Chapter Two
The Interview
Crew
Three days and four disasters later, I’m starting to think Foster’s fake girlfriend idea might actually be my only option.
Disaster One showed up twenty minutes late, reeking of weed, and asked if I was “chill about parties.” Disaster Two had a pet snake.
Not a small snake. A six-foot boa constrictor named Princess that he assured me was “very friendly” and “only escaped sometimes.” Disaster Three seemed promising until she mentioned her boyfriend would be staying over “most nights” and wanted to know if I had a problem with that.
I had a problem with that.
Disaster Four was a guy named Kevin who chewed gum with his mouth open during the entire interview and kept calling me “bro.”
So when the knock comes at 2 PM on Thursday—my last scheduled interview—I’m not expecting much.
I open the door.
The woman on the other side is mid-catastrophe. She’s juggling a tote bag, a purse, her phone, and a Tupperware container, and as I watch, her keys slip from her fingers and clatter to the floor.
She’s also beautiful.
That’s the first thing I notice, before the chaos fully registers: honey-blonde hair escaping from a messy bun, bobby pins sticking out at odd angles, bright hazel eyes with flecks of gold, and curves that her floral dress does nothing to hide.
Then she opens her mouth, and the beautiful part gets buried under an avalanche of words.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry, that’s so—hold on—” She crouches to grab the keys, and the Tupperware nearly goes too.
She catches it against her chest, straightens, and blows a strand of hair out of her face.
“Hi. I’m Emmie. Emmie Marshall. I’m here about the room?
I know I probably look like a disaster right now, but I promise I’m not usually this—okay, no, that’s a lie, I’m pretty much always like this, but I swear I’m a good roommate.
Or I will be. I’ve never actually lived with a guy before, so I can’t technically prove that, but—”
She stops. Takes a breath. Her cheeks flush pink.
“I stress bake,” she says, thrusting the Tupperware at me. “Chocolate chip cookies. I know it’s weird to bring food to a roommate interview, but I had all this nervous energy and my friend Sadie said I should just lean into it, so. Here.”
I look at the cookies. Then at her.
She’s short—five-four, maybe—with curves, freckles, and hazel eyes that are watching me like she’s genuinely worried I’m about to slam the door in her face.
She’s chaos. Absolute chaos.
“Uh, come in,” I hear myself say.
Her whole face lights up. “Really? Oh, thank goodness I was worried the cookie thing was too much. My brother said it was excessive. He told me to just act normal, but then I thought, what even is normal, you know? So I stress-baked anyway because that’s just what I do when I’m anxious, and—” She steps inside, still talking, her eyes scanning the apartment. “Wow. This place is… really clean.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No! No, it’s great. I love clean. I’m not a slob or anything. I’m just…” She gestures vaguely at herself. “Chaotic? But in a contained way. Like, my mess has a system. It doesn’t make sense to anyone else, but it makes sense to me.”
I have no idea what that means, but I gesture toward the couch. “Have a seat.”
She sits, then immediately pops back up. “Should I take my shoes off? I didn’t even ask. Sorry, that’s so rude. I should have asked.”
“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?”
“No. No, it’s—” She laughs, but there’s an edge to it.
“It’s the very top of my budget, honestly.
Like, scraping-the-ceiling top. But it’s still way better than anything else I’ve found in this area, so.
” She shrugs, that sunny smile flickering back into place.
“I just need to, you know, actually finish this cookbook so my publisher sends me the rest of my advance. No big deal. Just my entire financial future riding on whether I can make beef bourguignon sound sexy.”
“Can you?”
“Ask me again in two months when I’ve either made my deadline or had a complete breakdown.” She says it lightly, like a joke, but something in her expression tells me the deadline is very real and very much breathing down her neck.
Good. She needs this. That’s leverage.
The thought rises unbidden, and I push it down.
I keep going through my questions. Cleaning habits, noise tolerance, how she handles conflict.
She answers everything with the same scattered honesty, occasionally going off on tangents about her cookbook, her family, or her inability to keep houseplants alive.
By the end of the interview, I have a clear picture.
Emmie Marshall is disorganized but not dirty. Friendly—probably too friendly. Desperate for stability. And exactly the kind of woman guys bring home to meet their mothers. The kind who’d fit seamlessly into a work dinner, charming everyone without trying….
Daniels would take one look at her and think, finally, Jensen found someone who can put up with him.
This could work. It could actually work.
I stand. “Give me a minute. I need to grab the roommate agreement.”
“The what now?”
“It’s just something I put together. All pretty standard. It outlines expectations, responsibilities, and house rules.” I’m already heading toward my office. “I’ll just be a minute.”
In my office, I close the door and pull up the file on my laptop. Seventeen pages. Noise policies, cleaning schedules, guest protocols. Every contingency covered, every expectation spelled out.
I stare at the document.
Then I click to add a new section.
Section 7: Additional Arrangements