Page 28 of The Wild Card

I open my mouth to point out that she could just buy a jar opener, but something tells me that’s not the point. I never imagined she’d negotiate, but opening jars for her isn’t exactly a hardship for me. “Fine.”

“Second: high shelves. You’re tall. I’m not. You reach things when I need them.”

I tip my chin, considering this. “That seems reasonable.”

“Third: my car makes noises sometimes. Weird noises.” She waves her hand vaguely. “When it does, you look at it and tell me whether I’m going to die.”

“I’m not a mechanic.”

“You don’t have to fix it. Just look at it with a serious expression and tell me if it’s a problem or if I can ignore it for another few months.”

I want to argue, but honestly? I’ll probably end up doing this anyway. “Fine.”

“Fourth: checking the locks.” Her voice shifts slightly, something softer underneath. “Sometimes I get anxious at night, and I need someone to check that everything’s locked. Even if it’s already locked. Even if it’s the third time.”

I understand that more than she knows. “Done.”

“Fifth: emergency extraction.” She smiles. “If I’m on a bad date and I text you an SOS, you call me with a fake crisis, and I leave.”

I consider this, and for some reason, the idea of Emmie on a date doesn’t sit well. “What kind of fake crisis?”

“I don’t know, be creative. The apartment is on fire. The cat is sick. My, um, grandmother needs emergency surgery.” She pauses. “Actually, don’t use the grandmother one. My mom would find out somehow, and then I’d have to explain why Nana isn’t actually in the hospital.”

“Noted.”

“Sixth: taste-testing. You have to taste everything I make. Even the disasters. And there’s an emphasis on the disasters part. Sometimes things go wrong, and I need someone to try it anyway and tell me why it tastes like sadness.”

“Tastes like sadness?”

“You’ll know it when you taste it.” She keeps writing. “Seventh: honest feedback. Even if it hurts. I don’t want you to just say everything is good because you’re being polite. I need real criticism.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

She looks up and narrows her eyes. “Wow. Was that an insult?”

“It was an acknowledgment that I’m not known for sugarcoating things.”

“Oh.” She turns back to her list, quiet, thinking. “Eighth: self-defense lessons.”

That one catches me off guard. “Self-defense?”

She waves one hand. “I’ve been meaning to learn. Sadie and I talked about taking a class, but we never got around to it. And now I’m living with an FBI tactical guy.” She shrugs. “Seems like a waste not to take advantage.”

The thought of teaching Emmie self-defense sends my mind to places it shouldn’t go. Close proximity. Physical contact. My hands on her body, showing her how to break a hold, how to throw her weight, how to—

“Sure,” I say, cutting off that train of thought. “I can do that.”

“Great.” She smiles, bright and warm, and my chest does something uncomfortable. “Ninth, and this one is very important.” She writes something down and then turns the notebook to face me.

MANDATORY CUDDLING SESSIONS.

I stare at the words and read them again. They don’t change.

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s non-negotiable.”

“It’s insane.” I push back from the table. “I don’t cuddle.”