Page 148 of The Wild Card

Yes.

EMMIE.

I KNOW.

I toss the phone onto the nightstand and pull the covers over my head.

Tomorrow. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.

* * *

Tomorrow, he’s gone before I wake up.

I shuffle into the kitchen at nine, still in my pajamas, and find a Post-it note on the coffee maker.

Early shift. Didn’t want to wake you. —C

That’s it. No “let’s talk later.” No “this weekend was amazing.” Just his initials and the ghost of his handwriting.

I make coffee, feed Murphy, clean out his litter box, and try not to spiral.

It’s fine. He had work. He’s busy. This doesn’t mean anything.

Except it feels like something. It feels like the distance creeping back in, the walls going up, the careful avoidance we perfected over the past two months.

Stop, I tell myself. You’re being ridiculous.

But the anxiety gnaws at me all morning as I shower, dress, and head downtown to meet my agent for lunch.

* * *

Rachel Boyce is a force of nature, a no-nonsense New Yorker who’s in Dallas for the week for some romance con thing I have no clue about.

Forty-five, dark hair streaked with early gray, always in blazers that mean business. When I queried my first cookbook three years ago, she was the only agent who responded—and she responded loudly. A phone call at 7 AM, her voice cutting through my sleepy confusion: “This is good. This is really good. I want to represent you, and I don’t say that often.”

She wasn’t lying. She doesn’t say much she doesn’t mean.

“You look like hell,” she announces as I slide into the booth at the Tex-Mex place she insists on every time she’s in town. “Have you been sleeping? You need to sleep. I can’t sell books for a zombie.”

“Good to see you too, Rachel.”

“I’m serious. You’ve got bags under your eyes.” She flags down a waiter and orders chips and queso without looking at the menu, then barrels on before I can respond. “Anyway. We have things to discuss. The publisher is thrilled with the manuscript. Thrilled. Marketing is already ramping up.”

“That’s good.”

“It’s great. Pre-orders are strong.” She leans forward, tapping the table for emphasis. “And they love the dedication. ‘The grumpy man who taught me that love doesn’t have to be perfect to be real.’ Very intriguing. Very marketable. They want to play it up—the mystery angle. Who is this grumpy man? People will eat it up.”

I shift in my seat. “It’s not really a mystery. It’s just… personal.”

“Personal sells, Emmie. Personal is the whole brand.” She studies me. “So? Is he real? This grumpy man?”

I nearly choke on my water.

“It’s marketing gold is what it is.” She waves down a waiter and orders for both of us without consulting the menu. “Now. We need to discuss the book tour. Ten cities, starting in Dallas, obviously. LA. Chicago. New York. Maybe Austin—you have Texas roots, yes? We’ll play that up. Hometown girl makes good.”

“Rachel—”

“And interviews. So many interviews. Everyone wants to talk about the inspiration behind the book. The mysterious grumpy man.” She leans forward, eyes glittering. “Is there a story there? Something juicy we can use?”