Page 33 of The Wild Card

The food arrives, and I spread everything out on the coffee table like a feast. Crew eyes the containers with the same wariness he’d give a suspicious package.

“What is that?” He points at the crab rangoon.

“Cream cheese and crab in a crispy little pocket of deliciousness. Try one.”

He picks it up, turns it over, examines it like he’s checking for defects. Finally he takes a bite. His eyebrows lift—just slightly. But I catch it.

“Good?”

“It’s acceptable.”

I hand him a pair of chopsticks. “You know how to use these?”

“I was in the military, Emmie. I’ve eaten in a lot of different countries.”

Right. Sometimes I forget he’s not just an uptight FBI agent with a color-coded—sorry, topic-organized—roommate agreement. He’s actually done things. Been places. Probably been through a lot of things he doesn’t normally talk about.

We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and I watch him try the lo mein, then the mushroom chicken. Each time, there’s that tiny flicker of surprise, like he forgot food could taste like something other than whey powder and efficiency.

“Okay.” I set down my chopsticks. “We should do the get-to-know-you thing. For the fake relationship.”

“Right.” He pulls out his phone. “I made a list of essential information we should exchange.”

Of course he did.

“Birthday?” he reads.

“October 12th.”

“Mine’s February 3rd. Favorite color?”

“Pink. You?”

“I don’t have one.”

I stare at him. “Everyone has a favorite color.”

“I don’t see the point in ranking colors.”

“The point is having a personality, Crew.”

That almost-smile flickers again. “Blue, I guess. If I had to choose.”

“Blue. Okay. We’re getting somewhere.” I steal a piece of his mushroom chicken. “But this is boring. Let’s make it interesting.”

“How?”

“Spicier questions. Stuff that actually tells you something about a person.” I think for a second. “Worst date you’ve ever been on.”

He pauses, chopsticks halfway to his mouth. “I don’t really date.”

“You’ve been on at least one date in your life. Everyone has a horror story.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and I think he’s going to deflect. Then he sighs.

“There was a woman. From work. A few years ago.” He sets down his chopsticks. “She asked me to dinner. I said yes because I didn’t know how to say no without making things awkward.”

“Classic mistake. Go on.”