CHAPTER 19
EDEN
Iwoke slowly, the kind of slow that only came after real, uninterrupted sleep.
For a moment, I stayed where I was, suspended in the unfamiliar luxury of feeling rested. My body felt loose instead of braced, my head clear instead of humming with low-grade dread.
I hadn’t slept this deeply in . . . I couldn’t even remember. Maybe I’d never slept like this, not without jolting awake at every sound. Not without listening for a door slamming, a bottle clanging, or footsteps pacing.
This week, though, my body had simply . . . let go.
And that realization carried a thin thread of guilt through the calm.
It felt wrong that I was finally resting now. That my muscles weren’t braced for whatever Ryan might do next. For the next spiral. The next apology. The next crash. It was as if my nervous system had quietly decided the watch was over and understood it no longer had to stand guard.
I took a deep breath and frowned.
The scent slid in so subtly I didn’t register it at first—until my stomach clenched in response.
Clean and dark and impossibly good, it moved through the air, settling low in my body before my brain could catch up.
Heat flared in my chest, an instinctive reaction that made no sense and felt embarrassingly intimate.
The smell was everywhere, threaded through every breath I took. It made my pulse pick up, and my breath deepen . . . I sat up, unsettled. This was the third morning that I’d smelled it.
The first time, I’d told myself it was nothing. The second morning, I’d laughed it off again, and chalked it up to my brain inventing things because it wanted to feel something.
But three mornings in a row felt like more than coincidence.
Swinging my legs out of bed, I stood and scanned the room as if the answer might be hiding somewhere obvious. The window was shut, though, and a quick glance toward the front door showed me it was still locked. Everything was exactly as it had been before bed.
I pressed my fingers to my throat and swallowed. “You’re imagining it,” I murmured, though the words didn’t quite convince me.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
My heart lifted instantly at the sound, and even though I knew I shouldn’t be this excited to see him, I still practically raced toward the door. I pulled it open . . . and the anticipation of seeing Jagger drained out of me immediately.
An older gentleman stood in the hallway, his silver hair neatly combed and his dark suit pressed to perfection. He balanced a covered tray in one hand and held a dozen lush red roses in the other.
“Can I help you?” I asked, staring at him confused.
“Hi, Ms. Thorne. My name is Zachary. I work for Jagger Thatcher. These are for you,” he replied with a warm smile as he handed me the roses. I stared at them in shock. No one had ever given me flowers before, and certainly not a dozen roses.
“May I?” he asked, holding up the tray. I realized he wanted to set it down, and I moved to the side so he could step through the doorframe and set the tray on the counter. Whatever was beneath the cover smelled delicious, but it was that other scent I kept catching every time I inhaled.
Stepping back out the door, he reached into his jacket and produced a sleek, fancy new cell phone.
“This is also for you,” he said, holding it out. “Mr. Thatcher asked that you have it. He would like you to use this phone.”
My fingers curled reflexively at my side. “Why? I have a phone.”
Zachary’s expression remained pleasant. “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Thatcher mentioned that. He simply felt you deserved an upgrade.”
“Mine works,” I said, a little too quickly. “It makes calls.”
“I’m sure it does,” he replied kindly. “But this one has better reception, a proper camera, access to maps, rideshare services, banking apps—things that make life easier. He thought you shouldn’t have to struggle with a device that freezes when you try to open a text thread.”
I blinked. “It does not—”
He tilted his head politely.
“Okay, sometimes . . .” I muttered.
“He also asked that you use this one so he can reach you directly,” he continued. “No missed messages. No dropped calls. He travels frequently and prefers . . . reliability.”
That didn’t sound criminal. It sounded annoyingly thoughtful, actually.
“I don’t need anything this fancy,” I said, though my voice had softened.
“It isn’t about fancy,” he replied. “It’s about convenience. He said you’ve had enough inconvenience lately.”
My stomach did that strange little dip again.
“He’s already programmed his number in,” Zachary added. “And a few contacts in case you ever need assistance with anything—car trouble, repairs, scheduling.”
My fingers twitched, and I almost reached for it.
It would be so nice not to have dropped calls anymore .
. . to not have to stand by a window and angle my cheap phone toward the sky like I was begging the gods for a signal.
Not to mention internet . . . although, there was no way I could pay for a plan with that.
No. I couldn’t take it. That would be too much, right? That would be stepping over a line I definitely shouldn’t cross, not with my husband gone just a few days.
“I can’t take the phone,” I finally said. “I really can’t.”
Zachary didn’t look flustered. If anything, he looked mildly amused, as if this was a step he’d already anticipated. He glanced down at the device in his hand just as it rang.
He lifted his brows at me. “That would be Mr. Thatcher. And he asked me to mention he’ll simply keep calling until you answer.”
I exhaled through my nose, equal parts irritated and touched, then reached for the phone because apparently my pride had limits. I lifted it to my ear.
“Jagger,” I said, and the way my voice softened annoyed me instantly.
“There’s that gorgeous voice,” Jagger said, sounding pleased, like he’d just won a bet with himself.
I closed my eyes. “I can’t take the phone.”
“I knew you’d try to fight it,” he replied easily. “You’re predictable that way. Stubborn first and practical second. Acceptance comes later.”
“I’m serious,” I said. “I don’t want it.”
“Mm-hmm,” he hummed, unconcerned. “Friends have each other’s numbers.”
I scoffed before I could stop myself. “Red roses don’t exactly scream friends.”
“They don’t?” he asked innocently. I could hear the smile in his voice now. “That’s odd. I distinctly remember telling the florist friends. Maybe she misheard. Or maybe roses are just . . . friendly flowers.”
“They’re romantic,” I shot back. “Anyone who’s ever read a romance book knows that.”
“Well,” he said, “that feels like a matter of interpretation. I’ll have to read those books and figure out what they’re talking about. Although . . . if you want to call the roses romantic, I totally won’t object.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You can’t honestly pretend this is normal.”
“I’m not pretending anything,” Jagger replied. “I’m being very transparent. I like having a way to reach you. I like knowing you can reach me. And I don’t see why we’d make that complicated.”
“You don’t see why,” I repeated flatly.
“Not even a little?” he said cheerfully. “You’ll probably use it to tell me off. I’m comfortable with that risk. I’ll enjoy it.”
I glanced at the roses, then the phone in my hand, then at Zachary, who had very politely started pretending he was fascinated by the decrepit hallway stairs.
“Jagger,” I muttered.
“We’re allowed to be friends who enjoy each other.” His voice dropped into something delicious that made me want to rub my thighs together.
I let out a long breath. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he said lightly, “you’re still holding the phone.”
The silence stretched, and I was aware of how intimate it had become.
“You’re keeping it,” he said firmly.
I stared at the screen, then at the roses again, then at the perfectly composed man standing a few feet away, waiting like he had all the time in the world.
“Fine,” I said, “I’ll keep the phone.”
The pause on the other end of the line was filled with smug satisfaction.
“Good,” Jagger said. “Now, eat breakfast before my driver cries.”
I blinked. “Before who cries?”
“Zachary,” he said. “He hates watching food go cold. It makes him emotional.”
My gaze slid to the older gentleman in front of me, who stood as straight-backed and unreadable as ever, his expression giving absolutely nothing away.
Somehow, I didn’t think that would be a problem.
“I think he’ll survive,” I said dryly.
A quiet chuckle hummed through the phone. “I wouldn’t bet against him.”
I shook my head, a reluctant smile tugging at my mouth despite myself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’ll see you later, friend,” he murmured. The call ended before I’d stopped swooning.
I lowered the phone slowly and looked back at the man in front of me. “I’m keeping it,” I said, like I needed to say it out loud to make it real.
Zachary’s mouth curved into a knowing grin, the first crack in his composure since he’d arrived.
“You’ll find,” he said lightly, “that Mr. Thatcher is very persuasive . . . and he usually gets what he wants.”
My stomach tightened as I looked down at the phone that was now in my hand.
Yes.
That was exactly what I was worried about.