Page 21 of Wild Card
“I have a plan,” I say, quiet but firm.
Her eyes meet mine, unreadable for a second. “To do what?”
“To uncover who the real thief is,” I say. “But I need you to trust me. Completely.”
She tilts her head, skeptical but steady. “Trust you?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “No second-guessing, no splitting off to follow your own hunch. We do this together. Start to finish.”
She watches me for a long moment. I expect pushback, maybe even a smirk. But instead, she surprises me.
“I trust you, Presley.” Her voice is soft, certain. “Just tell me what you need. I’ll follow your lead.”
I wasn’t ready for how much those words would hit me. Before I can stop myself, I reach out and take her hand. It’s not flashy. Not dramatic. Just solid, warm, and real. She doesn’t pull away.
“Come on,” I say. “We’re going to the police station.”
She raises an eyebrow. “To do what?”
“To talk to my high school buddy. We’re going to need his help.”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
ARIA
The city lightsblur past the window as we drive, streaks of neon and gold melting into the dark. It’s quiet in the car—just the low hum of the engine and the rhythmic sound of tires on pavement. Presley’s hand is in mine.
Somehow, it happened without either of us saying a word. He reached across the console like it was the most natural thing in the world, laced his fingers through mine, and now we’re just... here.
And it feels real. So real, it scares me. I never meant for this to happen. He was supposed to be my rival. A cocky, too-slick-for-his-own-good pain in my ass. Someone I’d roll my eyes at across casino floors, not lean on in the middle of a conspiracy.
But he’s not just sharp. He’s steady. When everything else is unraveling, he’s the one thing that feels like solid ground.
And now he’s holding my hand like he means it. Like we’re not just chasing jewel thieves and avoiding boardroom landmines—like we’re something.
I glance over at him, catching the outline of his jaw in the glow of the streetlights. He looks focused, calm. But I know him now. I see the tightness in his grip on the wheel, the way his thumb brushes over my fingers like he’s grounding himself.
I never thought I’d fall for him.
But I have.
Totally and completely.
And I have no idea what that means.
If anyone finds out, we’re done. Fired. Blacklisted. Two security directors tangled up in a mess of personal and professional lines.
But in this moment, I don’t care.
Because he hasn’t let go of my hand once.
The police station comes into view ahead, its familiar concrete structure looming against the skyline. Presley slows, pulling into the lot with the kind of care that says he’s thinking three moves ahead.
He parks. Kills the engine. Turns to me.
“Do you still trust me?” he asks.
