Chapter Nine
Girl’s Night
Emmie
“Okay, start from the beginning.” Sadie shoves a container of noodles at me and tucks her legs underneath her on the couch. “And don’t leave anything out. I want every single detail about this insane arrangement you’ve gotten yourself into.”
We’re having dinner at her place tonight—pad thai—and I’m basically spilling the tea on the current state of my life. “It’s not that insane.”
“You signed a seventeen-page contract without reading it and accidentally agreed to be some guy’s fake girlfriend.”
“When you say it like that—”
“There’s no other way to say it, babe.” She stabs a piece of chicken with her chopsticks. “Spill.”
So I spill.
I tell her about the look on Crew’s face when he told me about Alaska, his therapy, and why he can’t leave Dallas.
I share stories about our Chinese food dinner and meeting his friends at happy hour.
Then, I take a long drink from my wine glass and tell her about the negotiation—the boyfriend duties I added, including the mandatory cuddling clause that made him look like he was about to have a stroke.
Sadie grins. “You demanded cuddles? In a legal document?”
“Fair is fair. If I have to hold his hand in public, he can snuggle with me once a week.” I twirl noodles around my chopsticks.
“I figured if I’m fake dating someone, I might as well get something out of it.
There’s a real cuddling deficit in the world, Sadie.
I’m solving it one grumpy FBI agent at a time. ”
She snorts. “How did he react?”
I scrunch my nose. “Like I’d suggested we rob a bank together. He tried to say no, and I told him the deal was off.”
“Power move.” Sadie shakes her head.
“He wanted ten minutes. I wanted thirty. We compromised.”
“This is the weirdest relationship I’ve ever heard of.”
“It’s not a relationship. It’s an arrangement.”
“Sure, babe.” Sadie grabs her phone and holds it up. “I saw the Instagram photo. And I have questions. Because he looked hot but also kind of terrifying? Like a serial killer who lifts.”
“He’s not a serial killer.”
“I said who lifts.” She shrugs. “He looks like he could either protect me from a home invasion or be the home invasion.”
“That’s… weirdly accurate.”
“So what’s he like? Up close and personal? He’s hot, obviously. But what does the photo not show? Give me the details. The vibes. The energy.”
“The energy?”
“You know what I mean. Is he intense? Brooding? Does he smell good? These are important questions.”
I think about him in the kitchen this morning, reaching over me to grab a mug from the top shelf.
His chest against my back, his arm brushing mine, the smell of him—clean laundry and something warm and male underneath, like cedar or sandalwood.
I’d frozen with a silicone spatula in my hand, completely useless, while he said “excuse me” in that low voice, and I forgot how words worked.
I feel my cheeks warm. “He’s, um… tall.”
“Tall.”
“Very tall. Like six-four. With these, um, broad shoulders. Dark hair, that he keeps short. And gray eyes that seem to see right through you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And he has this scar through his eyebrow that he won’t talk about.
His jaw is very…” I gesture vaguely. “Defined. And his forearms are ridiculous. When he rolls up his sleeves, he has these veins that run under his skin that are sort of… distracting. I didn’t know I was a forearm person, but apparently I am now.
And I never knew veins—” I clear my throat.
Sadie grins. “So he’s hot.”
“He’s—” I sigh. “Yeah. He’s hot. In a growly, grumpy, probably-hasn’t-smiled-since-2019 kind of way.”
“The best kind.” She sets down her noodles. “Does he carry handcuffs?”
“What?”
“He’s FBI, right? Tactical unit? Does he carry handcuffs? Does he have a gun? Has he ever tackled someone?”
“I don’t—why are you asking this?” I snort.
“Because I’m living vicariously through you, and I need details.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Has he ever pinned someone against a wall? Has he pinned you against a wall?”
“Sadie.”
“What! It’s a valid question. You’re living with the man. Things happen.”
“Things are not happening. It’s fake. The whole thing is fake.”
“Mm-hmm.” She doesn’t look convinced. “So… on a scale of one to ten, how sculpted are we talking?”
I think about Crew standing in his doorway that first night, contract in hand, all bare chest and gray sweatpants and confused expression.
That fine dusting of dark hair on his chest. The way my brain had short-circuited.
The way I’d stared at his abs like they held the answers to life’s greatest mysteries.
“Eleven,” I admit. “Maybe twelve.”
Sadie makes a sound that’s somewhere between a squeal and a cackle. “I knew it. I knew there was something there.”
“There’s nothing there. He’s my roommate. We have an arrangement.”
“An arrangement that includes mandatory cuddling.”
“It’s… scheduled. And clinical. And definitely not romantic.”
“You’re cuddling a hot FBI agent on a weekly basis, and you’re telling me there’s no romantic component?”
“Correct.”
“Emmie.” She blinks at me.
“What?”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
I shove more noodles into my mouth to avoid responding.
The thing is, she’s not wrong. The lines are already getting blurry, and we haven’t even started the practice-touching thing yet. At happy hour, Crew said we needed to get comfortable with each other before the gala—that by Saturday, touching me should feel like second nature.
The way he’d said it, all low and serious, had made my stomach do something complicated.
“Okay, new topic.” I set down my container. “I need a dress.”
“For the gala?”
“For the gala. It’s black tie. Floor-length. And I have approximately zero dollars in my bank account, so I was hoping you might have something I could borrow?”
Sadie’s eyes light up. This is her love language—playing dress-up with her closet, which is roughly the size of a small studio apartment.
“Oh, we’re doing this.” She’s already on her feet, pulling me toward her bedroom. “I have options. So many options.”
Her closet is a disaster in the best way. Sequins, silk, and velvet are crammed onto hangers, shoes are piled in the corner, and a jewelry box overflows on the shelf. It’s the exact opposite of Crew’s minimalist aesthetic, and I feel instantly at home.
“Floor-length, you said?” She’s already rifling through dresses. “What color? Any color? Should you coordinate with him?”
“His tux is black. So… anything goes?”
“Perfect. That means I can put you in this.” She pulls out a deep emerald gown with a slit up the side and thin straps. “Try it on.”
I strip down and immediately regret the pad thai—every delicious, bloated noodle sitting in my stomach like a betrayal. My reflection doesn’t help: a sports bra the color of a Band-Aid, gray boy shorts, and enough carbs in my system to fuel a marathon I’ll never run.
“Ready?” Sadie asks, holding up the dress.
My food baby and I exchange a look. We are not ready.
“Suck it in,” Sadie instructs, yanking the zipper.
“I’m sucking.” I hold my breath like my life depends on it. “Why didn’t you stop me at the second container?”
“You were stress-eating. I’m not a monster.”
The zipper makes it up, barely, and I turn to face the mirror.
Oh no.
The fabric is gorgeous—silky, emerald, hugging every curve I have—but my underwear situation is a disaster. My nude sports bra is visible through the thin straps, and my boy shorts are creating a panty line that could be seen from outer space.
“Okay, the dress is a yes,” Sadie says. “The granny panties are a hard no.”
“They’re not granny panties. They’re comfortable.”
“They’re visible through the slit. You need a thong. And one of those sticky bra things.”
“I hate those. They never stay.”
Sadie only shrugs and grins at me in the mirror. “You’ll deal.”
I turn, looking at myself from different angles. The green makes my eyes pop, and the slit shows off my leg without being too much. I look like someone who belongs at a black-tie gala. Someone who might actually be dating an FBI agent.
“Your roommate is going to lose his mind,” Sadie says.
“That’s not the goal.”
“Maybe it should be.”
“Sadie.”
“I’m just saying.” She adjusts one of the straps. “You’re hot. He’s hot. You’re already fake dating. Would it really be so bad if it became… not fake?” She winks once for good measure.
I stare at my reflection, thinking about Crew’s rare half-smile, the way he remembered my entire complicated drink order, and the soft look he gets when he talks about Murphy, like he can’t believe something loves him back.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “He’s so closed off. I don’t even know if he’s capable of a real relationship. He told me he’s never had one. Ever.”
“Never?”
“Never. No girlfriends. Just occasional hookups. He said he doesn’t know how to let people in.”
Sadie is quiet for a moment. “But he let you in.”
“What do you mean?”
“He told you about the therapy. About his anxiety. The foster care stuff.” She meets my eyes in the mirror. “That’s not nothing, Em. He trusted you with the real stuff.”
I hadn’t thought about it that way.
“He also tricked me into a fake dating contract,” I point out.
“True. That was shady as hell.” She shrugs. “But also kind of genius? In a desperate, emotionally constipated way?”
“Are you defending him now?”
“I’m just saying he’s clearly not good at feelings. But he’s trying. Maybe that should count for something.” She steps back, surveying the dress one more time. “Okay, this is the one. You’re wearing this. No arguments.”
I look at myself again. The woman in the mirror looks confident and put-together—like someone who could walk into a room full of federal agents and pretend to be in love with a man she barely knows.
Fake it ‘til you make it, I guess.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, turning to face Sadie.
“Always.”
“How do you know when something’s real? Like, if you’re pretending to have feelings for someone, how do you know when you stop pretending?”
She considers this, leaning against the closet doorframe. “I think… if you have to ask, it’s probably already real. At least a little.”
That’s not the answer I was hoping for.
“Great,” I mutter. “That’s super helpful.”
“I try.” She grins. “Now take that off before you wrinkle it, and tell me more about the touching practice. Is he just going to hold your hand? Put his arm around you? What exactly are we working with here?”
“I don’t know. He said we’d start tomorrow. Build up to being comfortable by Saturday.”
“Build up.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “That sounds promising.”
“It sounds terrifying.”
“Same thing, sometimes.” She helps me unzip the dress. “You like him, don’t you?”
I step out of the fabric and reach for my jeans, avoiding her gaze. “I don’t know what I feel. It’s only been a week.”
I think about Crew in his kitchen, allowing himself to enjoy crab rangoon.
Crew at happy hour, forgetting he was supposed to offer me a drink until Foster elbowed him.
Crew standing in his doorway at midnight, holding out a contract like a peace offering, his ears turning pink when I stared at his chest.
He’s awkward and intense and has more walls than a medieval fortress.
But he’s also kind in ways he doesn’t seem to notice. Honest in ways that catch me off guard. And when he looks at me—really looks—I feel like he’s seeing something no one else does.
“Maybe,” I say finally. “Maybe I like him a little.”
Sadie’s smile is insufferably smug. “I knew it.”
“I’m leaving now.”
“You’re taking the dress.”
“I’m taking the dress and leaving.”
Sadie follows me to the door, helping me carry the gown in its garment bag. “Keep me updated, okay? I want to know how the cuddling goes, the touching practice, and basically everything.”
“You’re living vicariously through me.”
“Obviously. My love life is boring. Yours is a romantic comedy waiting to happen.”
I sling the garment bag over my shoulder. “If this is a rom-com, I’m definitely the mess of a main character who drives the audience crazy.”
Sadie grins. “That’s the best kind.”
I head home with a borrowed dress and too many thoughts, wondering what exactly I’ve gotten myself into—and if maybe, just maybe, I don’t want to get out.