Chapter Thirteen
Practice
Emmie
I can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me.
Not at the gala—though that was something too. Not even the way his eyes went dark when I walked out in the green dress, the way he’d said “beautiful” like he truly meant it.
No, I’m thinking about the car ride home. The silence that wasn’t awkward but also wasn’t comfortable. The way he’d gripped the steering wheel like he was holding himself back from something.
From what, exactly?
That’s the question that’s been rattling around in my head for two days. Two days of cohabiting with a man who helped me with my necklace clasp, who seemed jealous of Foster’s attention, who almost kissed me in the hallway, and then drove me home in complete silence as if nothing had happened.
Men are confusing.
Grumpy, emotionally constipated FBI agents are worse.
I’m standing at the bathroom mirror, still half-asleep, toothbrush hanging out of my mouth, when the door swings open.
“Oh—”
Crew freezes in the doorway.
He’s fresh from his morning workout, which means he’s shirtless. Which means I’m staring at his chest. Again. Because apparently, I have zero self-control when it comes to his stupid perfectly sculpted torso.
But that’s not the worst part.
The worst part is that I’m wearing underwear and a tank top. That’s it. No bra. No pants. Just cotton boy shorts with little strawberries on them and a white tank that’s definitely thin enough to see through.
His eyes drop. Just for a second. Then snap back up to my face like he’s been burned.
“Sorry.” His voice comes out strangled. “I didn’t—the door wasn’t locked.”
I yank the toothbrush out of my mouth. “I forgot to lock it.”
“I should’ve knocked.”
We’re both just standing there. Him in the doorway, me at the sink, toothpaste foam at the corner of my mouth. His chest is doing that thing where it rises and falls a little too fast.
“I’m going to—” He gestures vaguely behind him.
“Yeah. Yes. Good idea.”
He backs out of the bathroom and closes the door, and I slump against the counter, heart hammering.
That was fine. Totally fine. Just two roommates accidentally seeing each other in various states of undress. Happens all the time. No big deal.
Except I can still feel where his gaze landed. Just for that split second. Like a brand on my skin.
I rinse my mouth, splash cold water on my face, and give my reflection a stern look.
“Get it together, Marshall.”
My reflection does not look convinced.
* * *
By evening, we’ve successfully avoided each other for most of the day. I wrote three usable pages of cookbook content. He did whatever FBI agents do on their days off—probably organized his sock drawer by thread count or something.
But we can’t avoid each other forever. The dinner with Daniels and Margaret is in a few days, and we still haven’t practiced being a couple in any meaningful way.
“We should talk about Saturday,” I say over dinner.
Crew looks up from his chicken—which I made, and which he’s eating without complaint because he’s learned that feeding people is my love language, and resistance is futile. “What about it?”
“We need to practice. The couple stuff.” I push my food around my plate. “We got lucky at the gala. But this is different. They’re coming to our apartment. They’ll be watching us in our space.”
“Our space.”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” I feel my cheeks warm. “I just mean—they’ll expect us to be comfortable together. Natural. And we’re still kind of…” I gesture between us. “Stiff.”
“I’m not stiff.”
“You literally backed out of the bathroom this morning like I was holding a weapon.”
His jaw tightens. “You weren’t wearing pants.”
A laugh falls from my lips, and Crew wears a bashful expression.
We stare at each other across the table. The tension from this morning is back, thrumming under the surface of every word.
“Look,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. “We need to be able to touch each other without it being weird. Hand on the back. Arm around the shoulder. Casual stuff.”
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“I said fine.” He sets down his fork. “How do you want to do this?”
I wasn’t expecting him to agree so easily. Now I have to actually come up with a plan.
“Okay, um.” I stand up, moving around the table. “Stand up.”
He stands. All six-foot-four of him, towering over me, watching me with those gray eyes that give nothing away.
“Put your hand on my lower back.”
His hand hovers for a second before settling against the curve of my spine. Warm. Large. I can feel each individual finger through the thin fabric of my shirt.
We’re close. Closer than we’ve been since the cuddling—which happened in the dim light of my bedroom, with the safety of bedtime drowsiness between us. This is different. Bright kitchen lights. Fully awake. Fully aware of everywhere we’re touching.
His thumb moves. Just slightly. A small sweep across my lower back that might be accidental or might be something else entirely.
“What else?” he asks, his voice low.
“Um.” I’m having trouble remembering words. “Arm around the shoulder. That’s a classic.”
He shifts, his hand sliding up to curl around my shoulder, tugging me into his side. Now I’m pressed against him, my cheek near his chest, his arm heavy and warm around me.
He smells like soap and something woodsy and clean laundry, and I want to press my nose against his neck and just breathe him in.
I don’t. Obviously.
“This okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” My voice is barely a whisper. “This is good.”
We stand there for a long moment. His heartbeat is steady under my ear. Mine is doing something embarrassing and erratic that I hope he can’t feel.
“Emmie.”
I tilt my head up to look at him. Big mistake. His face is right there, inches away, and he’s looking at me with an expression I’ve never seen before. Soft. Almost vulnerable. Like he’s working up the courage to say something.
“What?”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
My breath catches.
“We should…” He clears his throat. “We should probably practice the other stuff too.”
“Other stuff?”
“The, uh.” He clears his throat. “Kissing. If we have to do it. It should look natural.”
Oh.
“Right.” My voice comes out strange. “That makes sense. For believability.”
“For believability,” he echoes.
Neither of us moves.
“So should we…” I trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence. Should we kiss now? Should we schedule it? Should I just throw myself at him and hope for the best?
“We don’t have to.” His hand is still on my hip, warm and solid. “If you’re not comfortable—”
“No, I’m—I’m comfortable.” Too comfortable. That’s the problem. “It’s just practice.”
“Exactly,” he agrees.
Silence.
His thumb traces a small circle on my hip, and I shiver.
“Crew.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you going to kiss me or are we just going to talk about it?”
Something shifts in his expression. The softness sharpens into something else—something that makes my stomach flip and my skin feel too tight.
“I’m working up to it.”
“You’ve disarmed bombs. You can handle a kiss.”
“Bombs are predictable.” His voice drops lower. “You’re not.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I’m not sure I could form words right now even if I tried, because he’s leaning closer, his hand sliding from my hip to the curve of my waist, and I can feel his breath against my lips.
“Tell me if this is okay,” he murmurs.
He lowers his head and his mouth brushes mine. Barely a touch. Testing.
I inhale sharply, and he pulls back just enough to look at me, checking. Making sure.
“That was—” I start.
He kisses me again. Harder this time. His hand comes up to cup the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair, and I melt into him like I’ve been waiting my whole life for this.
He tastes like wine and something warm, and when I part my lips, he makes a sound low in his throat that sends heat racing down my spine. My hands find his chest, fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere left to go.
This doesn’t feel like practice.
This feels like drowning and not wanting to come up for air.
His other hand grips my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I gasp into his mouth.
He swallows the sound, tilting my head back to deepen the kiss, and I’m gone—completely, utterly gone.
My lips part and his tongue touches mine and sparks fly across my skin.
A simple kiss has never felt like this. Never.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
His forehead rests against mine. His eyes are still closed. His hand is still tangled in my hair like he forgot it was there.
“So.” My voice is wrecked. “That was, um.”
“Yeah.”
“Good practice.”
His laugh is low and rough. “Yeah. Good practice.”
We don’t move. Don’t pull apart. Just stand there, breathing each other in, pretending this is something we can walk away from.
“We should probably…” I don’t finish the sentence because I don’t actually want to do anything except kiss him again.
“Probably,” he agrees.
Neither of us moves.
His thumb traces along my jaw, and I lean into the touch without meaning to. His eyes track the movement, dark and hungry, and I think he’s going to kiss me again.
I want him to kiss me again.
But then Murphy yowls from somewhere in the apartment, loud and demanding, and the spell breaks.
Crew steps back, lacing his fingers behind his head, elbows wide.
He stares at the ceiling for a long moment, chest heaving.
When he finally looks at me, there’s something almost helpless in his expression—he looks like a man who just watched his whole plan go sideways and doesn’t know what to do next.
He looks as wrecked as I feel—flushed, breathing uneven, like he just ran a marathon instead of kissed his fake girlfriend.
We don’t talk about the kiss for the rest of the night.
But I feel it every time our hands brush when we load the dishwasher. Every time he stands too close. Every time his eyes drop to my mouth like he’s remembering.
Just practice, I tell myself.
Except my lips are still tingling, and my heart won’t slow down, and I’m starting to think there’s nothing practice about any of this.
“I’m going to head to bed,” I announce, heading toward the hall.
Crew’s hand on my wrist stops me. “I think we’ll be okay Saturday,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His hand finds my hair, fingers threading through it absently. “We’re getting better at this. The touching. The being close.”
“Mm.”
He doesn’t say anything else, just watches me for a heartbeat before letting his hand fall away. “Night, Emmie.”
“Night, Crew.”