Page 30 of The Wild Card

“Your face is doing something weird.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Where did your brain just go?”

“Nowhere.”

“Oh good grief.” Her nose wrinkles. “Ew. Gross. I meant non-sexual, Crew. Like a hug. A real one. Someone playing with your hair. Holding your hand just because.”

I open my mouth. Close it.

The silence stretches between us.

“I don’t remember,” I finally admit.

Something shifts in her expression. Not pity—I couldn’t handle pity—but something softer, sadder.

“That’s…” She shakes her head. “That’s not okay. Humans need touch. You can’t just go years without being touched and expect your brain to function normally.”

“I function fine.”

Her mouth presses into a line. “You made a seventeen-page roommate contract with color-coded tabs.”

“The tabs are organized by topic, not color.”

“My point stands.” She moves closer, and I fight the urge to step back. “You’re touch-starved. It’s a real thing. But that’s okay; we can fix it.” She says this with absolute certainty and a cheery tone to her voice. “And I’m an excellent cuddler. Ask anyone.”

“I’m not going to ask anyone about your cuddling abilities.”

“Your loss.” She taps the notebook. “So? Do we have a deal or not?”

I’m sweating—actually sweating—over the prospect of sitting on a couch and letting someone be close to me. Voluntarily. On purpose. Not someone…Emmie… with her soft curves and her kind eyes. I’ve diffused bombs with steadier hands than this.

This is absurd. But I need this arrangement to work, and she’s not budging.

“Ten minutes,” I hear myself say. “Once a week. On the couch. Over clothes.”

“Over clothes?” She laughs, startled. “Obviously over clothes. I never said naked cuddling. What kind of arrangement do you think this is?”

My face heats. “I was just clarifying—”

“Crew Jensen, did you think I was demanding nude snuggle sessions?” Her mouth twitches with a smile.

“I was being thorough.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” But she’s grinning now, and something about it makes me feel less like I’m drowning. “Thirty minutes.”

“Ten.”

“Twenty.”

I hold her gaze. She holds mine.

She tilts her head, waiting for my answer, and I’m momentarily distracted by the curve of her mouth. The flush on her cheeks. And I notice, not for the first time tonight, that Emmie Marshall is dangerously pretty. The kind of pretty that makes men agree to things like mandatory cuddling.

Apparently.

“Fine,” I concede. “Twenty minutes. Once a week. Clothed. On the couch. And we never speak of it outside this apartment.”

“Deal.” She extends her hand across the table.

I take it. Her palm is warm and small, callused in the places where she grips her kitchen tools. I notice her pink fingernail polish and the way her pulse beats quickly in her wrist.