CHAPTER 28
EDEN
Somehow, after the boutique chaos and the “non-girlfriend” debate that I was absolutely reopening later, we’d ended up at one of Paradise’s absurdly expensive hotel buffets that was technically closed but very much open for its owners, Jagger and, it turned out . . .his friends.
The men seemed to be treating it like a competitive sport.
Maddox had stacked his plate as though he was preparing for winter. “If it fits,” he said solemnly, balancing three carving-station steaks on top of one another, “it sits.”
“That’s not how plates work,” I told him, reaching for another crab leg.
“It is today,” Lawson replied, already on his second dessert before finishing his first entrée. He pointed his fork at me. “Get the crème br?lée. Trust me.”
“I don’t trust men who wear board shorts,” I shot back.
He looked down at himself. “You say that, but I bet your mind changes when you find out the store’s website described this outfit as coastal elegance.”
Cruz carved a slice of prime rib with surgical precision. “Ignore him. He once tried to get us to invest in alpacas. He can’t be trusted with anything.”
“Least of all clothes,” Maddox muttered, like Lawson’s wardrobe was a long-standing grievance between them. Maddox was dressed immaculately in a tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, and gold cuff links without a wrinkle in sight despite the fact that he was currently devouring half a cow.
I bit back a smile.
“That alpaca was actually a tax strategy,” Lawson argued.
“I didn’t save any money on taxes when I owned one,” Maddox complained. “And I almost lost a finger.”
I couldn’t stop my smile this time, trying to imagine Maddox in his suit, wrangling an alpaca.
Lawson noticed I was struggling and shot me a wink.
Which then earned him a death glare from Jagger because, evidently, winking at me wasn’t allowed, even with him sitting next to me with one hand attached to my hip.
Jagger and his friends were all loud and competitive, mocking one another relentlessly over shrimp cocktail and caviar. But underneath it—there was something else.
When Maddox reached for a plate that was about to slip, Cruz caught it without looking. When Lawson choked laughing at his own joke, Jagger shoved a glass of water toward him automatically.
It wasn’t forced or performative. It was easy. I’d never seen anything like it.
Ryan’s friends had been friends in the loosest of forms. They’d been users who’d enjoyed ruining his life. They’d hovered around him like satellites, waiting for whatever they could siphon off.
Jagger’s friends seemed nothing like that.
I cracked open another crab leg, the shell giving way with a satisfying snap, and watched the easy chaos unfold around me.
Maddox was now trying to balance a fourth steak on his teetering pile while Cruz calmly transferred a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto Maddox’s plate like a concerned parent.
Lawson had moved on to chocolate mousse, spooning it straight from the serving bowl with zero shame.
I couldn’t help it. A small laugh escaped me, and they all looked up.
Jagger’s thumb paused its slow circle on my hip. “What’s funny?” he asked softly.
I shook my head, still smiling. “You guys. You’re all ridiculous. But . . . you’re also kind of perfect together.”
Lawson snorted. “‘Perfect’? I’m not sure people usually use that word to describe us, but I’ll take it.”
Cruz raised his glass in mock salute. “To the Syndicate of Dysfunction.”
Jagger scoffed at the title and shot Cruz a pointed look. Cruz raised a mocking eyebrow at him as something unsaid passed between them that I didn’t understand.
Maddox lifted his overloaded plate like a trophy, distracting me. “To the famiglia,” he said, grinning at Jagger in a similar way as Cruz. Jagger rolled his eyes.
I was positive that Maddox wasn’t Italian, and I certainly wasn’t, but I still recognized the word. Family.
I looked around the table at the men who’d just spent the last hour giving one another unrelenting shit and yet somehow still managing to make sure everyone had what they needed.
Maddox had quietly slid an extra crab leg onto Lawson’s plate when he wasn’t looking.
Cruz had refilled Jagger’s coffee without being asked.
Jagger’s hand hadn’t left my hip once, like he needed the contact as much as I did.
I’d never had anything like this.
And suddenly the ache in my chest wasn’t just grief anymore. It was longing. For this. For people who didn’t leave. For a place where I might actually belong.
I glanced at Jagger. He was watching me again, like always, and once again it felt as if he could see straight through every wall I’d ever built. His thumb resumed its slow circle on my hip, grounding me without words.
I swallowed and looked back at the table. “How do you all know each other?” I asked quietly.
Cruz leaned back, smirking. “Believe it or not, Jagger and I met at an investment bank in New York. We started together—two hungry bastards in suits, thinking we could outsmart the system.”
Jagger’s mouth curved. “We did.”
“For a while,” Cruz added. “Then we decided the entrepreneur life was more our speed. Less suits, more . . . creative problem-solving.”
Lawson snorted. “Can I point out that you both still wear suits most of the time?”
Jagger threw a dinner roll at him, and he grinned.
Cruz ignored them both, keeping his eyes on me. “We found the others along the way. Maddox is my cousin and does most of our operations work. Lawson handles the tech side, and our friend Gage . . .” He grinned again like something else was funny. “Gage is a silent investor.”
Lawson nodded with exaggerated seriousness. “That’s one way to say it.”
I glanced at Jagger, confused. “Gage works for the FBI,” he explained.
“Really?”
Jagger nodded and laughed at my reaction. “He has to work a lot, so you won’t see him as much as the others.”
The guys were all smiling like there was still something else happening here, but I was still too tipsy on champagne to really care.
Lawson set his glass down and pushed his chair back a little. “We’re boring her.”
“I’m not bored,” I said quickly.
“We need some competition,” Cruz cut in as if I hadn’t spoken.
Lawson’s eyes lit up. “Cards?”
“Finally,” Maddox muttered, already standing.
Jagger looked at me, his eyes narrowing playfully. “Do you know how to play?”
I smirked. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
His grin widened. “That confidence makes me nervous.” His hand tightened once at my hip before he stood, guiding me up with him.
“It should,” I teased.
Jagger’s hand stayed on my lower back as we left the buffet and walked into a private card room I hadn’t ever seen before.
His palm was warm through the fabric of my dress, his fingers splayed wide enough to feel possessive without being obvious to anyone watching.
Every step made the silk shift against my skin, reminding me of the lingerie I was wearing underneath that I hadn’t changed out of at the boutique.
I tried to focus on the conversation around us—Maddox complaining about something Lawson had done, Cruz dryly suggesting they play for real money this time—but my attention kept slipping.
Jagger’s thumb was moving again, tracing slow, lazy circles over the small of my back, just above where the dress dipped low.
Each pass sent heat pooling lower, making me hyperaware of how damp my thong already was and how sensitive my clit felt with every brush of lace.
He leaned in as we walked, his lips brushing the shell of my ear so only I could hear. “We’re only staying for a few hands,” he murmured. “I have plans.”
My pulse stuttered. The words were quiet and innocent enough on their own, but the way he said them made my thighs clench. I knew exactly what kind of plans he had. The kind that involved his hands, his mouth, his cock, and me screaming his name until my voice gave out.
I glanced up at him, a shy smile tugging at my lips despite the heat still simmering under my skin.
I was so ready for his plans.
A card hit the felt, and Lawson threw both arms in the air. “That’s how you do it.”
Maddox swore and slid chips across the table. Gage, who had appeared a few minutes after we’d come into the room, leaned back, studying the spread like he could undo it through sheer focus. Cruz barely reacted as he adjusted his stack with quiet precision.
I smiled, watching Lawson enjoy his very temporary moment.
Two days ago, I would’ve been standing behind him with a tray balanced on my palm, tracking whose drink was low and who needed another refill. I would’ve memorized their betting rhythms without ever touching the cards myself.
Now, my elbows rested on the table, and chips were stacked neatly in front of me.
And I was winning.
“Your turn,” Maddox said, glancing at me.
The dealer slid two cards my way, and I picked them up smoothly, barely lifting them from the surface.
In high school, my math teacher had turned poker into a lesson plan—applied probability, expected value, risk assessment under uncertainty.
We’d calculated outcomes on whiteboards before we ever shuffled a deck.
The class had loved it so much that we started an after-school club, setting up metal chairs around a table and playing until the janitor kicked us out.
I didn’t need to look at Jagger for reassurance.
Cruz was still riding the high of his last hand; it showed in the way he tossed chips forward without hesitation. Maddox tightened up after a loss. Gage observed everyone but sometimes overanalyzed when the stakes climbed. Lawson concealed everything—until the very end.
The first three community cards hit the table, and I had to force myself not to smile. I added to the pot without pause.
Cruz’s eyes narrowed. “That was quick.”
“Should I stall for suspense?” I asked.
“Bluffing already,” Maddox muttered.
“I don’t bluff,” I said lightly.
Jagger’s hand settled against my knee beneath the table, and I had to forcefully ignore it so I wasn’t distracted. Another card turned, and Gage tapped his cards with his thumb. There it was . . . I matched his raise.
Lawson studied me, his gaze narrowing slightly. “You caught Gage.”
Gage looked up immediately. “Caught me doing what?”
I grinned, and Maddox’s mouth twitched. “You’ve been exposed.”
“I have not been exposed,” Gage said flatly.
Lawson folded his hands on the table. “You’ve got something you do.”
“I don’t do anything. It’s literally my job to not do anything,” Gage snapped, looking highly offended.
Jagger made a scoffing sound beside me, and Gage turned toward him. “Don’t encourage this.”
“I’m not,” Jagger replied, though the corner of his mouth said otherwise.
Gage pointed at me. “Are we talking an eye twitch? A lip bite? A weird breathing thing?”
“Everyone breathes weird,” Maddox said. “So that’s not it.”
I snorted and tucked my cards closer to my chest. “Let’s keep playing. I’m not telling you what you do because then you’ll fix it.”
Gage leaned back in his chair, folding his arms and pouting. “I don’t like this.”
“Yes, it’s tragic,” Cruz said as the final card landed.
Silence gathered over the table.
Cruz looked at the table. Then at me. Then back at the table again like it might rearrange itself out of pity.
“You’re fucking kidding.”
I laid my hand down without ceremony.
Maddox stared at the spread with visible irritation. Gage swore under his breath. Lawson gave me a small nod that felt less like surprise and more like acknowledgment.
“Well,” Cruz said slowly, pushing his chips toward me, “that’s unfortunate.”
I gathered the pot, stacking my winnings into a tower that was beginning to look excessive.
That made four. Four hands in a row.
Cruz dragged both hands down his face. “This is statistically offensive.”
“Technically—” I began.
“Don’t,” he cut in.
Maddox leaned back, studying me with renewed attention. “She isn’t even thinking about it anymore.”
“She’s thinking,” Lawson corrected. “She’s just faster.”
Gage shook his head. “I’m being targeted.”
“You’re being outplayed,” Cruz replied.
I smiled faintly as I adjusted my stack.
Next to me, Jagger had gone quiet. He’d been loose and careless in the first two rounds—over-betting, chasing hands he shouldn’t have chased, throwing chips forward like they were decorative. If I had to guess, he probably lost an obscene amount of money in the high roller rooms on a regular basis.
He wasn’t bad at reading people, he was bad at patience. Which made this infinitely more satisfying.
Jagger wasn’t looking at the cards, though; he was watching me. His fingers brushed against my wrist as I reached forward again, the contact firm and claiming without drawing attention. He leaned closer, his mouth near my ear. “That’s enough.”
I turned my head slightly. “‘Enough’?”
“For tonight.”
Cruz caught the shift immediately. “What’s enough?”
Jagger sat back. “We’ve been playing for hours. We’re done for the evening.”
A wave of protest rose around the table.
“She doesn’t get to leave now,” Gage said.
Maddox nodded. “We were adjusting.”
“We were about to recover,” Lawson said smoothly.
Maddox pointed at Jagger. “You can’t pull her when she’s on a run.”
Jagger didn’t look remotely apologetic. “Watch me.”
Cruz leaned back in his chair, eyeing him with a knowing grin. “I’d actually say it’s way past time to go, don’t you think?”
Heat climbed up my neck at his implication, but Jagger just stood and offered me his hand. “They’ll make sure you’re cashed out,” he murmured, nodding at the guys, who were all giving us various versions of smirks.
Jagger’s hand settled at my waist as we stepped away from the table and walked toward the door.
“This isn’t over,” Cruz called after us.
I glanced back over my shoulder. “I look forward to taking all your money next time,” I said.
Laughter followed us from the room, but my focus was no longer divided between cards and competition.
All I could focus on was the heat of his body beside me, the way his stride matched mine perfectly . . . the way his thumb kept tracing that same slow circle over my skin like he couldn’t stop touching me.
We didn’t speak, but we didn’t need to. The promise was in every step, every brush of his hand, every glance he slid my way.
Whatever happened next . . . I was finally ready.