Chapter Four
Restless
Crew
I can’t sleep. Not that it’s unusual. Insomnia and I are old friends, the kind who don’t actually like each other but keep showing up at the same parties.
Most nights, I lie here and run through case files in my head, count backward from a thousand, or do the breathing exercises Dr. Reyes taught me.
Tonight, none of that is working.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her.
Emmie, standing in my kitchen with a wooden spoon in her hand, pointing it at me like a weapon. The way she said “non-negotiable” as if she actually expected me to listen. The way I did listen, which is maybe the most disturbing part.
I ate pasta tonight. Carbs. Cheese. Things that are absolutely not on my meal plan. And it was so good I almost groaned out loud.
I roll onto my side and punch my pillow into a different shape. It doesn’t help.
Now I’m thinking about the way she smiled when I took that first bite. Like she’d won something. Like making me eat was some kind of victory.
It was, I guess. No one has made me deviate from my routine in years.
I think about her laugh when Murphy showed her his belly. The way her whole face lit up, hazel eyes going bright and warm.
The way she smelled: vanilla and something citrusy—probably from whatever she uses in her hair. It hit me when she leaned across the table for the parmesan, and I held my breath like an idiot.
Climb you like a tree.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
She called me eye candy. Said women probably want to—
Nope. Not going there.
But my body’s already gone there, apparently, because I’m half-hard against the mattress, and this is absolutely not happening. I’m not going to lie here and think about my roommate—in any capacity that involves the word “climb.”
I think about baseball. Tax returns. The time Foster made me watch a four-hour documentary about bridge construction.
Nothing works.
Now I’m remembering the curve of her thighs when she crouched down to pet Murphy. The strip of skin between her shirt and waistband when she reached for a glass from the top shelf.
I’ve been so focused on control, on routine, on keeping everything in its proper place, that I forgot what it feels like to want something. Someone.
How long has it been since I’ve had sex?
I do the math. Eight months? Nine? There was a woman I met at a bar, a one-night thing that was efficient and forgettable.
Before that, another year of nothing. I don’t do relationships.
Don’t do intimacy. Don’t let people close enough to see the mess underneath the surface.
It’s just easier that way. Always has been.
My hand drifts down before I can stop it, pressing the heel of my palm against my cock through my shorts. Just pressure. Just enough to take the edge off.
No.
I yank my hand back and stuff it under my head.
This is insane. She’s been here one day—less than twelve hours. And I’m lying in bed like a teenager, worked up over her smiling at me and making pasta.
I throw off the covers and sit up. This is ridiculous.
I need to do something. Anything. Get out of my head before I lose what’s left of my mind.
The contract.
She needs her copy for her records. That’s a legitimate reason to knock on her door at—I check my phone—9:58 PM. Totally reasonable. Important legal documents shouldn’t wait until morning.
I’m already out of bed, grabbing the envelope from my desk and moving down the hallway before I can talk myself out of it.
I knock. Three sharp raps.
There’s a pause. Shuffling. Then the door swings open.
And my brain stops working.
She’s wearing sleep shorts. Tiny ones—the kind that barely qualify as clothing—showing off legs that go on forever, even though she’s barely five-four. A tank top that’s thin enough for me to see the outline of—don’t look—and her hair’s down, tumbling over her shoulders in messy waves.
But that’s not what kills me.
It’s the reading glasses—thick purple frames perched on her nose. And the tube socks, slouchy and mismatched; one pulled up to her calf and one bunched around her ankle.
I have no idea why that should be hot.
It is.
“Crew?” She blinks up at me, and I watch her gaze drop from my face to my chest and stick there.
Right. I’m not wearing a shirt.
I forgot about that.
Her lips part slightly. Her cheeks flush pink. And for a long moment, neither of us says anything. I just watch her taking in the view—my wide, muscled chest and the fine dusting of dark hair covering it.
I should speak. I should hand her the envelope and leave. I should do literally anything besides stand here like a statue, watching the way her throat moves when she swallows.
“I, um.” She drags her eyes back up to mine. It takes visible effort. “Hi?”
“Contract,” I manage. My voice comes out rough. I clear my throat and try again. “The, uh, roommate agreement. Your copy. For your records.”
I thrust the envelope toward her, probably with more force than necessary.
She takes it, fingers brushing mine—just barely. Just enough to send a jolt of heat up my arm.
“Right.” She clutches the envelope to her chest. “Thanks. That’s very, um. Official of you.”
“You should have your own copy.”
“No, yeah, totally. Important legal documents.” She nods, then seems to realize she’s still staring at my chest and jerks her gaze to the wall behind me. “So. Did you need anything else, or…?”
Yes. I need a cold shower and possibly a lobotomy.
“No,” I say. “That’s it. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Neither of us moves.
Her glasses are slightly crooked. I want to reach out and fix them. I want to lift her into my arms and feel those legs wrap around my waist, tube socks and all. I want to do a lot of things I shouldn’t be thinking about.
“Okay then.” She steps back into her room. “See you tomorrow?”
“Sure. Tomorrow.”
She closes the door.
I stand in the hallway for a full thirty seconds, staring at the wood grain, before I force myself to walk back to my room.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
I am in complete control.
* * *
I barely sleep.
By 5 AM, I give up trying. I go through my morning routine on autopilot—run, shower, shave, protein shake that tastes like cardboard after last night’s pasta—and I’m at the office by seven.
The gym is empty at this hour, so I spend an hour punishing myself with weights, trying to burn off whatever the hell is happening in my head.
It doesn’t work.
By nine, I’m at my desk, pretending to review case files while my brain replays the image of Emmie in those tiny shorts and tube socks on a loop. The way she looked at my chest like she wanted to—
“Jensen.”
I look up. Lieutenant Daniels stands in the doorway of my office, coffee in hand, his expression unreadable.
“Sir.”
“Walk with me.”
It’s not a request.
I follow him down the hall to his office, that familiar knot of dread tightening in my stomach. He closes the door behind us and gestures for me to sit.
“So,” he says, settling into his chair. “Have you given any more thought to Alaska?”
I was hoping for more time—at least a few weeks to figure out how to handle this. But Daniels has never been patient, and apparently, neither has fate.
“I have,” I say carefully. “And I appreciate the opportunity. But I can’t take the transfer.”
His eyebrows rise. “Can’t?”
“I have ties here.” The words come out smooth and practiced. “By that, I mean I’m in a serious relationship.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Daniels stares at me like I just told him I’m secretly a professional clown. “A relationship.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You. Crew Jensen. Are in a relationship.”
“That’s correct.”
He leans back, studying me with the same intensity he brings to interrogating suspects. “Since when?”
“It’s, uh, fairly recent. But serious.” I think about Emmie’s smile, the warmth in her eyes when she looks at that damn cat, the way she called me eye candy like it was obvious, like everyone could see it. “She’s… she’s great. She makes me eat pasta.”
That last part slips out before I can stop it.
Daniels blinks. “Pasta,” he repeats.
“She’s a cookbook author. She cooks.” I’m rambling now, which is not something I do, but apparently, Emmie Marshall has broken my brain in multiple ways. “She’s warm. Kind. The sort of person who brings cookies to a first meeting because she stress-bakes.”
Daniels is quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face. “Well, I’ll be damned. Jensen finally found someone who can put up with him.”
The relief that floods through me is almost embarrassing. “Yes, sir.”
“I’d like to meet her.”
And there it is.
“Of course,” I hear myself say. “That can be arranged.”
“The charity gala is next weekend. You’re bringing her?”
The charity gala. Three hundred people, formal attire, the entire department plus spouses and significant others. The kind of event I usually avoid at all costs.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He nods, looking genuinely pleased. “And Jensen? Talk to her about Alaska. You never know—an adventure might be exactly what you two need. Fresh start, new city, building a life together.” He spreads his hands. “Think about it.”
I nod, stand, and make it all the way to the door before he calls out again.
“Jensen.”
I turn.
“I’m happy for you,” he says. “You deserve something good.”
The words hit harder than they should. I nod again, not trusting my voice, and escape into the hallway.
Foster is waiting for me at my desk, because of course he is. “You look like you just swallowed a grenade,” he says. “What happened?”
“Daniels wants to meet my girlfriend.”
“Your what now?” Foster’s coffee cup freezes halfway to his mouth. “Since when do you have a girlfriend?”
“Since I told him I did. Just now. To get out of the Alaska thing.”
He sets the cup down slowly. “Okay, back up. You lied to Daniels about having a girlfriend?”
“Not exactly.” I scrub a hand over my face. “Remember your fake girlfriend idea? The roommate thing?”
“The thing I was joking about? That you were absolutely not supposed to actually do?”
“I found a roommate. She moved in yesterday.”
Foster stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “And?”
“And I may have… added a clause to the roommate agreement. A girlfriend clause. Outlining the terms of a fake relationship arrangement.”
The silence stretches between us.
“You put it in writing,” he says slowly.
“It seemed practical at the time.”
“And she agreed to this?”
I don’t answer.
Foster’s eyes go wide. “She doesn’t know.”
“She skimmed the contract. Signed without reading the whole thing.”
“She—” He breaks off, pressing his fist to his mouth. His shoulders start shaking. “Damn, this keeps getting better.”
“It’s not funny.”
“It’s extremely funny.” He’s fully laughing now, his shoulders still shaking. “You tricked some poor woman into being your fake girlfriend, and now Daniels wants to meet her?”
“At the charity gala. Next weekend.”
Foster loses it completely. He has to grab the edge of my desk to stay upright. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“I’m glad my impending doom amuses you.”
“Impending doom?” He wipes his eyes. “Try impending murder. When she finds out, she’s going to kill you. Slowly. With whatever kitchen utensil is closest.”
“She’s a cookbook author. She has a lot of kitchen utensils.”
That sets him off again. “You have to tell her.”
“I know.”
“Like, today. You have to tell her today.”
“I know.”
I think about Emmie’s face when she reads Section 7 of that contract. The betrayal. The fury. The way she’ll probably throw something at my head. Honestly, I’ll deserve it.
Foster claps me on the shoulder. “It was nice knowing you, Jensen.”
I spend the rest of the day trying to figure out how to tell my new roommate that she accidentally agreed to be my fake girlfriend, that she needs to meet my boss in a week, and oh, by the way, he thinks we might want to move to Alaska together.
By the time I leave the office, I still don’t have a plan.
But I’m out of time.
Emmie Marshall is waiting at home, probably cooking something that smells amazing, completely unaware that her entire life is about to get a lot more complicated.
I just have to figure out how to tell her without getting murdered in the process.