I blanch. “What about my dad?” I blurt out.
A vein along Jagger’s temple pulses. “I left him breathing.”
Breathing? He left himbreathing? Wait. What the hell does that mean? My eyes widen. “Jagger?—”
He turns to me. Whatever amusement from our little bantering session from moments ago is absent. Reaching up, he drags his fingers along the side of my face, careful not to apply too much pressure. “He won’t touch you again.”
Part of me wants to ask for details. What he might’ve said to my dad. What he might’ve done to my dad. I scan him up and down again. If things were physical, it was clearly one-sided. Jagger looks as put together as always. Or maybe it’s why he fought with his brothers this morning? To cover any bruises that might arise? “Are you…are you okay?” I ask.
His mouth twitches. “I’m fine, Vi.” Reaching for something in his back pocket, he offers a worn envelope. It’s the same one from the haunted house. The same one my dad stole last night. My heart rate ratchets up at the sight while I fight the urge to snatch it from him and cradle it to my chest like it’s a newbornbaby. How did he get it? How did he convince my dad to give it back? Question after question spark through me, leaving me speechless and grateful and confused and?—
“Take it,” he murmurs.
My attention snaps to his dark eyes. “Jagger…”
“Take it,” he repeats.
He’s giving it to me. My money. Hell, it’s not only my money. It’s so much more. It’s my laptop. My freedom. My lifeline. My security. The list goes on and on. And it might not mean much to a guy like Jagger. A man who literally has everything he could ever want. But to me? To me, it’s everything. My eyes burn with gratitude, but I swallow past the lump in my throat, refusing to cry over something so…silly. “Thank you,” I murmur.
Our fingers graze as I reach for the envelope. Relief. Exuberance. Disbelief. They all fight for the spotlight as a heavy weight is lifted from my shoulders. He got it back for me.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he says with a wry lift of his lips, “I’m gonna help carry your shit to your new apartment so Ford can’t take all the credit again.”
Jagger takes a step toward his truck, but I reach for his arm, stopping him. “One more question,” I interrupt.
His gaze slides to me, and he waits.
“How did you know where I lived?” I ask.
“Your old house or this one?”
“Both.”
“Old house was Roman’s doing. This one was mine. Any more questions?”
This one was mine?
Is he serious?
Shaking my head, I let him go and tuck my hair behind my ear. “What do you mean this one was your doing? Ms. Thomas called me like three weeks ago.”
He glances up at the student housing and folds his arms. The movement highlights the man’s bulging biceps and corded forearms in a way that is seriously unfair. “Guess we’ll never know.” Bending closer, he brushes his lips against the shell of my ear. “By the way, this makes it three.”
“Three?”
“You now owe me three times,” he clarifies with a gruffness that tugs at my lower belly. “But don’t worry.” A wicked gleam hits his eyes. “I’ll wait ‘til you’re healed before I come to collect.”
“Stop makin’ out and help us carry this shit!” Ford yells from behind us.
Pulling away, Jagger chuckles softly and shakes his head. “Come on.”
We walk back to his truck as Ford grabs the last box from the back. “Too late,” he adds.
Jagger laughs. “You interrupted our conversation just to prove you were the one to grab the last box? You serious?”
Ford grins over his shoulder but doesn’t stop his assent up the stairs. “As ED.”
Really? Again?
