Page 269 of Don’t Say Mafia

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, unconcerned. “Friends have each other’s numbers.”

I scoffed before I could stop myself. “Red roses don’t exactly scream friends.”

“They don’t?” he asked innocently. I could hear the smile in his voice now. “That’s odd. I distinctly remember telling the florist friends. Maybe she misheard. Or maybe roses are just . . . friendly flowers.”

“They’re romantic,” I shot back. “Anyone who’s ever read a romance book knows that.”

“Well,” he said, “that feels like a matter of interpretation. I’ll have to read those books and figure out what they’re talking about. Although . . . if you want to call the roses romantic, I totally won’t object.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You can’t honestly pretend this is normal.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” Jagger replied. “I’m being very transparent. I like having a way to reach you. I like knowing you can reach me. And I don’t see why we’d make that complicated.”

“You don’t see why,” I repeated flatly.

“Not even a little?” he said cheerfully. “You’ll probably use it to tell me off. I’m comfortable with that risk. I’ll enjoy it.”

I glanced at the roses, then the phone in my hand, then at Zachary, who had very politely started pretending he was fascinated by the decrepit hallway stairs.

“Jagger,” I muttered.

“We’re allowed to be friends who enjoy each other.” His voice dropped into something delicious that made me want to rub my thighs together.

I let out a long breath. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he said lightly, “you’re still holding the phone.”

The silence stretched, and I was aware of how intimate it had become.

“You’re keeping it,” he said firmly.

I stared at the screen, then at the roses again, then at the perfectly composed man standing a few feet away, waiting like he had all the time in the world.

“Fine,” I said, “I’ll keep the phone.”

The pause on the other end of the line was filled with smug satisfaction.

“Good,” Jagger said. “Now, eat breakfast before my driver cries.”

I blinked. “Before who cries?”

“Zachary,” he said. “He hates watching food go cold. It makes him emotional.”

My gaze slid to the older gentleman in front of me, who stood as straight-backed and unreadable as ever, his expression giving absolutely nothing away.

Somehow, I didn’t think that would be a problem.

“I think he’ll survive,” I said dryly.

A quiet chuckle hummed through the phone. “I wouldn’t bet against him.”

I shook my head, a reluctant smile tugging at my mouth despite myself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ll see you later, friend,” he murmured. The call ended before I’d stopped swooning.

I lowered the phone slowly and looked back at the man in front of me. “I’m keeping it,” I said, like I needed to say it out loud to make it real.

Zachary’s mouth curved into a knowing grin, the first crack in his composure since he’d arrived.