Page 102 of Don’t Say Mafia

“In fact—I can’t imagine you belonging anywhere else,” he purred, like this wasn’t flattery but a fact he’d already decided.

I blushed because it was too much. His words, the conviction behind them . . . how he was looking at me. I looked down, needing something else to focus on besides his face, and belatedly realized I was still holding his hand. I’d been doing it the entire time.

I swallowed, my chest tight with things I didn’t have names for yet, and told myself not to read into it. Easier said than done.

He glanced at his watch, his tongue clicking once against his teeth. “I’m late.”

I frowned. “For what?”

“Feeding you,” he said almost angrily, as if he’d committed a grievous sin. “Come on.”

“I think this is another instance where I’ve lost my appetite,” I told him.

He shot me an amused look. “Everyone has an appetite for Mrs. Nesbitt’s food.”

I let him guide me back toward the kitchen island, and the marble was cool beneath my palms as he nudged me onto one of the tall stools. “Who’s Mrs. Nesbitt?” I asked.

“My housekeeper and chef, remember,” he said casually, like that was a normal thing to have. “She’s the one who’s been making you breakfast most days.”

I nodded even though I was sure he hadn’t said those exact words. I’d thought he’d been getting fancy takeout.

“Cruz is constantly trying to steal her from me. He tries to bribe her with promises of a better kitchen.”

“Someone has a better kitchen than this?” I said, unable to imagine it.

Jagger scoffed. “Cruz prides himself on being fancy. He needs something to go with his burgundy dinner jacket.” There was clear derision in his voice, and even though I didn’t understand half the things he was saying right now, his clear exasperation was pretty funny.

“Who exactly is Cruz?” I asked.

He paused for a second, his hand resting on a cabinet. Then he looked back at me with a regretful expression. “My best friend, unfortunately, who, if I have my way, you won’t meet for a very long time.”

Heat crept up my neck. I glanced around the kitchen again and felt painfully aware of the smoke still clinging to my clothes . . . of the mascara smeared under my eyes from all my tears . . . of the way my shoes were cheap and scuffed against the polished stone.

Of course he wouldn’t want me to meet his best friend.

Jagger was still staring at me, and he frowned like he could see right through me. “Whatever you’re thinking, get it out of your head,” he said, and there was a sexy little growl in his voice. “Cruz is a lot for anyone. He’ll probably flirt with you, and then I’ll have to kill him. Which is unfortunate because we’ve been best friends for a long time. I don’t like sharing my favorite things, though, so if he dies, he dies.”

There were a lot of things to unpack in those statements, and he was obviously kidding about most of it . . . but calling me one of his “favorite things” was definitely doing something to my insides.

Jagger smiled like he knew exactly what he’d done before turning back to the cabinets.

Except they weren’t cabinets.

One seamless matte-black panel gave beneath his hand, and the refrigerator revealed itself—fully integrated, the doors camouflaged so perfectly into the cabinetry that I hadn’t even clocked it as an appliance.

Rich people.

Jagger pulled out some black containers and then reheated the food in a microwave embedded in the island. A few minutes later delicious smells were filling the kitchen, and my stomach actually growled. Apparently it had an appetite for private chef food . . . Who knew?

I watched him begin to plate everything.

“Jagger,” I started carefully.

He didn’t look up. “Hmm?”

“I can’t just . . . stay here.”

He glanced up from the food, looking confused.