts in his expression. A slight tension in his jaw. “You must be the brother.”

“Gavin.” My brother steps forward, doing that thing where he puffs up his chest to look bigger. It’s less effective when the other guy is already huge, but points for effort. “And you’re the stranger my sister is moving in with.”

“Crew Jensen.” He extends a hand. Gavin takes it, and I watch them do that masculine handshake thing where they’re definitely squeezing too hard. “Come in. I’ll help with the boxes.”

The next hour is an exercise in awkward small talk and heavy lifting. Gavin interrogates Crew about his job, his background, his “intentions”—which, what intentions? I’m his roommate, not his girlfriend—while Crew answers in short, clipped sentences that give away absolutely nothing. Holy awkward tension, Batman!

I learn that Crew has been with the FBI for six years, that he served in the military before that, and that he bought this apartment three years ago. That’s it. That’s all he offers, and Gavin’s clearly frustrated by the lack of ammunition.

My room is at the end of the hall, and when I first open the door, I understand why the rent is so reasonable.

It’s… sparse.

White walls, beige carpet, one window with plain blinds, a bed with a white mattress protector, a single nightstand, and a lamp. Nothing else. No art, no color, no sign that anyone has ever actually lived here.

“It’s very, um…” I search for something nice to say.

“Clean,” Gavin supplies. “Sterile. Like a hospital room.”

Crew appears in the doorway. “I keep it simple.”

“Simple is one word for it,” I mutter, but I’m already seeing the potential.