Page 45 of Don’t Say Mafia

As if summoned by the tension itself, the door to the back office swung open. Shelby, the owner of the shop, stepped out, already looking irritated. “Eden, what the hell is going on⁠—”

She stopped when her eyes landed on Jagger. The color drained from her face so fast it was almost impressive. “Oh wow,” she breathed, smoothing a hand over her apron like she’d just realized she was wearing it. “Mr. Thatcher. I—I didn’t realize you were here.”

Shelby knew him?

Jagger straightened slowly, all his previous concern sliding back behind the arrogant smirk he usually wore.

Shelby’s voice turned syrupy. “Is everything okay? Do you need anything?”

I stared at her. In the three years I’d worked here, I had heard Shelby snap at suppliers, argue with customers, and once reduce a new hire to tears over a crooked pastry display despite the fact that our pastries were dry and tasteless and were rarely ever bought. I had never, ever, heard her sound like that.

Was she going to start bowing to him? That didn’t seem too far-fetched with how she was behaving. And Jagger didn’t even look surprised.

Shelby’s gaze dropped from Jagger’s face to the counter and to the coffee still dripping onto the tile. Her expression changed instantly. “Eden,” she snapped, panic edging her voice, “what did you do?”

“What?” I asked, confused.

Shelby rushed forward, her eyes darting between the spill and Jagger as if she was assessing catastrophic damage. “Mr. Thatcher, I am so, so sorry. I don’t know what happened. Eden is usually very careful.”

“It’s my fault; I startled her,” Jagger said evenly.

Shelby waved that off, dismissing it as a misunderstanding. “Of course. Of course. I’m sure you didn’t mean to. Eden—” she hissed my name under her breath. “What happened?”

I was beginning to feel some whiplash from how she was acting. He was the one behind the counter. He was the one who’d vaulted the counter like an unhinged superhero. How was this my fault? “I dropped the pitcher,” I explained. “That’s it.”

Shelby’s eyes widened slightly at my tone, but she recovered fast, plastering on a brittle smile. “We will absolutely remake whatever you ordered, Mr. Thatcher. On the house. Obviously.”

“It wasn’t her fault,” Jagger repeated, sounding annoyed now.

Shelby gave a tight, anxious laugh. “Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t,” she said in a way that let me know she was definitely going to be firing me after this. My ears burned with dread.

Jagger’s jaw flexed. “She’s actually the best employee I’ve seen in a long time,” he said calmly. “And I would be quite disappointed if she wasn’t working the next time I came in.”

Shelby’s mouth dropped open as Jagger reached into his jacket, pulled out his wallet, and placed a crisp hundred-dollar bill on the counter beside the spreading stain. “For the mess,” he said.

My boss stared at it like it was sacred while he moved out from behind the counter. Jagger placed another bill on the counter once he reached the other side. “And for the disruption.”

Shelby swallowed. “That’s— Thank you. That’s very generous.”

Jagger didn’t acknowledge her, but he did give me one more loaded, lingering gaze before turning and walking toward the door. Conversations slowly resumed in hushed murmurs as the door swung closed behind him.

Shelby and I stood there, shoulder to shoulder, watching him cross the street. When he disappeared from view, she let out a breath she’d clearly been holding. “I hope,” she said quietly, still staring at the door, “you know what you’re doing.”

“I’m not doing anything,” I said immediately.

She turned her head slowly to look at me. “That,” she replied, not unkindly, “is what every woman says right before she does.”

“I’ll be right back,” I said suddenly, feeling like I had lost my mind as I darted toward the door and stepped outside into the harsh sunlight.

“Jagger,” I called down the sidewalk, my voice chasing him as he slid into the glossy black car waiting for him.

He immediately got out of the car at the sound of my voice, shutting the door without taking his eyes off me. “What’s wrong?” he asked, already crossing the small stretch of pavement between us.

The question hit harder than it should have. Nothing is wrong. Everything is wrong.

I stopped a few feet from him, folding my arms like that might keep my heart from trying to leap out of my chest. “You’re wasting your time with me,” I said firmly. “Completely. Whatever you think this is, whatever curiosity you’re indulging . . . it’s not going anywhere.”

His gaze held mine. “Is that so?”