Page 76 of Don’t Say Mafia

I pocketed the phone and jogged down the steps. I really needed to go home and take a shower. I was a sweaty, cum-stained mess . . . but I also needed to make sure she ate, so hopefully it wasn’t immediately obvious when she saw me that I’d spent the last hour conducting covert operations under her bed.

Fifteen minutes later, the black SUV pulled up to the curb. I climbed into the back and began changing my clothes. I stripped fast, unbuttoning my shirt, and then shoving my pants down. Dust and the faint scent of her apartment clung to the fabric, and I balled them up and shoved them on the floor before changing into the clean clothes he’d brought. Zachary played on his phone the entire time; he was very used to my bullshit at this point.

“Interesting coffee order,” he said mildly as he handed me a pastel monstrosity topped with cold foam and caramel drizzle, along with her portion of the food.

I looked down at the drink. There were pink sprinkles in the cold foam and somehow a heart-shaped swirl.

“She likes it,” I said simply.

Zachary glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “It has glitter.”

I looked down again and saw he was right. “I would agree it’s aggressively festive.” I took a slow sip from one of them and nodded approvingly. “It’s delicious, though.”

He blinked at me for a second, like I was some alien beamed down from a distant planet, before he turned back to his phone.

“Stay close, I’ll be quick,” I instructed as I stepped out of the car, bag and coffee in hand.

He nodded once, and I walked back to her building and took the stairs two at a time, almost dying because of a step that had come loose.

A minute later she was answering the door, her hair dripping wet from the shower and her cheeks flushed.

Again . . . I knew exactly why.

Like usual, her eyes widened when she saw me. I wondered when she’d finally get used to me showing up. “Jagger?” Her voice was soft and surprised . . . and a little breathless. “What are you⁠—”

I stepped closer, crowding her space just enough to make her pulse jump in her throat. “Brought you breakfast, sweetheart.” I lifted the bag and coffee slightly and then leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away.

She didn’t.

I pressed my lips to her cheek, and her breath hitched. When I pulled back, her cheeks were brighter, and her lips were parted. She took the bag and coffee from me, her fingers brushing mine.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

I didn’t step back. I stayed right there in her doorway, pretending like I didn’t want to peel off her clothes with my teeth.

Eden clutched the coffee and bag like they were lifelines, her eyes flicking down to them, then up to me again. That warmth I’d seen in them was dimming—something heavier settling in its place.

“What’s on your plate today, baby?” I murmured, hoping she was about to say nothing and I could make an excuse about why we should spend the whole day together.

She swallowed and looked past my shoulder for a second like the hallway might give her an out. When her gaze came back, it was guarded. “I . . . I have to pick up Ryan’s ashes this afternoon. Then spread them. Somewhere open. He hated dark, enclosed spaces—he’d been claustrophobic since we were kids in the trailer park. Couldn’t even sleep with the door shut.” A small, broken laugh escaped her. “I didn’t have money for a real funeral anyway. Just the cremation. So this seems like the bare minimum.”

Her words came out flat at the end, like she was reciting a grocery list instead of talking about burying the man she’d spent half her life with. Her free hand—the one not holding the coffee—had been resting lightly on the doorframe. Now it dropped, and when I reached for it, she pulled away, her fingers curling into her palm.

The rejection landed deep, a blade sliding between my ribs. I wanted to grab that hand back, pin it to the wall, make her feel me, feel us. But I didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, I let my own hand fall slowly and once again reminded her, “You don’t have to do it alone.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “But I’m going to. It’s . . . it’s something I need to finish.”

“I can drive you⁠—”

“No,” she said firmly.

I stepped back then, finally giving her space, though every instinct in me strained against it.

“I’ll text you,” she said, like a compromise. And it was. She hadn’t used my number once since I’d forced her to exchange numbers with me the night of Ryan’s death.

“You’d better,” I replied.