Page 62 of The Wild Card

The doorbell rings at 6:00 PM. Daniels is nothing if not punctual. Emmie smooths her dress, takes a breath, and nods at me.

“Showtime,” she murmurs.

I open the door.

Daniels is in slacks and a button-down, casual for him. Margaret’s in something flowy and floral, holding a bottle of wine and a bright smile.

“Crew!” She pulls me into a hug before I can react, and I stand there stiffly while Emmie hides a laugh behind her hand. “So good to see you. And Emmie—oh, it smells divine in here. What are you making?”

“Braised short ribs with garlic mashed potatoes and roasted vegetables.” Emmie takes the wine bottle, ushering them inside. “And for dessert, a chocolate lava cake that I’m really hoping doesn’t collapse.”

“I’m sure it’ll be perfect.” Margaret is already surveying the apartment, taking in the details—the throw pillows on the couch, the fairy lights visible through the open door of Emmie’s room, the cat tree in the corner that Emmie bought last week without asking.

She stops at the photos on the bookshelf—those Emmie printed and framed. Us at the gala, the movie night Instagram shot, a candid she took of me scowling at Murphy.

“These are adorable,” Margaret declares. “Rich, look. They’re adorable.”

Daniels grunts something noncommittal, but I catch the slight curve of his mouth.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Emmie asks. “We’ve got wine, beer, sparkling water—”

“Wine would be lovely.”

I move to pour while Emmie handles small talk, and it strikes me how natural this feels. She asks Margaret about her garden. Margaret asks about the cookbook. They’re laughing within minutes, trading stories about kitchen disasters and stubborn husbands.

“He won’t eat anything green,” Margaret says, jerking her thumb at Daniels. “Thirty years of marriage, and the man still picks the peppers out of everything.”

“Crew’s the same way. Or he was.” Emmie shoots me a look. “I’ve been working on him.”

“She force-feeds me vegetables,” I confirm.

“Someone has to.” She pats my arm as she passes, heading back to the stove, and the touch sends warmth spreading through my chest.

Daniels sidles up next to me while the women are distracted. “You look different,” he says quietly.

“Different how?”

“Relaxed. Happy, even.” He takes a sip of his wine. “Didn’t think I’d ever see the day.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod.

“Hold onto her,” he adds. “Women like that don’t come around twice.”

The words hit harder than they should, but I do my best to file them somewhere far, far away. Men like me—foster kids who no one wanted—who even the Army eventually rejected—don’t end up with women like Emmie. That’s just a fact. Why would she want a broken, anxiety-ridden version when she could have any man she wanted.

Dinner is perfect.

And I don’t use that word lightly. I don’t use it ever, actually. But Emmie’s short ribs melt on my tongue, the potatoes are creamy and rich, and even the vegetables taste like something I’d voluntarily eat again.

Margaret moans around her first bite. “Oh my gosh. Emmie. This is incredible.”

“It’s just braising,” Emmie says, but she’s flushed with pleasure. “Low and slow. Anyone can do it.”

“I cannot do this,” Margaret insists. “Richard, we’re hiring her. I don’t care what it costs.”

“You can’t hire my girlfriend,” I say, and the word slides out so easily I almost don’t catch it.

Girlfriend.