Page 21 of The Wild Card

“I know.”

I think about Emmie’s face when she reads Section 7 of that contract. The betrayal. The fury. The way she’ll probably throw something at my head. Honestly, I’ll deserve it.

Foster claps me on the shoulder. “It was nice knowing you, Jensen.”

I spend the rest of the day trying to figure out how to tell my new roommate that she accidentally agreed to be my fake girlfriend, that she needs to meet my boss in a week, and oh, by the way, he thinks we might want to move to Alaska together.

By the time I leave the office, I still don’t have a plan.

But I’m out of time.

Emmie Marshall is waiting at home, probably cooking something that smells amazing, completely unaware that her entire life is about to get a lot more complicated.

I just have to figure out how to tell her without getting murdered in the process.

Chapter Five

The Reveal

Emmie

My laptop screen has been mocking me for forty-five minutes.

Chapter Seven: Comfort Foods for the Soul, the cursor blinks. And beneath it? Nothing. A whole lot of white space and zero inspiration.

I’ve rewritten the opening paragraph six times. Deleted it six times. Made myself a cup of tea, forgot about it, and found it cold an hour later. Classic.

The cookbook is due in two months. Cooking for Your Person (Even If They’re Grumpy About It)—a title that felt cute and marketable when I pitched it, but now feels like the universe is playing a joke on me since I moved in with the grumpiest person alive.

Not that Crew is my person. Obviously. He’s my roommate. Who happens to be grumpy. And hot. And walking around shirtless at ten at night like that’s a normal thing people do.

Focus, Emmie.

I need this book to work. Not just for my career, not just to prove to Gavin and my parents that I can handle adult life without constant crisis—but because my bank account is hovering at a number that makes me want to cry every time I check it.

The advance from my publisher covered the deposit and first month’s rent here. If I don’t deliver this manuscript on time, I won’t get the second half of my payment. And if I can’t prove to anyone—including myself—that this whole “follow your passion” thing wasn’t a spectacular mistake.

No pressure or anything.

My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen.

Mom.

I consider ignoring it. I love my mother, but she has a sixth sense for calling at the exact moment I’m trying to be productive. It’s like she knows.

The phone keeps buzzing.

I answer. “Hey, Mom.”

“Emmie! How’s the new place? Did you sleep okay? Is the neighborhood safe? Your father looked it up on one of those crime map websites and he’s concerned about a car break-in three blocks away, but I told him that’s just city living—”

“Mom. Breathe.”

She takes an audible breath. “Sorry. I just worry. You know how I am.”

I do know. Linda Marshall has been worrying about her children since before we were born, and she’s not about to stop now.

“The apartment is great,” I tell her. “Really nice. Super clean. My roommate is, um…” I search for a word that isn’t intimidatingly hot or confusingly intense. “Quiet.”