Page 9 of The Wild Card

“He doesn’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Like people.”

She looks down at Murphy, who’s now kneading her thigh with his paws, eyes half-closed in contentment. “Really? He seems pretty friendly to me.”

Traitor.

I hand her the agreement. “Standard roommate contract. Take your time reading it.”

“Wow. This is…” She flips through the first few pages, eyebrows rising. “Thorough.”

“I like to be clear about expectations.”

“No, I get it. I appreciate it, actually. My last roommate didn’t have any rules, and look how that turned out.” She keeps flipping, scanning the headers. Noise compliance. Kitchen usage. Shared spaces. “This is really organized. You must be, like, super Type A.”

“Something like that.”

She pauses on page three, frowning. “Wait. This says nine-fifty a month.”

“Yes.”

“You said twelve hundred.” Her eyebrows push together adorably.

“I adjusted it.”

Her eyes narrow on mine, suspicious. “Why?”

Because I’m about to trick you into fake-dating me and I need to be able to sleep at night. “You mentioned you’re on a deadline. Figured the lower rent might help take some pressure off.”

She stares at me for a long moment, like she’s waiting for the catch. “You’re just… giving me a two-hundred-fifty-dollar discount. Out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Uh, seemed like the decent thing to do.”

She’s smiling now, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “Thank you. That’s… really nice of you.”

The gratitude in her voice makes my stomach twist. I ignore it.

“Don’t thank me yet. You haven’t read the rest.”

She laughs like I’m joking and keeps flipping. Page ten, her reading slows. By page twelve, she’s barely skimming. On page fourteen, she flips to the end.

“So I just sign here?”

My heart does something uncomfortable in my chest. “If you agree to the terms.”

“I mean, it all seems reasonable. Quiet hours, cleaning schedule, no unauthorized guests…” She pulls a pen from her bag—purple ink, because of course—and signs her name with a flourish. “There. It’s official.”

She hands it back, smiling.

I take it, and look down at her signature. Emmie Marshall, written in loopy, cheerful script right above the line that binds her to Section 7, Subsection C, Paragraph 3.

The Girlfriend Clause.

“Welcome to the apartment,” I say.

She beams. “This is going to be great. I can feel it.”