Page 277 of Don’t Say Mafia

Jagger never looks at me like that, an unwelcome voice reminded me.

His gaze had never made me feel pitiful. It had never skimmed over me like I was an unfortunate thing. When he looked at me, it felt as though I was the only real thing in the room. Like I was his top choice, not a charity case, or a cautionary tale.

My stomach dipped at the thought of it, and I straightened my shoulders and stepped toward my next table before I could unpack that too far.

Jagger walked in around midnight.

I knew it was him before I really saw him because my body reacted first. A tightening low in my stomach, a hitch in my breath . . . a shiver skating down my spine as if I’d just stepped into cold water.

I looked up automatically and blinked because it was immediately obvious that this wasn’t the easy, teasing version of him tonight, the one who leaned against counters and smirked like the world amused him.

He wasn’t wearing his jacket, just a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the fabric stretched clean and tight over muscle. His tie hung loose around his neck, the knot tugged down like he’d stopped pretending to care about appearances somewhere along the way. His hair had fallen slightly forward, the strands brushing his forehead in a way that somehow made him look more dangerous. Like he’d already been somewhere else tonight. Done something else. And this was the version of him that showed up afterward.

When he slid into the booth in my section, he didn’t ease into it. He sprawled, one arm stretching along the back of the leather seat and his long legs claiming the floor beneath the table. The loosened tie and rolled sleeves should have made him look relaxed.

Instead, he looked like a king who’d taken off his crown because he didn’t need it.

I swallowed and forced myself to look away, my pulse thudding. This was not the Jagger I knew. This was not the man who’d been gentle with my grief, who’d distracted me when the silence got too loud, who’d made me laugh when it felt like laughing would crack me open.

This Jagger looked like he hadn’t slept and he was riding some kind of razor-thin line.

I made myself continue working like nothing had changed. I greeted guests, delivered drinks, smiled at men who tipped too little and leaned too close, and laughed in the right places like nothing inside me had shifted.

But every time I passed his booth, I felt him there.

Watching.

He didn’t scroll through his phone. Didn’t pretend to study a menu or glance at the machines nearby. He wasn’t gambling. He just sat there, his gaze steady and intent as I moved through my section.

When I finally got the courage to step up to his booth, I was sure I’d never experienced such an intense stare.

There was something hot and restless burning behind his eyes, and another shiver slid under my skin before I could stop it.

“Hi,” I said, because good evening felt wrong between us, like that would be us pretending we were strangers when we weren’t.

His eyes didn’t soften. If anything, they burned brighter, tracking every inch of my face like he was memorizing it again, like the time between this morning, when he’d brought me breakfast, and tonight had rewritten something fundamental.

“Hey,” he replied in a voice that was rougher than I was used to hearing. The sound of it curled straight through me.

“What can I get you?” I asked, folding my hands loosely in front of me so he wouldn’t see the way my fingers wanted to fidget.

“Whiskey, neat,” he said, and there was no smile or teasing add-on. No Dealer’s choice or Surprise me, like he most likely would’ve said before. I nodded and turned away. The awareness of him followed me across the floor, that burning stare a tangible thing at my back.

When I returned to his table and set the glass down, his hand shifted just slightly, close enough that the heat of his body brushed my knuckles. I inhaled sharply at the touch, and that was when I caught it . . . his scent.

It wrapped around me before I could stop it, sliding under my skin like it had been waiting.

That was what I’d been smelling in my apartment, morning after morning.

I straightened up quickly, my nerves skidding sideways. How had that happened? He’d barely been inside more than a handful of times. Those had been quick visits, brief conversations in cramped rooms, and yet, somehow, he’d lingered.

In the air and in my sheets. In my fucking senses every hour of the day.

“You’re back,” he said, not looking particularly pleased at that fact.

“Yeah,” I replied, a little snappier than I meant. “I decided that bereavement leave was very kind . . . but it was better for me to keep busy.”

He looked like he wanted to say something about that, but instead, he leaned back. “You shouldn’t be here,” he finally murmured, a little growl in his voice.