CHAPTER 25
EDEN
The car ride passed in a blur I barely registered.
I sat in the back seat beside him, my hands folded uselessly in my lap as I stared out the window as the city slid by in streaks of light and shadow.
I was aware of motion, of turns, of the low murmur of his voice as he spoke to Zachary, but none of it seemed connected to me.
My body had gone strangely quiet, like it had shut a door somewhere deep inside and locked it.
The car dipped downward suddenly, the tires humming as we descended a ramp. Concrete walls replaced the Vegas skyline, and fluorescent lights shone overhead as we rolled into a private underground garage.
I frowned faintly as I noticed the familiar black-and-gold signage on the columns. We were at Paradise.
“Why are we here?” I asked, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears.
Jagger glanced at me like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “I live here.”
I stared at him. “At the casino?” I clarified.
He pushed his door open, stepping out with unhurried ease. “Top floors.”
“That’s . . . convenient,” I said slowly, stepping out after him, “considering I work here.”
He turned and grinned at me over his shoulder, holding out his hand for me to take. “Very,” he said . . . and then he winked.
What was happening didn’t fully register until we were standing in a fancy elevator. The doors slid shut with a soft, decisive sound, sealing us inside, and I stared at the floor indicator as it lit up and began its steady climb, the numbers ticking higher than I’d ever been before.
I was painfully aware of him beside me .
. . of the way his shoulder brushed mine when the elevator shifted.
Of the scent of him that had somehow survived the smoke and ash of my apartment.
My reflection stared back at me from the mirrored wall.
I was pale and drawn, and my eyes looked too big in my face.
This was real. I was going to his fancy apartment carrying nothing with me but the clothes I was wearing.
“What am I doing?” I whispered to myself.
Jagger glanced down at me. “You’re trusting me,” he said softly. “And I plan on earning that . . . very thoroughly.”
My pulse stuttered. “I—”
The elevator chimed, and the doors slid open, and whatever I’d been about to say completely evaporated from my tongue.
Wow. So people actually lived like this.
The foyer opened straight into the main living space—no hallway, no transition, just immediate access.
The floor was dark marble, veined with gold that caught the low lighting and threw it back in soft shimmers.
The walls were charcoal gray, and the ceiling was at least twenty feet tall.
A massive chandelier hung above us, modern, but not fussy, with thousands of thin crystal rods suspended in a slow spiral, catching every movement and scattering light like falling stars.
Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the entire west wall, and Vegas sprawled below. The Strip looked almost close enough to touch, neon bleeding up into the glass. The view was obscene. There was no need for curtains. We were high enough that no one could see in.
“Welcome home,” Jagger murmured, and I tore my eyes away from the perfect penthouse to see that he was staring at me with an amused, knowing grin on his lips.
“I—” My words didn’t finish forming. I just stood there, gaping like this was a trick, like someone was about to tell me I’d walked into the wrong place.
He stepped out of the elevator and then looked back at me expectantly. “Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”
As we walked through the nicest home I’d ever seen, I couldn’t help but think of the trailer I’d grown up in.
Thin walls that shook every time someone moved.
Linoleum floors that squeaked every time you stepped.
A kitchen so small you had to choose between opening the fridge or the oven.
The electrical wiring had been all messed up, and the lights had gone out if you had more than one thing plugged in at a time.
And then, of course, I thought about the apartment next . . . the one I’d convinced myself was a step up.
Peeling paint and matted, worn carpet. Shower tiles that stayed stained no matter how many times I’d scrubbed them. Appliances in the kitchen from the 1990s. Furniture that I’d found at Goodwill or on the curb about to be thrown out.
All that time, people were living like this.
Jagger led me past a sunken living area with a black leather sectional so deep and wide it looked like it could swallow a small family.
Low glass tables reflected the chandelier light, and a massive stone fireplace dominated the opposite wall.
Above it was a single abstract painting in blacks and silvers.
I thought maybe I’d see a stain on the couch or a thread pulled loose somewhere . . . something that would make it feel real. But there wasn’t anything but perfection.
I stopped walking when we got to the kitchen.
If I could even call it that. It looked more like a room a Pinterest board used for pictures.
It was all marble and metal and shine—so much of it my eyes didn’t know where to land. The counters gleamed, and the appliances looked less like things you cooked with and more like machines you needed training to operate.
I had the sudden, absurd thought that if I touched the wrong button, an alarm might go off or a man in a suit would appear to scold me.
My apartment’s counter space was so scarce I’d had to put a plate over the tiny sink to have room to prep food. You could probably prep enough food on these counters and the giant island to feed an entire banquet hall.
Crazy.
My chest tightened as we kept moving, past more rooms, each one nicer than the last, each one seeming to be openly mocking every place I’d ever called home. I felt even more embarrassed now, knowing Jagger had set foot in my place when this was where he lived.
“I can’t stay here,” I suddenly squeaked.
Jagger had been one step ahead of me, and he stopped and turned, his brows lifting slightly. “Why not?”
I gestured helplessly around us because it should have been obvious. “This is . . . too nice.”
The admission felt small and ridiculous and painfully honest all at once.
His expression softened into understanding. “This,” he said evenly, sweeping a hand around, “is exactly where you belong.”
I blinked at him.
“In fact—I can’t imagine you belonging anywhere else,” he purred, like this wasn’t flattery but a fact he’d already decided.
I blushed because it was too much. His words, the conviction behind them . . . how he was looking at me. I looked down, needing something else to focus on besides his face, and belatedly realized I was still holding his hand. I’d been doing it the entire time.
I swallowed, my chest tight with things I didn’t have names for yet, and told myself not to read into it. Easier said than done.
He glanced at his watch, his tongue clicking once against his teeth. “I’m late.”
I frowned. “For what?”
“Feeding you,” he said almost angrily, as if he’d committed a grievous sin. “Come on.”
“I think this is another instance where I’ve lost my appetite,” I told him.
He shot me an amused look. “Everyone has an appetite for Mrs. Nesbitt’s food.”
I let him guide me back toward the kitchen island, and the marble was cool beneath my palms as he nudged me onto one of the tall stools. “Who’s Mrs. Nesbitt?” I asked.
“My housekeeper and chef, remember,” he said casually, like that was a normal thing to have. “She’s the one who’s been making you breakfast most days.”
I nodded even though I was sure he hadn’t said those exact words. I’d thought he’d been getting fancy takeout.
“Cruz is constantly trying to steal her from me. He tries to bribe her with promises of a better kitchen.”
“Someone has a better kitchen than this?” I said, unable to imagine it.
Jagger scoffed. “Cruz prides himself on being fancy. He needs something to go with his burgundy dinner jacket.” There was clear derision in his voice, and even though I didn’t understand half the things he was saying right now, his clear exasperation was pretty funny.
“Who exactly is Cruz?” I asked.
He paused for a second, his hand resting on a cabinet. Then he looked back at me with a regretful expression. “My best friend, unfortunately, who, if I have my way, you won’t meet for a very long time.”
Heat crept up my neck. I glanced around the kitchen again and felt painfully aware of the smoke still clinging to my clothes . . . of the mascara smeared under my eyes from all my tears . . . of the way my shoes were cheap and scuffed against the polished stone.
Of course he wouldn’t want me to meet his best friend.
Jagger was still staring at me, and he frowned like he could see right through me.
“Whatever you’re thinking, get it out of your head,” he said, and there was a sexy little growl in his voice.
“Cruz is a lot for anyone. He’ll probably flirt with you, and then I’ll have to kill him.
Which is unfortunate because we’ve been best friends for a long time.
I don’t like sharing my favorite things, though, so if he dies, he dies. ”
There were a lot of things to unpack in those statements, and he was obviously kidding about most of it . . . but calling me one of his “favorite things” was definitely doing something to my insides.
Jagger smiled like he knew exactly what he’d done before turning back to the cabinets.
Except they weren’t cabinets.
One seamless matte-black panel gave beneath his hand, and the refrigerator revealed itself—fully integrated, the doors camouflaged so perfectly into the cabinetry that I hadn’t even clocked it as an appliance.
Rich people.
Jagger pulled out some black containers and then reheated the food in a microwave embedded in the island. A few minutes later delicious smells were filling the kitchen, and my stomach actually growled. Apparently it had an appetite for private chef food . . . Who knew?
I watched him begin to plate everything.
“Jagger,” I started carefully.
He didn’t look up. “Hmm?”