Chapter Eight
Happy Hour
Crew
I don’t do happy hour. Never have. The noise, the crowds, and the forced socialization after eight hours of already being around people—it’s not my idea of a good time.
But Foster’s been on my case all week about “acting like a normal human,” and Josh practically begged, so here I am, sitting in a booth at O’Malley’s, nursing a club soda while they work through a pitcher of beer.
“So.” Foster slides his phone across the table, screen up. “Want to explain this?”
It’s Instagram. Emmie’s account. There, front and center, is a photo of us on the couch—her tucked under my arm and smiling at the camera. Murphy’s sprawled across our laps like we’re one little happy family.
She posted it last night with the caption: Movie night with my favorite grump. He pretends to hate rom-coms, but I caught him smiling during the airport scene.
I didn’t know she took that photo. I also didn’t smile during the airport scene; I was grimacing at the logistical impossibility of someone making it through TSA that fast.
“It’s for the arrangement,” I say. “Social media presence. Part of the deal.”
“Uh-huh.” Foster grins. “You look real comfortable for someone faking it.”
“I was tolerating it.”
“You were practically cuddling.”
“It was contractual cuddling.”
Josh’s head swivels between us like he’s watching a tennis match. “Wait, what? Arrangement? Contractual cuddling?” His voice pitches up. “Crew Jensen has a GIRLFRIEND?”
The table next to us glances over. Great.
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“It’s hilarious,” Foster corrects. “He put a fake dating clause in his roommate agreement, and she signed it without reading.”
Josh’s jaw drops. “You did what?”
“It made sense at the time.”
“Oh, this is going to be amazing.” Josh is grinning now, delighted by this information. “I thought you were, like, a monk. Everyone thinks you’re a monk.”
“I’m not a monk.”
“You turned down Ramirez from forensics. She’s hot.”
My phone buzzes. It’s Emmie.
Emmie: hey, still at happy hour? sadie bailed on me and i’m bored. can i crash?
I stare at the message. This is probably a bad idea. Introducing her to Foster and Josh in a social setting, where alcohol is involved and questions will be asked—
“Is that her?” Foster cranes his neck to see my screen. “Tell her to come. I want to meet the woman brave enough to agree to date you.”
“That’s not—”
“Tell her.” He kicks me under the table. “Come on. You need to practice being believable anyway, right? Consider this a test run.”
He has a point. I hate that he has a point.
Emmie: be there in 20, she responds before I can overthink it. save me a seat!
Twenty-three minutes later, the door swings open, and there she is.
Emmie’s wearing jeans that hug her hips and a green sweater that makes her eyes look more gold than hazel. Her hair’s down, tumbling over her shoulders in loose waves, and she’s got that smile on—the one that makes her whole face light up like she’s genuinely happy to see everyone in the room.
She spots our table and waves, weaving through the crowd.
I watch Foster’s gaze track her as she walks. Down, then up. Lingering a second too long on the curve of her ass in those jeans.
Something hot and ugly flares in my chest. I want to reach across the table and break his nose. Which is insane. This is fake. She’s not actually mine. Foster can look at whoever he wants. It doesn’t matter.
“Hey!” Emmie slides into the booth next to me, close enough that her thigh presses against mine. She smells like vanilla and something citrusy, and I have to actively stop myself from leaning into it. “Sorry I’m late. Couldn’t find parking.”
“Emmie, this is Foster.” I gesture across the table. “My partner. And Josh. The rookie.”
“The girlfriend.” Foster extends a hand, grinning. “I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you, which is very on-brand for this guy.”
“Sounds about right.” She shakes his hand, then Josh’s. “I’m Emmie. And I’m going to need you to tell me every embarrassing thing you know about this man.”
“How long do you have?” Foster asks, smirking.
“All night.”
“Don’t encourage him,” I say.
“He meal preps on Sundays,” Foster offers. “Same five meals. Every week.”
“I’ve seen the containers.” Emmie grins. “Little labels and everything.”
“Efficiency isn’t a personality flaw,” I mutter.
Foster snorts. Then his elbow jabs into my side—sharp, deliberate.
I turn to glare at him. “What?”
He jerks his chin toward Emmie, then toward the bar. His eyebrows do something complicated that I think is supposed to communicate an entire sentence.
It takes me a second.
Oh.
Drinks. Boyfriends get their girlfriends drinks. Right.
“Emmie.” I clear my throat. “Did you want something to drink?”
“Oh, sure.” She shifts to face me, tucking one leg under herself.
“Okay, so—margarita. But not frozen, on the rocks. Salt on the rim, but only half, because full salt is too much. And if they have mezcal, do that instead of tequila. Oh, and ask for Cointreau, not triple sec.” She pauses.
“Actually, wait. Do they have Tajín here? For the rim? That would be better. But if not, just the salt. On half.”
I stare at her, brain processing. I wait to see if there’s more.
“That’s it,” she says brightly.
“Mezcal. Rocks. Half rim. Cointreau. Possibly Tajín.”
“You got it.” She beams at me like I just solved a complex equation.
I head to the bar, mentally rehearsing her order, and hear Foster say behind me, “He’s so out of his depth.”
Emmie’s response is barely audible, but I catch it anyway, “I know. It’s kind of adorable.”
I don’t know what to do with that information, so I file it away and order the drink.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
The bartender gives me a look when I relay the order but doesn’t argue. While I wait, I glance back at the table. Emmie’s leaned in, telling some story with her hands, and both Foster and Josh are watching her with matching grins.
She fits. That’s what strikes me. She just… fits. Like she’s known them for years instead of minutes. I don’t fit anywhere. Never have. But Emmie walks into a room, and suddenly she belongs there.
I bring her the drink, and she takes a sip, eyes closing in appreciation. “Oh, that’s good. You did good.”
“I just repeated what you said.”
“And you remembered all of it. That’s impressive.”
“I have a good memory.”
“For complicated drink orders?”
“For everything.”
She holds my gaze for a second, something flickering in her expression. Then Foster clears his throat, and the moment breaks.
“So,” he says, leaning back. “The charity gala this weekend. You ready?”
Emmie straightens. “Oh, right! I’ve been meaning to ask about that. What’s the dress code? Is it like, fancy fancy or business fancy? Because those are very different things, and I need to know how many sequins we’re talking.”
“It’s black tie,” I say. “Formal.”
Her eyes go wide. “I’ll need a new gown. Do you own a tuxedo?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you do.” She shakes her head, smiling. “Okay, I need to go shopping. What color is your tux? Black, I assume? Should we coordinate? Is that cheesy? I feel like that’s cheesy but also maybe expected for a couple?”
“It’s black.”
“So I can wear whatever?”
“Within reason.” I lift one eyebrow.
“What does ‘within reason’ mean?”
Foster snorts. “It means he doesn’t want you showing up in a neon bodycon dress.”
“I wasn’t going to wear neon.” She pauses. “Probably.”
“Wear whatever you want,” I say, and I mean it. She could show up in a paper bag and still be the most interesting person in the room. Not that I’m going to tell her that.
“Who’s going to be there?” she asks. “Like, who do I need to impress?”
“My supervisor, Daniels. The one who wants to ship me to Alaska.” I take a sip of my club soda. “His wife will be there too. Margaret. She’s… observant.”
“Observant how?”
“She’ll notice if we don’t seem like a real couple.”
Emmie nods slowly, processing. “So we need to be, what, affectionate? Comfortable with each other?”
“Basically.”
“We should practice.” She says it casually, like she’s suggesting we run lines for a play. “Before Saturday. Get used to, you know, touching each other.”
Foster chokes on his beer.
“Not like that,” she clarifies, cheeks flushing. “I meant holding hands. Standing close. Couple stuff.”
“Right,” I say. “Couple stuff.”
“We haven’t had any physical contact before.” She’s talking faster now, the way she does when she’s nervous. “And now we have to be all couple-y in front of your boss? In public? With people watching and judging?”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“What if we look awkward? What if they can tell it’s fake?”
“They won’t.”
“How do you know?”
I don’t, actually. I have no idea if we can pull this off.
But she’s looking at me with those big hazel eyes, worry creasing her forehead, and I hear myself say, “Because we’re going to practice.
Every day until Saturday. By the time we walk into that gala, touching you is going to feel like second nature. ”
The words hang in the air between us. Shit. Why did I say that?
Foster’s eyebrows have climbed somewhere near his hairline.
Josh is staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.
Emmie’s cheeks have gone pink. “Oh. Okay. That’s, um. Yeah. That’s a good plan.”
“It’s a practical plan,” I correct, though my voice comes out rougher than intended.
“Right. Practical.” She takes a long sip of her margarita. “Very practical.”
Foster kicks me under the table again. When I look at him, he mouths, You’re so screwed.
He’s not wrong.
But watching Emmie laugh at something Josh says, her shoulder still pressed warm against mine, I’m starting to think being screwed might not be the worst thing in the world.