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The Wild Card here for paperback and
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Because I love you all very, very much, here's an unedited excerpt of The Wild Card that I haven't shared with anyone except one author friend and my editor. It's probably riddled with typos and sometimes I put in placeholders if I don't want to go to the effort of thinking of something yet. Just roll with it.
The context: Tate's daughter's nanny had a family emergency and he has asked Jordan to watch her for the evening. She thinks he's on a date.
I lay on one sofa while Bea’s fast asleep on the other, the cat curled up against her legs, snoozing. I’ve turned the music off, dimmed lights, and now I’m just here, thinking about Tate on his hot date.
I bet she’s beautiful. I bet she’s poised and polite and so f*cking pleasant, like a news anchor. She would never wear ripped jeans or step foot in a dive bar, and if she did, she’d pull them off flawlessly, like Princess Diana or something. I bet everyone loves her. I bet she comes from the perfect little family and—
They’re probably making out with her passionately in the front seat of his car like h*rny teenagers.
No, he’d never do something as depraved as making out in a car. Tate Ward is way too high class for that. He’d wait until they got inside. They’re probably at her place right now, in her perfect, tidy bedroom.
Oh god. What if he brings her home with him? I suddenly feel stupid for sneaking upstairs and messing with his sock drawer. It’s childish and immature, messing with him like this, and what’s my end game, anyways?
He’s on a date. I can’t have a crush on a guy who’s on a date with someone else.
The front door opens and my heart shoots into my throat. He’s alone, though.
“You’re home,” I say stupidly, sitting up.
He surveys the scene, Bea fast asleep on the couch, a blanket over her that I dropped as soon as her eyes started fluttering shut, and a funny expression comes over his face that I can’t read.
“Yeah. I’m home.” His throat works and he gives me an odd look.
“Did you have fun?”
“Uh.” His eyes narrow and he tilts his head like it’s a strange question. “Sort of.”
I don’t know why I’m pressing on this bruise. No, it’s not even a bruise, because I don’t care what Tate does. Of course he dates. Look at him.
His eyes find Bea on the couch and his mouth twists, affectionate and pleased. “Tonight went well, I see.”
“Sorry she’s not in bed. She was fighting me on it and I didn’t want…” I trail off with a self-conscious shrug. I have no idea how to babysit a kid. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“You did great. I’ll bring her up to her bed in a second.” He opens the fridge. “I’m going to steal a piece of your pizza, though,” he says over his shoulder. “I’m starving.”
“It’s your pizza. You paid for it.”
He leans against the counter and takes a big bite. “F*ck, that’s good,” he mutters, and a shiver runs down my back.
Why is that so hot, watching him eat pizza, leaning against the counter in his own kitchen? It’s the most ordinary thing and yet I can’t look away. Maybe it’s the low tone of his voice, the appreciation, the way he’s enjoying it.
Or maybe it’s the quiet familiarity I’m witnessing, him totally at ease. Who gets to see Tate Ward like this, eating pizza in his kitchen at ten at night? Almost no one, I bet. My heart does a weird twist.
“Okay, one more.” He opens the fridge and steals another piece.
“Was it one of those places with super tiny portions?” I ask with a wry smile. “With four items on the menu?”
He gives me an odd look, swallowing a big bite. “I’m sorry?”
“The restaurant.”
His head tilts. “I don’t follow.”
“Where you went on the date.”
He starts to smile, staring at me like he’s trying to figure me out. “Date?”
I study my nails. “It’s fine. I’m not going to gossip to the team about it or anything.”
“I know you wouldn’t.”
A long, loaded pause of silence. Finally, I look up. He’s smiling.
“I wasn’t on a date tonight.”
I frown. “You weren’t?”
“No.” He’s still smiling. “Why did you think I was on a date?”
I gesture to him. “You look—”
Not going to finish that sentence.
Still smiling. Eyes doing that sparkling thing. “I look what?”
“Nice,” I force out with a shrug. “You showered and wore a different shirt and stuff.” I’m starting to mumble, looking anywhere but him, my face burning hotter than the sun.
“You think I look nice?”
I chance a look at his face and immediately regret it. “There’s no need to be cocky about this.”
“Who’s cocky?” He takes another bite of pizza, smiling at me. “It’s nice to hear I look nice.”
I swing my legs over the couch and get up. “Okay. Goodnight.”
He bursts out laughing, following me to the front door. The cat leaps down and follows me.
“Jordan, wait. I was just teasing you.” He steps between me and the front door, dusting off the crumbs on his jeans, and even that snags in my mind, because Tate Ward is so professional and controlled that it’s strange, seeing him do something as human and normal as brushing crumbs off his fingers. Onto the floor, for god’s sake.
I pull my sneakers on, not even getting my heels in all the way. I need to get out of here before I say or do something dumb.
“I wasn’t on a date. I was at a parent-teacher association meeting at Bea’s school.”
I hate how relieved I feel.
“I make an effort to go when I’m in town,” he adds. “Holly and Jeff are away for [something something] so they couldn’t make it, and I really didn’t want to miss it, because you learn a lot about how your kid is doing from the other parents. Bea doesn’t always tell me what I want to know.” Worry flickers through his eyes. “A few of them go out after the meeting for a drink and I try to join to get the low down on what’s really happening with the kids and teachers.” His mouth twists into a wry smile. “Obviously, I wasn’t drinking.”
“I wasn’t—” I shake my head. “I didn’t think that.” My gaze lingers on his shirt, and even in the dim light in his foyer, his eyes are so sharply green.
He glances down at his clothes. “I don’t always wear a suit, you know.”
A quiet, huffing laugh slips out of me but I keep my mouth firmly shut in case I say something dumb about how good he looks like this.
“I’ll walk you home,” he says, pulling his boots on.
My lips quirk. “I live forty feet away.”
He winks, opening the door for me and following me out. “Wouldn’t want a cougar to get you.”
