Page 164 of Don’t Say Mafia

A burst of wind slammed into my face, whipping my hair back as the roar of an engine cut through the night. I blinked against it, stepping forward instinctively—and realized I wasn’t staring at a hallway.

I was standing on the roof.

The night sky stretched wide above the building, the Las Vegas skyline glittering in every direction. And directly in front of the elevator, a helicopter waited with its blades already spinning, the rotors slicing through the air in a thunderous rhythm that whipped the wind around me.

“Ready to go?” The words came from behind me, and I startled and turned.

Jagger was standing just inside the elevator doorway. I hadn’t even heard him coming over the roar. His shirtsleeves were pushed up, the dark fabric rippling in the wind, and his hair was already tousled as if he’d been standing out here for quite some time.

He looked amused by my shock, and my heart did something erratic in my chest. “What is this?” I asked as he stepped forward and pulled me into him. He smiled down at me like I was adorable.

“Happy anniversary.”

I blinked. “What?”

“We’ve been together for three months today.”

I stared at him. “We have not been together for three months.”

His brow lifted slightly. “Haven’t we?”

“No,” I said, almost laughing. “And you know that.”

“Three months ago,” he said, leaning closer so I could hear him over the blades, “you walked into my high roller room.”

My stomach dipped.

“And I knew,” he continued quietly. “I knew I had to have you.”

The words sent a breath-stealing rush through me. “That’s insane,” I whispered.

“Probably.” His hands tightened just slightly at my waist. “Doesn’t make it less true.”

I searched his face, half expecting a joke . . . but there wasn’t one. “So you’ve just been . . . counting from that night?” I asked.

“Yes.”

My heart pounded. “That’s not how relationships work.”

“It is for me.”

The rotor wash surged harder, and he stepped closer, shielding me instinctively with his body.

“Three months since the first time I saw you,” he said, his voice dropping. “Three months since I decided you were mine.”

“Jagger,” I whispered, swooning despite all the red flags this man continued to give me. Why did it somehow feel romantic when he did things like handcuff me to him or casually declare that our relationship had begun the first time we met—when I was still married?

A therapist could probably answer this.

He grinned, probably knowing exactly what I was thinking. “Come on, Eden,” he said. “Let’s celebrate and go for a ride.”

And standing there, with the wind whipping around us and the city glowing beneath us, I realized something terrifyingly simple. I would follow Jagger Thatcher anywhere.

He guided me toward the helicopter with one hand firm on my lower back. The pilot nodded at us as Jagger helped me inside. The interior was sleek and surprisingly intimate, with leather seats facing each other. A small bucket of champagne sat secured between them.

“At two in the morning?” I asked as he climbed in after me.

“Time is a suggestion,” he replied, fastening my headset over my ears before pouring two glasses with steady hands despite the vibration.