Page 255 of Don’t Say Mafia

I picked at the edge of the plate, my appetite still a distant concept. But suddenly it wasn’t the food knotting my stomach.

It was the way he moved around my kitchen, like he intended to stay. The way he was looking at me. The way my body had gone to him yesterday without hesitation.

Like it recognized something before my brain had time to object.

That scared me. My husband had been in a morgue less than twenty-four hours ago. Wasn’t grief supposed to look a certain way? Weren’t widows supposed to wilt and withdraw . . . not lean into another man’s warmth like it was oxygen?

If I didn’t draw a line now, I wasn’t sure I’d be strong enough to later.

“I need to be clear about something,” I said, putting my fork down.

Jagger leaned back against the counter, his arms folded loosely as he watched me with an unreadable focus.

“We can only be friends,” I said, forcing the words out before I could lose my nerve. “I just lost my husband. I’m not . . . I’m not capable of anything else.”

For a second, the room was quiet except for the faint hiss of the window unit, already overworking in the heat. Then he smiled. It was a knowing tilt of his mouth as one eyebrow arched and he winked. “I know.”

The simplicity of it threw me more than if he’d argued.

“You don’t sound disappointed,” I said.

“Why would I?” he replied easily. “Friends are a good place to start.”

Something about the way he said it made my stomach tighten, as if he already knew how this would end and was content to let time do the work.

I looked back down at my plate, even more aware of him standing there . . . of how safe the apartment felt with him in it despite how little sense that made.

Friends, I reminded myself.

Just friends.

I could do that . . . right?

I managed a few bites before the weight of everything slammed back into me all at once, and my stomach clenched.

“Oh my gosh,” I said suddenly, pushing the plate away as I panicked. “I have a shift. I’m supposed to be at work in—” I glanced at the clock and sucked in a breath. “I’m already late.”

Jagger gathered the plate and glass before I could protest. “You don’t.”

“What do you mean, ‘I don’t’?” I asked, dread pooling in my chest. “I can’t just not show up. I need the hours.”

He rinsed the plate calmly as though this wasn’t a crisis at all. “You have the week off.”

I stared at his back. “That’s not funny.”

Jagger glanced over his shoulder, his expression mild. “I’m not joking.”

“I can’t afford that,” I said, the words coming out tight. “I can barely afford to breathe right now.”

He set the dish in the sink and turned to face me fully. “You’re getting bereavement pay.”

I squinted at him. “I’m getting what?”

“Bereavement pay,” he repeated easily, as if it were obvious. “It’s a policy.”

“I’ve worked there for years,” I said slowly, studying him. “No one’s ever mentioned that.”

He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Some policies aren’t advertised.”