CHAPTER 8 #2
His eyes dipped briefly to the glasses on the tray in front of me, then lifted back to my face, his gorgeous brown gaze holding mine with unsettling focus. “You look exhausted,” he said quietly. “Are you okay?”
The sincerity of it caught me off guard, and I had to force myself to smile to cover up my surprise. “So . . . in other words, I look like hell.”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant,” I teased, taking a small step back because he was still standing too close, and my brain was already malfunctioning.
His expression shifted back to looking concerned. “Why don’t you go home?”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You look like you’re running on fumes,” he said evenly. “Call it a night.”
A short laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “Yeah, I don’t think my boss would be thrilled by that suggestion.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “You might be surprised.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” he said smoothly. “Just that sometimes bosses are more reasonable than people assume.”
“Right.” I folded my arms, trying to ignore how good he looked. “Well, mine isn’t. And even if he were, I can’t afford to just walk out.”
His gaze softened slightly. “Why not?”
I hesitated. I didn’t know why I was even entertaining this conversation. I didn’t owe him explanations. But something about the way he was looking at me—like he actually cared about the answer—it made my guard slip just a fraction.
“It’s Friday,” I admitted quietly. “Tips are always best on Fridays.”
Understanding flickered across his face.
“And I need the tips,” I added, hating the vulnerability in my voice. “So unless you’re planning to cover my rent for the month . . .”
His eyes held mine, unreadable now. “Maybe I am,” he mused.
Now I was the one rolling my eyes. “Right,” I said dryly. “And maybe I’m secretly a trust fund heiress doing this for fun.”
A smile tugged at his mouth, but he looked too amused for it to be because of my bad joke. I took a deep breath and reached for the tray again. “I’m going to get back to work now.”
A faint dissatisfied sound left him, like he didn’t love that answer but wasn’t going to argue with me. “Me too,” he finally said.
He hadn’t offered a single real detail about himself since the night I’d first met him, and before I could stop myself, curiosity slipped past my caution. “Doing what?” I asked.
Something shifted in his expression, and he had that satisfied gleam in his eye that was starting to become familiar . . . like I’d just stepped exactly where he’d been waiting for me to once again. Heat crawled up my neck.
“This and that,” he said lightly.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s my favorite kind.”
I stared at him for a second, then scoffed and turned back to the glasses, sliding another into place just to give my hands something to do. “You’re very vague.”
“Occupational hazard.”
I glanced back at him over my shoulder. “But you’re at least telling me that you do more than haunt coffee shops and high roller rooms.”
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as though he was about to confess a state secret. “Sometimes I attend meetings,” he dramatically whispered. “And occasionally I even solve problems.”
I blinked at him. “That sounds fake.”
He grinned. “It sounds corporate, you mean.”
“You don’t look corporate,” I responded, thinking of his little knife incident.
“That’s devastating,” he murmured. “Because I’ve really been working on my spreadsheet persona.”
I shook my head, unable to stop the small laugh that slipped out. “So what, you sit in conference rooms and say things like, ‘Let’s circle back’?”
He considered that seriously. “Only when I want to frighten people.”
“That’s not frightening.”
“Usually it is,” he said.
I didn’t even know what he meant, but another short, startled laugh slipped out of me anyway—and that was apparently all the encouragement he needed.
“You’re being curious tonight,” he observed. “That’s new.”
“You keep appearing wherever I am,” I shot back. “I’m just doing basic background checks to make sure you’re not a psychopath.”
His head tilted slightly, his eyes narrowing in interest rather than offense. “Are you close to a conclusion?” he asked calmly.
I hesitated. “That depends.”
“On?”
“On whether you’re about to give me a normal answer to anything.”
“And what would you consider normal?” he asked.
“Something specific,” I said. “Something that doesn’t sound like you’re auditioning to be a mysterious villain . . . something like your name.” The words left my mouth before I could second-guess them.
He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, biting down slowly as if he were considering the weight of what I’d asked. “If I tell you that,” he said slowly, “it means we’re friends.”
My brows drew together. “That’s . . . an odd rule.”
He shrugged, completely unapologetic. “I have a few.”
“And what if I don’t want to be friends?”
He grinned confidently. “Then you won’t ask again, but just so you know, literally everyone wants to be my friend.”
I held his gaze, trying to figure out whether this was a game or a test. My pulse thudded traitorously in my ears.
“Fine,” I said at last, like I wasn’t giving anything away.
“Fine,” he echoed, still watching me as though he was cataloging the moment.
I turned back to the glasses, forcing my breathing to even out, pretending I hadn’t just stepped over another invisible boundary with a man who seemed to collect them like trophies.
A few seconds passed, and I assumed that was it as I listened to him move away from the bar. Then, just as I’d convinced myself I didn’t care—
“Jagger,” he called out casually.
My hand stilled mid-reach.
“That’s my name.”
And I didn’t know why that sent a chill down my spine.
But it did.
An hour later, my feet officially stopped cooperating.
I turned too quickly near the service station, and my heel caught on the edge of the carpet runner. My ankle wobbled, and for a split second I genuinely thought I was going down—tray, dignity, and all.
A hand shot out to steady my elbow. “Whoa there.”
I looked up, mortified, and found Carl staring at me.
“I’m fine,” I said immediately. “Totally fine.”
He didn’t look convinced. His usual harried expression was replaced with something almost . . . cautious.
“Eden,” he said carefully, his gaze dropping in what seemed to be a subtle scan of the room. “You can be done for the night.”
I froze. “What?”
“You’re good,” he repeated. “Go ahead and clock out.”
My stomach dropped in panic. “Did I do something?”
“No.” He shook his head quickly. “No, nothing like that. We just . . . overstaffed tonight.”
“It’s Friday.” I stared at him. “We don’t overstaff Fridays.”
He shifted his weight. “Well. Tonight we did.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall. “I still have three hours left.”
“You’ll be paid out,” he said quickly. “For the full shift.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“You’ll be paid out,” he repeated, a little more firmly this time. “And there’s a bonus.”
A bonus.
“For what?” I asked, well aware of the fact I needed to shut up but unable to stop questioning what was happening.
“For . . .” He cleared his throat. “Flexibility.”
I stared at him like he’d just started speaking another language. Carl did not give bonuses for flexibility. Carl barely approved of breathing breaks.
“I—” My brain scrambled to keep up. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” He nodded too fast. “Absolutely. Go home. Get some rest.”
Something about the way he said it made my chest tighten, and I hesitated for one more second before I nodded slowly. “Okay.”
He looked relieved, and that made me only more confused about what was happening.
I went to clock out, my hands slightly unsteady as I signed the slip and tucked the envelope into my bag. It felt thicker than the tips I usually went home with.
As I headed toward the employee exit, the noise of the casino swelling behind me, I tried to convince myself this was a coincidence. That overstaffing happened. That bonuses sometimes appeared out of nowhere.
But as I pushed through the door and the hot night air hit my face, one thought kept circling.
Jagger.
How he’d told me to go home. How he’d said maybe he would cover my rent.
I didn’t know how he would have done it.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t simply a coincidence.