Chapter Thirty-Eight
Starlight
Emmie
The rooftop takes my breath away.
Not because it’s fancy—it’s not. It’s our building’s rooftop; it’s concrete with large industrial-sized air conditioning units lined up in one corner. But Crew has transformed it into something out of a movie.
Blankets layered on the concrete, thick enough to be comfortable. Pillows piled into a nest that looks impossibly inviting. String lights draped along the half-wall, casting everything in a warm glow. A bottle of wine chilling in a bucket, two glasses waiting beside it.
And above us, the sky. Dallas isn’t known for its stars—too much light pollution, too much city—but tonight is clear, and I can see them. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds, if I look hard enough.
“Crew.” My voice comes out barely above a whisper. “You did this?”
“You said you wanted to see the stars. We’re in Dallas, so it’s not perfect, but on a clear night you can see—”
I kiss him before he can finish.
This one isn’t soft. This one is heat and hunger and everything we’ve been holding back. My arms wrap around his neck, pulling him down to me, and he lifts me off my feet without thinking about it.
“The blankets,” I murmur against his mouth.
“What?”
“Take me to the blankets.”
He does.
We sink into the nest of pillows and quilts, tangled together, his body half-covering mine. The string lights cast shadows across his face, and he’s so beautiful it makes my chest ache.
“Hi,” I whisper.
“Hi.”
“This is a really good first date.”
“Yeah?” He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at me. “Even the gym part?”
“Especially the gym part.” I trace a finger along his jaw. “No one’s ever planned a self-defense lesson for me before. It’s very romantic.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“I’m not. I’m really not.” I pull him down for another kiss, soft this time. “You wanted to teach me how to protect myself. How to be safe. That’s—” My throat tightens unexpectedly. “That’s the most Crew Jensen thing you could have done.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing circles on my hip.
“I want you to be safe,” he says finally. “Even when I’m not there. I want to know you can take care of yourself.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I know. But now you can also gouge someone’s eyes out if you need to.”
I laugh, and he smiles—that rare, real smile that transforms his whole face.
“Wine?” he asks.
“Please.”
He reaches for the bottle, and I take the opportunity to admire the view. The stretch of his shoulders. The way his shirt pulls tight across his back. The forearms I’ve been fantasizing about since the day he interviewed me with his ridiculous seventeen-page contract.
He hands me a glass of wine and settles back onto the blankets beside me. We lie there for a moment, shoulders touching, staring up at the sky.
“I looked up constellations,” he admits. “So I could point them out to you. But I can’t remember any of them now.”
“That’s okay. I don’t know any constellations either.”
“You don’t?”
“I know the Big Dipper. And I think that one’s Orion?” I point vaguely at a cluster of stars. “The one with the belt?”
“That’s… actually, I think that might be an airplane.”
I squint. He’s right—the lights are moving.
“Well,” I say. “At least we’re equally incompetent.”
He laughs, and I feel it vibrate through me where our shoulders are pressed together.
“What else don’t you know?” he asks. “I feel like I should catalogue your weaknesses.”
“For tactical purposes?”
“Obviously.”
I think about it. “I can’t parallel park. Like, at all. I’ve given up. I just find spots I can pull through.”
He chuckles. “That’s actually terrifying.”
“I know,” I agree, taking another sip of wine. “I’m surprised I still have side mirrors.”
“What else?” he prompts, watching me with sort of a dreamy half-lidded expression on his face.
“I kill every plant I’ve ever owned. I have a black thumb. It’s tragic, really, because I love the idea of plants. I just can’t keep them alive.”
“The succulent in your room?”
“Oh, it’s so fake.”
He’s laughing again, his chest shaking beneath my cheek.
“What about you?” I ask. “What are your secret incompetencies?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Liar.”
“I’m a highly trained federal agent. We don’t have weaknesses.”
I prop myself up to look at him. “Crew Jensen. Tell me something you’re bad at.”
He’s quiet for a moment, thinking.
“Dancing,” he finally admits. “I can’t dance. At all. I have no rhythm.”
“None?”
“None. It’s like my body doesn’t understand the concept of moving to music.”
“Have you tried?”
“Once. At a work function. Foster still brings it up.”
“What happened?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Crew.”
He sighs. “I stepped on my partner’s foot so hard she had to go to urgent care. Possible fracture.”
I clap a hand over my mouth. “No.”
“Three toes. Bruised, not broken, but still.”
“Oh my gosh.”
“She was very understanding about it. Said it was an accident. But I saw the way she looked at me afterward.” He shakes his head solemnly. “I’m a danger on the dance floor, Emmie. A genuine menace.”
I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts. “We are never dancing.”
“Agreed.”
“What if there’s dancing at our wedding?”
The words slip out before I can stop them. I freeze, horrified.
Our wedding! Why did I say our wedding? It’s the first date. The FIRST DATE. Way to play it cool, Emmie.
But Crew doesn’t tense up. Doesn’t pull away. He just looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Then I’ll take lessons,” he says quietly. “So I don’t break your toes.”
My heart stutters.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We stare at each other. The moment stretches, heavy with everything we’re not saying.
I snuggle closer to him, tucking myself under his arm. The wine is warming me from the inside, and the string lights are soft, and the stars are scattered above us like a tapestry.
“I like this,” I say.
“The wine?”
“Being with you.” I chuckle.
His arm tightens around me. “I like it too.”
We lapse into comfortable silence. The city hums below us—distant traffic, the occasional siren—but up here it feels like we’re in our own world. Separate from everything. Safe.
“Emmie.”
“Hmm?”
“I’m not good at this.”
I look up at him. “At what?”
“Words. Saying what I mean.” He’s staring at the sky, not at me, and I can see him struggling. “I spent so long not letting myself want things. Not letting myself hope. And now I want—” He stops. Swallows. “I want everything. With you. And that terrifies me.”
“Crew—”
“But I’m done running.” He finally looks at me, and his eyes are raw. Vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen. “I’m done being scared. I want this. I want you. Not just tonight. Not just this week. I want—”
“The whole thing,” I finish softly. “Sunday dinners and Christmas mornings and someone who chooses you every single day.”
“Yeah.” His voice is rough. “All of it.”
I set down my wine glass and shift until I’m straddling him, my hands on his chest, my face inches from his.
“I want that too,” I tell him. “I’ve wanted it since you handed me that ridiculous seventeen-page roommate agreement.”
“We’d only just met.”
“What can I say? I have a thing for emotionally unavailable men with control issues.”
He huffs a laugh. “Lucky me.”
“Very lucky.” I lean down and kiss him, soft and slow. “So what now?”
He’s quiet for a moment, his hands settling on my hips. “I want—” He stops. Tries again. “Fuck. I’m not good at this.”
“Just say it.” I touch his cheek, stroking the stubbled skin.
He takes a breath. “I want to take you to bed. I want to take my time with you. I want to learn every sound you make and every way you like to be touched.” His grip tightens on my hips. “But I don’t know how to say that without sounding like—”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m only interested in one thing. Because I’m not. I want everything. But right now, I also really want—”
I can’t help my smile. “I want that too.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Suddenly, he stands, lifts me, and tosses me over one shoulder like an absolute caveman and starts walking toward the exit as I laugh and bounce against his shoulder.