Page 254 of Don’t Say Mafia

It felt obscene that the fan still hummed. That the dust still clung. That the crack hadn’t widened overnight just to match the fracture inside my chest.

Everything up there looked exactly the same.

And nothing in my life was.

Ryan was dead.

The thought drifted through me without impact, dull and unreal.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It took a moment for the sound to register as something I was supposed to take care of. I lay there listening, waiting to see if it would stop, but it didn’t. The knock came again, firmer this time and insistent.

I dragged myself upright and shuffled across the apartment, every dragging step feeling like I’d spent last night drinking instead of crying my eyes out.

When I opened the door, I stopped short, my mouth dropping at the sight of Jagger standing in the hallway. He looked wildly out of place against the peeling paint and flickering light, dressed in dark slacks and a crisp shirt that probably cost more than my rent. His blond hair was neat, his expression steady, and in his hands were several grocery bags, the handles cutting into his fingers like he’d been holding them for a while.

I blinked at him. “Why are you here?”

His mouth curved faintly. “Good morning to you, too.”

“I’m serious.”

“We’re friends,” he said, as if it were obvious.

“We’ve talked a handful of times,” I shot back.

“I think that qualifies as enough, Eden. I drove you home. Sat with you. Went with you to identify your . . . husband,” he answered with a strange look on his face as he said the last word. “That feels like more than strangers.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the words didn’t come . . . because maybe he was right. I stepped aside instead, not so much deciding to let him in as lacking the energy to stop him.

Jagger took that as an invitation and walked in, setting the grocery bags on the counter. The kitchen light flicked on, casting a dull yellow glow over cracked laminate and the tiny table shoved against the wall. He started unloading items from the bags—fresh berries, thick-cut sourdough, farm eggs, imported cheese, and cold-pressed juice. None of it looked as if it came from the discount aisle I usually haunted.

He reached into one of the bags and pulled out a sealed container. Lifting the lid, he revealed a breakfast strata and rosemary potatoes that looked straight out of a magazine.

I blinked in shock. “You cooked that?”

He snorted. “I have many skills, sweetheart, but cooking is not one of them. Luckily for both of us, other people have those skills.” He glanced at me, one corner of his mouth tipping upward. “But while I can’t cook, I am exceptionally skilled at warming things up.”

The microwave beeped as he punched in the time, like reheating a gourmet breakfast in my cramped kitchen, beneath cabinets with peeling paint, was perfectly ordinary.

“You didn’t have to do this,” I said quietly, leaning against the doorframe. It seemed to be my mantra with him lately.

“I know,” he replied, not looking at me this time.

Steam rose when he opened the container again, the scent of butter and herbs filling the room, rich and mouthwatering and completely at odds with everything else in my life.

“I don’t think I can eat,” I whispered as I sank into the chair at the small table, my body finally giving in to the weight of everything. My hands shook slightly as I folded them in my lap.

He set a plate in front of me anyway. “Good thing this doesn’t require much effort on your part,” he said lightly. “Just small bites. I’ve got the heavy lifting covered.”

That almost made me smile.

He set a glass of water next to my plate. “Eat,” he ordered.

I stared at the delicious-smelling food, then up at him. “Why are you here?” I asked again. For a second, something unreadable crossed his face, something deeper and more intent.

“Because you shouldn’t be alone today,” he finally said. And I didn’t have the strength to argue with that . . . because it felt true.