Chapter Twelve #2
I don’t need Foster pointing it out.
“Stop staring at her.”
His mouth quirks. “I’m admiring. There’s a difference.”
“There’s not.”
He grins, clearly enjoying himself. “Relax. I’m not going to steal your fake girlfriend.” A pause. “Unless you want me to. Because if she’s too much woman for you—”
“She’s not.”
“—I’m happy to take her off your hands. You know, as a favor. Between friends.”
My jaw tightens. “That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.” He claps my shoulder again. “Come on. Let’s go say hi. I want to see you try to act like a normal boyfriend in front of our boss.”
Before I can stop him, he’s already walking toward her.
Emmie looks up as we approach, her smile widening when she sees me. Then she spots Foster and waves. “Hey! Happy hour guy.”
“That’s me.” Foster grins. “Though I prefer ‘devastatingly handsome work partner,’ if we’re being formal.”
“I’ll take it under consideration.” She’s already laughing, relaxed with him in a way that took me days to earn.
“You know,” Foster says, pulling out his phone, “we should exchange numbers. In case this one—” he jerks his thumb at me “—ever needs an intervention. Or you need someone to complain to.”
“I won’t need an intervention,” I mutter.
Emmie snorts, already typing her number into Foster’s phone. “Done. Use it wisely.”
“Oh, I will.” He pockets the phone with a satisfied look. “I’m going to send you every embarrassing story I have on this guy and there are many.”
“I’m counting on it.”
They’re grinning at each other now, and something hot prickles at the back of my neck. This is fine. My partner and my fake girlfriend exchanging numbers to bond over my shortcomings. It’s exactly how I wanted this evening to go.
“So.” Foster leans in, dropping his voice like they’re co-conspirators. “How’s Operation Fake Girlfriend going? He loosening up at all?”
“Marginally. He let me pick the movie last night.”
“Groundbreaking.”
“Right? He only complained twice.”
I stand there, arms crossed, while they discuss me like I’m not here.
“She’s good for you,” Foster says, finally acknowledging my existence. “I stand by what I said at happy hour. You’re punching above your weight class.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.” He turns back to Emmie, expression shifting. “Listen. You ever get tired of this one—if the brooding gets old, if he forgets how to use words—”
“Foster.”
“—just say the word.” He winks. “The offer stands.”
Emmie laughs. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Something dark twists in my gut. He’s joking. I know he’s joking. This is what Foster does—pokes and prods because he thinks it’s hilarious. But watching him lean into her space, watching her smile up at him, watching them have this easy thing that I can’t seem to manage—
It doesn’t feel like a joke. It feels like a threat.
“We should mingle.” I reach for Emmie’s elbow. “Daniels is watching.”
“Daniels is talking to the mayor,” Foster points out.
“Someone’s watching.”
“No one is—” He stops, studying my face. His grin widens. “Oh. I see what’s happening here.”
“Nothing’s happening.”
“You’re jealous.” Foster grins.
“I’m not jealous.”
“You’re absolutely jealous.” He looks delighted. “This is the best night of my life.”
“Goodbye, Foster.”
He backs off, hands raised. “Alright, alright. Far be it from me to get in the way of… whatever this is.” He disappears into the crowd, and I’m left with my hand on Emmie’s arm and something I refuse to name burning in my chest.
“You know he’s just messing with you, right?” She tilts her head, studying me. “The whole ‘take you off his hands’ thing.”
“I know.”
“You looked like you wanted to hit him.”
I don’t answer. Because yeah. I did. I still do.
Emmie’s quiet for a beat. Then she slips her hand into mine, fingers threading together, and squeezes. “For the record,” she says softly, “I’m not going anywhere.”
I look down at our joined hands. At the way her fingers fit between mine like they were meant to be there.
“Good,” I say.
And I mean it more than I have any right to.
“You think Daniels is buying it?”
“Yeah, it seem so.” I’m looking at her mouth. I can’t stop looking at her lips. “I just stood there. You charmed everyone.”
“Team effort.” She’s still smiling, still glowing, and she’s so close I can feel the warmth radiating off her skin. “We make a pretty good fake couple.”
Fake.
Right.
The word lands like a stone in my chest.
Because standing here with her hand in mine, her perfume in my lungs, her smile aimed at me like I’m someone worth smiling at—none of this feels fake. Not even close.
I want to kiss her.
The realization hits me with the force of a tactical breach.
I want to kiss her, and not for show, not for Daniels, not for anyone watching.
I want to kiss her because she’s Emmie, and she’s beautiful, and she made me laugh, and she held me while I told her about the foster homes, and all the broken pieces I usually keep hidden.
I want to kiss her because she makes me feel safe and calm… and she’s beautiful.
“Crew?” She’s watching me, brow furrowed. “Are you okay? You’re looking at me weird.”
“I’m fine.” I force myself to look away, to breathe, to remember that this is an arrangement. A contract. Nothing more. “Just tired.”
“We can leave if you want. We’ve made the rounds. Shown our faces.”
“Yeah. You’re right.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears. “Let’s go home.”
Home. Our place. Words that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow mean everything.
We say our goodbyes—hugs from Margaret, a firm handshake from Daniels, promises to confirm dinner plans—and then we’re in the car, the city lights sliding past the windows.
Emmie kicks off her heels with a groan. “My feet are going to hate me tomorrow.”
“You were incredible tonight.”
She looks over at me, surprised. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t have done that without you.”
“Sure you could have.” She pulls one leg up onto the seat, rubbing her ankle. “You would’ve just been miserable the whole time.”
“Exactly.”
She laughs, soft and tired, and leans her head against the window. “I had fun, actually. Your boss is nicer than I expected. And Margaret is hilarious. Did you know she used to be a prosecutor? She has stories.”
I listen to her talk, watching the way the streetlights play across her face, and I think about everything I’m not saying.
This doesn’t feel fake anymore.
I don’t want it to end.
But I don’t say any of it. Because I’m Crew Jensen, and I don’t know how to want things I can’t control. Wanting Emmie Marshall feels like the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done.
So I just drive.
And wish I were brave enough to kiss her.