Page 46 of Broken Pact

“Two then.”

“One, and it’s in public,” she counters quickly.

“Deal. Rule two: you have to meet my mom. Video chatting is acceptable, but if she shows up here, then an in-person meal is required.”

“She doesn’t live here?” She tilts her head to the side.

“Nah, she’s in Louisiana. But she’s not gonna believe us if you don’t work on your acting skills, baby.”

The only time she isn’t throwing sass is when my tongue is down her throat. And while I think Ma will be absolutely delighted to see Coraline, so will my hard cock when she’s rubbing up on me. And those two things should never be in the same sentence, let alone the same room.

She purses her lips together, thinking over her options, no doubt. “Fine. What other rules do you have?”

“Just those two. I’m easy, baby.”

She hums under her breath for a moment. “Good. Then here are my rules: No over the top PDA?—”

“What do you classify as over the top? Making out? Ass grabbing? What if I throw you over my shoulders and stalk down the street with my hand on your ass?”

She huffs. “I think you can figure it out.”

“I know that’s not it, baby, so let’s hear ’em.” I raise my hand, palm upward, and curl my fingers in a beckoning motion.

She lifts that proud chin of hers. “No sleepovers, no hooking up or flirting with anyone else while we’re doing . . . this. And absolutely no falling in love.”

I can’t help but grin at the last part, even as it stings. “That’s quite the list. Anything else? Should I make sure to bring you breakfast every morning?”

Her lips twitch, a reluctant smile breaking through. “I’m serious, Jagger.”

“I know you are.” I step closer, my voice softening. “And I’ll play by your rules. Just know, it’s already a challenge keeping my hands off you. The rest of it? I’ll figure it out.”

23

CORALINE

The morning sun filters through the bakery’s windows, casting a warm glow over the polished countertops and the racks of freshly baked mini tartlets. I’m elbow-deep in raspberries and walnuts, working on Mrs. Weatherby’s special order.

Vegan raspberry cheesecake with a toasted walnut crust.

The aroma of vanilla and crushed raspberries fills the air, a comforting reminder of why I love this place so much. But today, the usual peace of my morning routine is overshadowed by the whirlwind of last night.

Folk music serenades me through the speakers, giving words and sounds to my conflicted emotions.

I left the clubhouse in a daze. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, my libido cooled by the sheer absurdity of the situation. I still can’t believe I was the one to kiss him first.

I keep telling myself it was self-preservation. If people are going to believe we’re really dating—if Grant’s going to believe it and leave me alone—then we have to be believable. Which means I can’t snap at Jagger all the time. And I have to be comfortable with his touch.

So, my subconscious was just testing me, right? I realize now just how ridiculous my proposed no touching rule was.

I roll out the walnut dough with more force than necessary, trying to push the memory of Jagger’s smug grin and those damn sweatpants out of my mind.

Honestly, gray sweatpants have no business being so attractive on a man.

But the way he looked at me, like he could see right through my bravado, made my heart race in a way that both excited and terrified me.

I half-expected him to charge after me and demand we go on a public date right then. He seemed so, I don’t know, eager, before. I hate that I feel disappointed he didn’t track me down yet.

Which is seriously so stupid.

---