Page 109 of The Wild Card

I’m ending things because I’m falling in love with you and I’m terrified that if I don’t stop this now, I’ll never recover when you leave.

Too honest.

I pull into my parking spot and sit there for a long moment, hands gripping the steering wheel.

I can do this. I’ve done harder things. I’ve cleared buildings full of armed suspects. I’ve testified in federal court. I’ve survived eleven foster homes and a medical discharge and years of therapy to get my brain to function like a semi-normal human being.

I can break up with my fake girlfriend.

Even if it breaks me in the process.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Termination Clause

Emmie

I know something’s wrong the second he walks through the door.

Crew has tells. Most people wouldn’t notice them—he’s already so controlled, so practiced at keeping his face blank. But I’ve spent almost two months learning him, cataloging every micro-expression, every shift in posture. I know what he looks like when he’s annoyed (jaw tight, eyes slightly narrowed), when he’s amused (the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth), and when he’s overwhelmed (hands flexing, gaze going distant).

Right now, he looks like a man walking to his own execution.

“Hey.” I set down my laptop—I’ve been working on the book all day, words flowing easier than they have in months. “How was work?”

“Fine.”

He doesn’t move from the entryway. Doesn’t take off his jacket. Doesn’t come over to steal a bite of whatever I’m snacking on, the way he’s started doing lately.

“Crew?”

“We need to talk.”

Four words. Four words that have never, in the history of human communication, preceded anything good.

“Okay.” I close my laptop slowly. “What’s going on?”

He still won’t look at me. He’s staring at a spot somewhere over my left shoulder, his posture rigid, his hands shoved in his pockets.

“The transfer,” he says. “It’s off the table. Someone else took the Anchorage position.”

“That’s—” I break into a smile. “Crew, that’s great! That’s what you wanted, right? You get to stay. We should celebrate. I can make—”

“Emmie.”

The way he says my name stops me cold.

“The arrangement,” he continues, and his voice sounds wrong. Flat. Rehearsed. “It was only supposed to last until the transfer situation was resolved. That was the deal.”

The smile dies on my face.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying the situation is resolved.” He finally meets my eyes, and there’s nothing there. No warmth, no softness, none of the vulnerability I’ve seen glimpses of over the past few weeks. Just… nothing. “Which means our arrangement has reached its natural conclusion.”

Natural conclusion?

The words echo in my head, hollow and clinical.