Page 158 of The Wild Card

“Crew.” My voice comes out barely above a whisper. “You did this?”

“You said you wanted to see the stars. We’re in Dallas, so it’s not perfect, but on a clear night you can see—”

I kiss him before he can finish.

This one isn’t soft. This one is heat and hunger and everything we’ve been holding back. My arms wrap around his neck, pulling him down to me, and he lifts me off my feet without thinking about it.

“The blankets,” I murmur against his mouth.

“What?”

“Take me to the blankets.”

He does.

We sink into the nest of pillows and quilts, tangled together, his body half-covering mine. The string lights cast shadows across his face, and he’s so beautiful it makes my chest ache.

“Hi,” I whisper.

“Hi.”

“This is a really good first date.”

“Yeah?” He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at me. “Even the gym part?”

“Especially the gym part.” I trace a finger along his jaw. “No one’s ever planned a self-defense lesson for me before. It’s very romantic.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“I’m not. I’m really not.” I pull him down for another kiss, soft this time. “You wanted to teach me how to protect myself. How to be safe. That’s—” My throat tightens unexpectedly. “That’s the most Crew Jensen thing you could have done.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing circles on my hip.

“I want you to be safe,” he says finally. “Even when I’m not there. I want to know you can take care of yourself.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know. But now you can also gouge someone’s eyes out if you need to.”

I laugh, and he smiles—that rare, real smile that transforms his whole face.

“Wine?” he asks.

“Please.”

He reaches for the bottle, and I take the opportunity to admire the view. The stretch of his shoulders. The way his shirt pulls tight across his back. The forearms I’ve been fantasizing about since the day he interviewed me with his ridiculous seventeen-page contract.

He hands me a glass of wine and settles back onto the blankets beside me. We lie there for a moment, shoulders touching, staring up at the sky.

“I looked up constellations,” he admits. “So I could point them out to you. But I can’t remember any of them now.”

“That’s okay. I don’t know any constellations either.”

“You don’t?”

“I know the Big Dipper. And I think that one’s Orion?” I point vaguely at a cluster of stars. “The one with the belt?”

“That’s… actually, I think that might be an airplane.”