CHAPTER 5
JAGGER
After I . . . recovered, I left the bathroom and found a place to lurk so I could watch her work for a while.
I wasn’t going to call this creepy, but it was probably venturing close to the word for the first time in my life.
I pulled out my phone while I watched her so I could text Lawson to start my plan.
I needed the woman’s name if I was going to stalk her properly.
Me: I need the names and photos of every staff member on shift tonight in Paradise. Cocktail waitresses included.
The reply came fast.
Lawson: That’s specific. Give me two minutes.
I leaned against the wall, my eyes locked on her again. She laughed at something a bartender said as she picked up drinks, and for one stupid second I forgot how to breathe. I forgot everything except how fucking gorgeous she looked when she smiled like that.
Then the haze cleared, and I registered the ache in my hand.
I was gripping my phone so hard the case was creaking, and the screen was threatening to crack under my thumb.
Taking a deep breath, I unclenched my hand, telling myself it was unreasonable to storm across the floor and drag her out of here just because she smiled at someone else.
Holy fuck. I was turning into my brother.
No, I’m not, I assured myself. This was a lust thing. His was a crazy thing. The two feelings were very different.
My phone buzzed again, and I straightened.
Lawson: Sent.
I opened the folder in my email and scrolled without interest until I found her.
There she was—smiling in her employee ID photo, eyes tired but bright, and her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. I saved the photo and resisted the urge to make it my profile screen.
Eden Thorne.
Was it a little ironic that her name was Eden and she worked in a casino called Paradise? Yes. But somehow it was also fitting.
I caught myself running my thumb over her picture on my phone like it might respond to praise, and I huffed out a laugh. “Pull it together,” I muttered. When you start petting your screen like it’s going to purr, it’s probably time to do something else.
Me: Eden Thorne. Get me everything.
Lawson: Everything everything?
Me: Everything everything.
There was a pause.
Lawson: She’s pretty, Thatcher.
I gritted my teeth.
Me: And I know where to hide your body. Focus.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
Lawson: Already digging. You want financials, family, socials, and work history?
I thought about that for a second. None of that was a prerequisite to me sleeping with her, but it would be good to make sure she wasn’t an Irish plant or something like that.
Me: Don’t miss a thing
Lawson: I never do.
I locked the screen and pushed off the wall, the casino noise swelling again as I stepped back into it and walked back toward the high roller room. I needed a fucking trophy for the self-restraint I was showing tonight.
And once again, I had an erection.
I was back in the high roller room trying to distract myself. And I was annoyed.
The cards in my hand were solid. The bets were predictable. I was winning—of course I was winning—but it felt mechanical. Automatic. I raised when I should. Folded when it bored me. Took two decent pots in a row without even looking particularly interested.
But it wasn’t distracting enough. My mind was filled with green eyes and long brown hair that I wanted to wrap around my fist.
The guy next to me kept glancing at my bulging slacks with a sparkle in his eye, like he thought he was going to get lucky tonight.
This was ridiculous.
I won another hand just to prove I could, dragging the chips toward me with a flick of my fingers, when suddenly the room got quiet and everyone at the table . . . including the dealer, suddenly leapt up to leave like the table had caught on fire. Within seconds, the room was empty.
I sighed because Cruz Vale was a buzzkill of the highest order. Looking down at the obscene pile of chips in front of me, I let out a long, put-upon sigh. “You know,” I said lightly, finally glancing up, “you’ve completely ruined my night.”
My best friend was smiling as he crossed the room. He was in a burgundy suit that would have looked ridiculous on most people, but somehow he pulled it off. His dark hair had fallen slightly into his face, a few strands brushing his forehead in a way that made him look almost boyish.
Almost.
Up close, his face told a different story. Cruz was pretty in a way that made people stupid. It made them relax because they assumed something that pretty couldn’t be dangerous.
Which was exactly how he liked them before he gutted them.
“It doesn’t look like I’ve ruined your night,” he drawled as he sat down across from me, nodding at my pile of chips.
“One of them was about to hand over his oceanfront mansion in Miami,” I complained, pushing the stack into a neater tower. “I could’ve retired. Bought linen. Become insufferable.”
“You hate Miami,” Cruz replied without missing a beat.
“That’s not the point,” I said. It was true.
I hated Miami. The humidity alone felt like a personal attack, and there was something deeply unsettling about grown men who wore white jeans unironically.
It did nothing for me. Still, an ocean view might’ve distracted me from Eden.
At least temporarily. It would have been at least worth the experiment.
I leaned back in my chair and studied Cruz for a second. “Speaking of experiments,” I said casually, even though I was pretty sure I hadn’t said that last part out loud, “care to explain why you couldn’t text me about the Boston situation? Maddox saw my dick again.”
“You handled it, I assume,” Cruz said smoothly, his expression not giving anything away.
“That’s not the point,” I repeated, narrowing my eyes at him in interest. “Where were you?”
He lifted a brow. “Busy.”
“‘Busy,’” I echoed flatly. “With?”
He still said nothing.
I drummed my fingers lightly on the felt. “It’s very unlike you to not even send an inappropriate GIF.”
Cruz snorted. “Are you accusing me of something? Maybe instead of that, we should be focusing on why you fell asleep mid-thrust.”
I rolled my eyes dramatically. “Why is everyone in our group a gossip queen? There should be at least a twenty-four-hour grace period before my dick is discussed.”
Cruz hummed.
“I don’t like it when you’re mysterious on purpose, Vale,” I continued.
“Most people don’t,” he replied charmingly, adjusting his cuff in a way that told me I wasn’t going to get anything from him tonight.
I studied him for a second, irritation prickling under my skin. It was deeply inconvenient being best friends with someone who could outmaneuver you socially while looking bored. At this rate, I was going to have to start stalking him.
Which felt unfair, considering I already had one potential fixation developing and I preferred to keep my hobbies streamlined.
Cruz’s mouth curved, as though he could hear my thoughts and approved of them. His eyes sharpened. “What happened to the Irishman?”
“You mean, is he still alive?” I asked.
“That was implied.”
I shrugged. “For now. I think he took the hint.”
Cruz exhaled, a quiet sound that could’ve been relief or amusement. “Good. I’d hate to have to clean that up tonight. I’ve got enough to deal with.”
“Please,” I said. “If I start leaving bodies in here, it sets a precedent. Then everyone expects dinner and a show.”
Cruz scoffed, but I’m sure he knew exactly what I was talking about.
An easy silence settled between us, the kind that didn’t need filling. It always struck me in moments like this how absurd it was that we’d ended up here at all.
We’d met in a glass-walled conference room in Manhattan, both of us fresh out of college and pretending we weren’t internally combusting.
Investment banking. Hundred-hour weeks. Coffee that tasted like an ashtray.
I’d taken one look at him and thought, Great, another rich guy with a superiority complex and a face that’s going to make HR nervous.
Turns out I’d underestimated him.
We started with drinks after work because mutual disdain for everyone else was a powerful bonding tool. Then dinners. Then late nights staring at spreadsheets and talking about things that weren’t numbers.
I thought he was just ambitious. I hadn’t known he was the heir to Vegas.
That particular detail came out the dramatic way.
A hitman stepped out from the dark stretch between parked cars outside a restaurant in SoHo, his gun already rising, and a silencer fixed to the barrel.
I saw it a split second before Cruz did.
Long enough to grab him by the collar and yank him down hard.
He hit the pavement, furious. I handled the rest.
I’d surprised both of us by not letting the man get a second shot.
That was the night the curtain dropped. The banking. The polite fiction of corporate ambition. After that, there was no pretending.
I saved his life, and he let me into it.
And that was that. We’d been best friends ever since.
Cruz took a sip of my whiskey because he had boundary issues, and then he stood and adjusted his ridiculous burgundy jacket. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go up to your place. We need to talk.”
I nudged the pile toward the center of the table. Someone would collect the chips for me and cash them out later. “Let me guess. There’s more to Boston than Declan.”
“We should also talk about your sudden interest in one of our employees’ files,” he added smoothly.
I scoffed. “Unbelievable. A man can’t casually pull background information on a woman?”
Cruz grinned unrepentantly.
“I thought we valued privacy in this organization,” I continued. “Discretion. Brotherhood.”
“You requested her full personnel file,” he said dryly. “Do you really think Lawson wasn’t going to say something? You’ve never done that before.”
“I allegedly requested her full file,” I dismissed. “Maybe I was simply conducting a thorough evaluation of an exemplary employee.”
Cruz stared at me incredulously.
“I take talent retention very seriously. You know that,” I added.