Page 292 of Don’t Say Mafia

“Eden,” he murmured. “You keep saying things like that, and I’m going to start thinking everything you do is intentional.”

Scratch that . . . we really needed to talk about what happened.

Jagger released me and calmly walked back to the champagne bottle as if he hadn’t just rewired my nervous system with a few sentences and a look. He lifted it and began pouring; the pale gold bubbled into a flute, rising in a steady stream.

When it was full, he set the bottle down and picked up the glass by the stem. He walked back over and set it in front of me. “Drink your champagne,” he said lightly. “And don’t insult yourself while you do it.”

His smile was easy again. “Another argument in my favor, by the way . . . If I serve Mrs. Nesbitt’s food without the right beverage, she’ll never forgive me. She’ll pack up her knives, march straight to Cruz’s kitchen, and cook for him out of spite.”

Despite myself, a shaky laugh slipped out. “That bad?”

“Worse,” he said solemnly. “She’d make it a point to send me pictures of the meals. Captioned. I couldn’t live with that.”

My hands were still shaking when I lifted the glass, but the tension in my chest eased just a fraction. The first sip was cool and surprisingly smooth. Fine bubbles dissolved softly against my tongue instead of stinging, bright and crisp at first, then mellowing into something faintly sweet.

My eyes widened, and I took another sip. No wonder rich people drank this. It was delicious.

Jagger thankfully didn’t comment on the mini orgasm I was having over the champagne when he set a plate in front of me like it was a ceremonial offering.

I was drooling as I stared down at it, my appetite fully restored. Sliced pieces of roasted chicken were lying on a bed of buttery mashed potatoes so smooth they looked whipped, not mashed, and a glossy sauce pooled around the edges with flecks of thyme and black pepper. On the side, carrots had been roasted until they’d caramelized, and they’d been finished with something citrusy that cut through the richness just by smell alone.

I stared at it, overwhelmed. “I can’t believe you get to eat like this every day.”

He folded his arms and smirked. “Eat.”

I glanced up at him. “Bossy.”

“Yes,” he agreed easily.

I rolled my eyes, picked up my fork, took a bite . . . and then literally moaned. Freezing mid-chew, I closed my eyes, hoping that might save me, because the sound I’d just made had been obscene.

This chicken deserved obscene, though.

Whoever Mrs. Nesbitt was, somehow she’d been able to hit every single one of my pleasure centers at once.

“Oh my gosh,” I breathed, completely undone.

The sound that came from him wasn’t a laugh. It was strangled. Like it had been ripped out of him against his will.

My eyes flew open.

Jagger was gripping the edge of the counter with both hands, his shoulders tense as though he was holding himself in place by sheer force. His jaw was clenched, a muscle ticking there, and his expression was twisted into something between pain and restraint. For a second, he didn’t look smug or amused or in control.

He looked wrecked.

My fork hovered midair. “What— Are you okay?”

He dragged in a slow breath through his nose, his eyes flicking to mine and then away again like looking at me was making it worse. “You can’t,” he said tightly, “make sounds like that.”

At this rate, my face was going to burn off from how much I was blushing. I wasn’t sure that I could actually survive staying here. “It was just . . . the food.”

He let out another breath, harsher this time, and straightened. “I need a minute,” he said in a clipped voice before he turned and stalked off down the hall.

I stared after him, my fork still suspended in the air.

Well. That was dramatic. I looked down and stared longingly at my food. I should probably wait for him, right?

I waited a minute, and then another. And when he didn’t come back . . . I resumed eating. There was no universe in which I was choosing unresolved sexual tension over this food.