Page 74 of The Wild Card

I looked up from my coffee. “I don’t do pool days.”

“You do now.” She stole my mug, took a sip, and handed it back like that was normal—like sharing my coffee was something we did. “The pool is literally in your building. You pay HOA fees for it. Have you ever even been down there?”

“Once.”

“Once.”

“I went down there to check that the gate lock was secure.”

She stared at me for a long moment. “That’s the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”

So now I’m standing on my balcony in swim trunks I had to dig out of the back of my closet, watching Emmie set up camp by the pool ten floors below. She’s got towels, a cooler, a stack of magazines, and what looks like enough sunscreen to protect a small army.

I can do this. It’s just a pool—water, concrete, lounge chairs. Nothing complicated.

My phone buzzes.

Foster: Heard there’s a pool party. On my way.

I didn’t invite Foster. I didn’t invite anyone. This was supposed to be—

Another buzz.

Emmie: Stop stalling and get down here!! I have snacks :)

I grab a towel and head for the elevator.

* * *

The pool deck is mostly empty—a few residents I don’t recognize, an older couple reading under an umbrella, and Emmie, stretched out on a lounge chair in a yellow bikini.

A very small yellow bikini.

My brain takes approximately three seconds to process this information before it completely shuts down.

She’s on her stomach, head resting on her folded arms, and the bikini ties at her neck and back. There’s so much skin—golden skin, sun-warmed and slightly freckled across her shoulders, the curve of her spine, the dip of her lower back.

I forget how to walk.

“Crew!” She lifts her head and smiles, waving me over. “You made it.”

“Yeah.” My voice sounds like I’ve swallowed gravel. “I made it.”

I force my legs to move—one foot in front of the other. Don’t look at her body. Look at her face. Her face is safe. Her face is—

She rolls onto her side to face me, and suddenly I’m looking at the front of the bikini, which is worse. So much worse. Because now I can see the swell of her breasts pressed together, the flat plane of her stomach, the curve of her hips.

Blue screen of death. Total system failure.

“You okay?” She’s squinting up at me. “You look weird.”

“I’m fine.”

I drop my towel on the lounge chair next to hers and reach back to grab my t-shirt, pulling it over my head in one smooth motion.

When I look up, Emmie’s watching me.

Her eyes trace down my chest, my stomach, and the trail of hair disappearing into my swim trunks. She’s not even trying to hide it—just openly staring, lips slightly parted and sunglasses pushed up onto her head. Her cheeks are flushed pink, and it has nothing to do with the sun.