Page 65 of The Wild Card

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “You could say that.”

The worst part isn’t that we almost kissed.

The worst part is that now I know she wanted it too.

And I have no idea what to do with that.

Chapter Fifteen

Cookbook Drama

Emmie

My phone buzzes at 8 AM with Rachel’s name on the screen, and I already know it’s not going to be good news.

“Hey, Rach.”

“Emmie. We need to talk about the manuscript.”

I close my eyes. Take a breath. “Okay.”

“Your editor called. She’s… concerned.”

“Concerned how?”

“The pages you sent last week. She feels like something’s missing.” Rachel pauses, and I can hear her choosing her words carefully. “She says it’s technically good, but it’s not connecting emotionally. It feels distant. Like a list of ingredients and measurements without the heart or story behind it.”

My stomach drops.

“What does that mean? What does she want me to change?”

“She wants the whole thing to feel more personal. More lived-in. This book is called Cooking for Your Person—she needs to feel like you actually have a person. Like you know what it’s like to cook for someone you love.”

I think about Crew.

About standing beside him at the stove, feeding him sauce from a wooden spoon. Watching his face when he tastes something I made, that tiny flicker of surprise like he forgot food could be good.

“I can fix it,” I say. “I’ll revise.”

“You have five weeks, Em. Five weeks until the final deadline. If the manuscript isn’t where it needs to be…” She trails off.

“I know. I’ll fix it.”

I hang up and stare at my laptop, open to a blank page that’s been blank for two hours.

I have just over a month to somehow inject emotional depth into a cookbook about cooking for people you love when the only person I’ve been cooking for is my fake boyfriend who kissed me two nights ago and hasn’t mentioned it since.

Great. This is going great.

* * *

Sadie’s already at our usual coffee shop when I arrive, two lattes on the table and a look on her face that says she’s been waiting for this.

“Okay.” She pushes my drink toward me. “Spill. Everything. Start with the gala and don’t leave out a single detail.”

I slump into the chair across from her. “Where do I even start?”

“The dress. Did he react to the dress?”