Page 32 of The Wild Card

Emmie Marshall is chaos.

And I’ve just agreed to cuddle her once a week.

I rub my hand over my face, grab another cookie, and head to my room to create a dossier about our fake relationship.

This is either the smartest decision I’ve ever made or the biggest mistake of my life.

Probably both.

Chapter Seven

Chinese Food

Emmie

Two hours after we shake on the deal, I’m starving.

The cookies have worn off, my blood sugar is crashing, and I need real food immediately or I’m going to become a very unpleasant person to be around.

I pad out to the living room, phone in hand, and find Crew on the couch with his laptop open. He’s changed into gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt, and I absolutely do not notice how the fabric stretches across his shoulders.

Okay, I notice. I’m not blind.

“I’m ordering Chinese,” I announce. “You want anything?”

He doesn’t look up. “No thanks. I was just going to make some chicken.”

“The chicken breasts in the fridge?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Those sad, plain, gray-looking chicken breasts that have been in there for three days?”

Now he looks up. “They’re not gray.”

“They were definitely gray. And sad.”

His eyes narrow. “Were?”

“I threw them away.”

The silence that follows is deeply satisfying.

“You threw away my chicken.”

“I did you a favor. Those things were depressing. They looked like they’d given up on life.” I scroll through the menu on my phone. “I’m getting mushroom chicken, lo mein, and crab rangoons. I’ll order extra. You can share.”

“I have a meal plan—”

I wave him off with one hand. “Your meal plan tried to make you eat zombie chicken. Your meal plan has lost its privileges.” I tap in the order before he can argue. “Food will be here in thirty minutes. You’re welcome.”

He stares at me for a long moment, and I can’t quite read his expression. It’s somewhere between annoyed and… something else. Something that looks almost like he’s fighting a smile.

He loses the fight. Just barely. The corner of his mouth twitches up for half a second before he schools his face back to neutral. “You’re very bossy,” he says.

“I prefer the term ‘aggressively nurturing.’”

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