Page 39 of The Wild Card

“So I can wear whatever?”

“Within reason.” I lift one eyebrow.

“What does ‘within reason’ mean?”

Foster snorts. “It means he doesn’t want you showing up in a neon bodycon dress.”

“I wasn’t going to wear neon.” She pauses. “Probably.”

“Wear whatever you want,” I say, and I mean it. She could show up in a paper bag and still be the most interesting person in the room. Not that I’m going to tell her that.

“Who’s going to be there?” she asks. “Like, who do I need to impress?”

“My supervisor, Daniels. The one who wants to ship me to Alaska.” I take a sip of my club soda. “His wife will be there too. Margaret. She’s… observant.”

“Observant how?”

“She’ll notice if we don’t seem like a real couple.”

Emmie nods slowly, processing. “So we need to be, what, affectionate? Comfortable with each other?”

“Basically.”

“We should practice.” She says it casually, like she’s suggesting we run lines for a play. “Before Saturday. Get used to, you know, touching each other.”

Foster chokes on his beer.

“Not like that,” she clarifies, cheeks flushing. “I meant holding hands. Standing close. Couple stuff.”

“Right,” I say. “Couple stuff.”

“We haven’t had any physical contact before.” She’s talking faster now, the way she does when she’s nervous. “And now we have to be all couple-y in front of your boss? In public? With people watching and judging?”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“What if we look awkward? What if they can tell it’s fake?”

“They won’t.”

“How do you know?”

I don’t, actually. I have no idea if we can pull this off. But she’s looking at me with those big hazel eyes, worry creasing her forehead, and I hear myself say, “Because we’re going to practice. Every day until Saturday. By the time we walk into that gala, touching you is going to feel like second nature.”

The words hang in the air between us. Shit. Why did I say that?

Foster’s eyebrows have climbed somewhere near his hairline.

Josh is staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.

Emmie’s cheeks have gone pink. “Oh. Okay. That’s, um. Yeah. That’s a good plan.”

“It’s a practical plan,” I correct, though my voice comes out rougher than intended.

“Right. Practical.” She takes a long sip of her margarita. “Very practical.”

Foster kicks me under the table again. When I look at him, he mouths, You’re so screwed.

He’s not wrong.