Page 171 of The Wild Card

“I know you already signed mine,” she says, “but I need you to add something.”

“Add what?”

“To my best friend, who I always believed in, even when she was crying into cookie dough at 2 AM and convinced she’d never finish this book.” She grins. “That’s the inscription I want.”

“That’s very specific.”

“It’s also very accurate.”

I laugh and take the book, flipping to the title page. My inscription from last week is already there—To Sadie, who kept me sane. Love, Em—but I add underneath: P.S. The cookie dough crying was essential to my process.

“Perfect.” Sadie hugs me across the table. “I’m so proud of you, babe. You did it.”

“I did it.”

“Now.” She steps back, eyes glinting. “I believe there’s a very handsome FBI agent waiting to congratulate you properly.”

I look past her. Crew is still there, still watching, still making my heart do stupid things.

“Go,” Sadie says. “I’ll help Rachel pack up.”

I don’t need to be told twice.

I start toward him, and Crew meets me halfway, catching me when I launch myself at him.

“Careful.” His arms wrap around me, steady and sure. “You’re a famous author now. You have to maintain some dignity.”

“Dignity is overrated.” I press my face into his chest, breathing him in. “You came.”

“Of course I came.”

“You hate crowds.”

“I do.” He pulls back just enough to look at me. “But I love you. So here I am.”

The words still hit me every time. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing them.

“The line was so long,” I say. “I can’t believe how many people showed up.”

“I can.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Your book is incredible, Emmie. You deserve every bit of this.”

“Crew—”

He kisses me before I can finish. Soft and sweet, right there in the middle of the bookstore, in front of Rachel and Sadie and my mother, who I can hear making sounds of approval somewhere behind us.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmurs against my lips. “So damn proud.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He pulls back, and there’s something in his expression—something warm and certain. “Come on. There’s somewhere I want to take you.”

“Now? I should probably help clean up—”

“Rachel said it’s fine. I already asked.” He takes my hand. “Trust me?”

I look at him—this man who once handed me a seventeen-page roommate agreement, who taught me self-defense as a first date, who built a cabin with his own hands because he needed to prove he could create something permanent.

This man who taught me that love doesn’t have to be perfect to be real.