Page 7 of The Wild Card

“It’s fine.”

“Are you sure? Because I can totally—”

“It’s fine,” I repeat, and something in my tone must register because she sits back down and stays there.

I take the chair across from her and pull out my tablet with the interview questions I prepared. Forty-seven questions, organized by category: lifestyle habits, scheduling preferences, financial stability, conflict resolution style.

“So,” I start, “what’s your employment status?”

“Oh, um, self-employed. I’m a cookbook author.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve written two books so far, and I’m working on my third. The deadline’s in about two months, which is why I really need a stable living situation. My last place kind of… imploded.”

I make a note. “Imploded how?”

“My roommate’s boyfriend moved in without telling me. He just showed up one day with all his stuff and turned our living room into his personal gym. Like, weight equipment everywhere. Protein powder on every surface. He kept calling me ‘little lady’ and asking if I wanted him to spot me.” She wrinkles her nose. “I did not want him to spot me.”

“So you left.”

“Yeah, thankfully my lease was up anyway, and now I’ve been crashing on my friend’s couch for three weeks. It’s fine; Sadie’s great, but I can’t work there. Her apartment is tiny, and she works nights, so I have to be quiet during the day. I can’t test recipes because her kitchen is basically a hotplate and a mini fridge.” She leans forward, earnest. “I really need this to work out. I’ll follow whatever rules you have, I swear. I’m good at following rules. Mostly. When I remember them.”

She’s disorganized, clearly. Talks too much, moves too fast, probably leaves dishes in the sink and forgets to lock the door. All of which could be a very big problem for me.

But she’s also… genuine. No pretense, no calculation. Just wide eyes, flushed cheeks, and an anxious energy that feels oddly… unthreatening.

I glance back at my tablet. “What’s your work schedule?”

“Flexible. I work from home, and tend to do most of my recipe testing in the afternoon—hope that’s okay? I promise I won’t make anything too smelly. Well, except for this one time when I was working on a fermented kimchi recipe, and the whole apartment smelled like—” She catches my expression. “You know what, never mind. I won’t make kimchi.” She smiles, like deciding this has somehow pleased her.

“Are you a morning person or a night owl?”

“Morning! Definitely morning. I’m usually up by seven, sometimes earlier if I’m in the zone.” She pauses. “Is that… good?”

It’s not bad. I’m up at six. Our schedules might actually align.

“Guests?” I ask.

“My friend Sadie might come over sometimes? And my family’s kind of intense—my mom likes to drop by with food, and my brother Gavin is super overprotective, so he’ll probably want to check the place out to make sure you’re not a serial killer or whatever.” She winces. “Not that I think you’re a serial killer. You seem very… not murdery.”

I quirk one brow. “Thanks?”

“What about you? What do you do?”

“I’m with the FBI. Tactical unit.”

The shift is immediate. Her shoulders drop, tension bleeding out of her frame. “Oh. Oh, that’s right. That’s actually why I felt comfortable even coming today. My friend—Sadie’s boyfriend knows someone who works with you. Josh something, I think? He mentioned the room was available, and when Sadie told me you were in the FBI, I felt a lot better about it. I’ve never lived with a guy before, but knowing you’re, like, law enforcement…” She exhales. “I don’t know. It feels safer.”

Something clicks into place.

She trusts authority. Trusts that the badge means something, that I’m one of the good guys. And she needs a place badly enough that she showed up with cookies and nerves and zero poker face.

This could work.

“So, um.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “The rent. You mentioned a number on the phone, but I just want to make sure I heard you right.”

“Twelve hundred a month. Utilities included.”

Her eyes go wide for a second before she schools her expression. “Twelve hundred.”

“Is that a problem?”