Page 52 of The Wild Card

“Thank you,” she says softly.

“You’re welcome.”

Neither of us moves.

Her gaze drops to my mouth for just a second, and heat flares in my chest. I could kiss her right now. I could close the distance between us and find out if she tastes as sweet as she smells.

But this is fake. All of it. And kissing her would cross a line I’m not sure I can come back from.

“We should go,” I say, stepping back. “Traffic.”

“Right.” She blinks, as if waking up from something. “Traffic. Yes.”

I grab my keys, and we head for the door.

This is going to be a long night.

* * *

The gala is at the Gaylord Hotel, adorned with crystal chandeliers, marble floors, and people in expensive clothes pretending to be comfortable. I hate these events—the noise, the small talk, the constant performance of being someone I’m not.

But tonight, I have Emmie.

She slips her hand into mine as we walk through the entrance, and the touch grounds me in a way I didn’t expect. Her fingers are warm, her grip steady, and when I glance down at her, she gives me a small smile.

“You’ve got this,” she murmurs. “Just follow my lead.”

I don’t know how to follow anyone’s lead, but for her, I’m willing to try.

The ballroom is packed with agents and their spouses, along with various city officials and donors I vaguely recognize. A string quartet plays in the corner. Waiters circulate with champagne and tiny food that means I’ll probably still be hungry when this is over.

“Ooh, crab cakes.” Emmie snags two from a passing tray and hands me one. “Try this.”

“I don’t usually—”

“Try it.”

I try it. It’s actually good.

“See?” She grins. “I’m expanding your horizons.”

I lift one eyebrow. “You’re force-feeding me appetizers.”

“Same thing.”

We make our way through the crowd, and I realize something strange is happening. With Emmie beside me, the usual pressure isn’t there. She fills the silences I usually dread, asking people about themselves, laughing at their jokes, making small talk look effortless. All I have to do is stand there, nod occasionally, and try not to look like I want to be anywhere else.

It’s… easy.

Too easy.

“Jensen!” A hand claps my shoulder, and I turn to find my boss, Daniels standing there with his wife, Margaret. He’s in a classic black tux, and she’s in something blue and elegant, both beaming at us as if we just announced our engagement.

“Sir.” I shake his hand. “Mrs. Daniels.”

“Please, call me Margaret.” She’s already looking past me to Emmie, curiosity bright in her eyes. “And you must be the girlfriend we’ve heard so much about.”

Heard so much about? That’s a stretch.