CHAPTER 15
EDEN
Iwoke up staring at the ceiling.
My eyes were open, but my body felt disconnected, like it hadn’t gotten the message that morning had arrived.
The ceiling fan above me turned in slow, uneven circles, its blades edged with thick lines of dust that never quite disappeared no matter how often I wiped them down.
A thin crack split the plaster near the vent, spidering outward as though it had been there forever.
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.
I picked at the edge of the plate, my appetite still a distant concept. But suddenly it wasn’t the food knotting my stomach.
It was the way he moved around my kitchen, like he intended to stay. The way he was looking at me. The way my body had gone to him yesterday without hesitation.
Like it recognized something before my brain had time to object.
That scared me. My husband had been in a morgue less than twenty-four hours ago. Wasn’t grief supposed to look a certain way? Weren’t widows supposed to wilt and withdraw . . . not lean into another man’s warmth like it was oxygen?
If I didn’t draw a line now, I wasn’t sure I’d be strong enough to later.
“I need to be clear about something,” I said, putting my fork down.
Jagger leaned back against the counter, his arms folded loosely as he watched me with an unreadable focus.
“We can only be friends,” I said, forcing the words out before I could lose my nerve. “I just lost my husband. I’m not . . . I’m not capable of anything else.”
For a second, the room was quiet except for the faint hiss of the window unit, already overworking in the heat. Then he smiled. It was a knowing tilt of his mouth as one eyebrow arched and he winked. “I know.”
The simplicity of it threw me more than if he’d argued.
“You don’t sound disappointed,” I said.
“Why would I?” he replied easily. “Friends are a good place to start.”
Something about the way he said it made my stomach tighten, as if he already knew how this would end and was content to let time do the work.
I looked back down at my plate, even more aware of him standing there . . . of how safe the apartment felt with him in it despite how little sense that made.
Friends, I reminded myself.
Just friends.
I could do that . . . right?
I managed a few bites before the weight of everything slammed back into me all at once, and my stomach clenched.
“Oh my gosh,” I said suddenly, pushing the plate away as I panicked. “I have a shift. I’m supposed to be at work in—” I glanced at the clock and sucked in a breath. “I’m already late.”
Jagger gathered the plate and glass before I could protest. “You don’t.”
“What do you mean, ‘I don’t’?” I asked, dread pooling in my chest. “I can’t just not show up. I need the hours.”
He rinsed the plate calmly as though this wasn’t a crisis at all. “You have the week off.”
I stared at his back. “That’s not funny.”
Jagger glanced over his shoulder, his expression mild. “I’m not joking.”
“I can’t afford that,” I said, the words coming out tight. “I can barely afford to breathe right now.”
He set the dish in the sink and turned to face me fully. “You’re getting bereavement pay.”
I squinted at him. “I’m getting what?”
“Bereavement pay,” he repeated easily, as if it were obvious. “It’s a policy.”
“I’ve worked there for years,” I said slowly, studying him. “No one’s ever mentioned that.”
He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Some policies aren’t advertised.”
I narrowed my eyes. “How would you even know that?”
Another flicker of amusement moved across his face.
“My company owns the casino,” he said simply.
I gaped at him. “What?”
He leaned back against the counter, entirely at ease after rearranging my understanding of the world. “My company owns the casino, Eden. So it would make sense that I’m familiar with the employee handbook. I do like to be hands-on with my companies. It’s what makes me the best.”
“You own it?” I repeated, heat rising in my chest. “You’ve been coming in there like—like you’re just another customer.”
His mouth twitched. “I am a customer.”
“Seriously . . . I’m not joking right now.”
He straightened slightly, maddeningly calm as ever. “You didn’t need to know. It wasn’t relevant.”
“It feels relevant,” I shot back. “Especially as I’m thinking back on everything. You’re the reason Carl let me go early that night and paid me for it!”
He held my gaze. “What kind of boss would I be if I ignored my employee’s plight? You were entitled to the pay then, and you’re entitled to the pay now. You can stop freaking out.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again when I realized I didn’t have the energy to untangle all this information.
And it wasn’t like I wasn’t relieved to hear about this policy.
Having to go to work the day after I’d seen my husband’s dead body felt impossible.
Standing behind the bar while people laughed and gambled and flirted, pretending I wasn’t replaying the sight of Ryan under fluorescent lights .
. . it would have broken whatever was left of me.
The thought of a few days—paid days—felt like someone loosening a vise around my ribs.
“It’s a good policy,” I finally said quietly. “Thank you.”
He grinned. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I rolled my eyes faintly, but there wasn’t much heat behind it. The tightness in my chest had eased just enough for me to breathe without it hurting.
“You’re very smug. I hope someone’s told you that before,” I muttered.
His mouth twitched. “I never claimed otherwise.”
That almost made me smile again.
Jagger glanced down at his phone and groaned. “Damn it,” he muttered. “I need to handle something for work.” He didn’t try to disguise the irritation in his voice. “But I’ll come back later. I want to check on you.”
“Jagger—” I started.
He closed the distance before I could figure out what I was going to say. His hand came up, and his thumb brushed lightly along my cheekbone. “I’ll be back,” he said firmly.
Before I could argue, he pulled me into him and wrapped his arms around me in a tight hug.
I stiffened for half a second. “I—”