Page 49 of Broken Pact

“Yeah, baby, you said we gotta do couple-y things, PDA and all that. Let the town see we’re together for real, right? Make sure your shitbag ex gets green enough to eat crow.”

“And a haunted tour of Grand Avenue checks all those boxes?”

He slips the tickets into his back pocket and pushes off the counter. “It’s a start.”

The bell above the door rings, and I feel like I blink and Jagger’s halfway in front of me. I look from Mrs. Weatherby in the doorway to him and back again.

“Coraline, dear, I know I’m early, but I was in the neighborhood and I—” She stops herself when she spots Jagger. “Oh my, what a surprise it is to see you here.” Her gaze ping-pongs between the two of us, a knowing grin on her face.

One that promises all kinds of trouble.

My gut tightens uncomfortably, and I glance at Jagger, surprised to see his smile matches Mrs. Weatherby’s.

Sly and secretive, like the two of them are in on some joke.

I shake off my suspicions and round the front counter. “No problem, Mrs. Weatherby. Let me package up your tartlets. I think you’re going to be happy with how they turned out.”

Jagger’s hand lashes out, banding around my bicep and stopping me in my tracks. I start, turning my head to send him a dark glare.

“I’ll pick you up tonight at seven, yeah?”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer, lifting my chin with his index finger and dropping a soft kiss against the corner of my mouth.

“Oh my,” Mrs. Weatherby gasps.

As he leaves, I allow myself a small smile. Maybe, just maybe, this whole pretending thing won’t be so bad after all.

24

CORALINE

“Remind me again how a private ghost tour counts as a public date?”

My brows dip down low over my eyes as I look at the imposing figure of Grand Avenue. The moon shines in the background, bright and full in the sky behind the old building. Honestly, it should be a paid actor for the ambiance it adds to their haunted tour.

“They’ll be other people there,” he reasons, reaching out and snagging my hand.

He laces our fingers together, and I pretend like it doesn’t affect me at all.

“And you can do one of your sneaky stories on socials. You know, to let that asshole and any other delusional dumbass know you’re taken.”

I pivot on the ball of my foot to face him, planting my feet wide but leaving us connected by the hands. I narrow my eyes at him. “Why do you want to be on my socials? Aren’t you satisfied with your hundreds of thousands of followers?”

His full lips spread into a satisfied smile. “You checkin up on me, baby?”

My hand falls to hang by my side, and I bristle with embarrassment. When he parrots my words back to me with that-that-that insinuation, it makes me think that’s how I sound to him. Which couldn’t be further from the truth.

His gaze locks onto my hand for a moment, like he’s personally offended it's no longer intertwined with his. He blinks one slow sweep of his dark lashes and looks back at my face again.

“You look like the type of person who flaunts”—I vaguely flutter my fingers toward his six-pack currently hidden underneath a black tee—“all that.”

I would rather eat glass than tell him yes, I do look at his profile from time to time. I keep thinking he’s going to start posting himself on there, and then, well, I don’t know what I would do if I had to watch thousands of people fawning all over him in his comment section.

It’s unfair since this isn’t even a real relationship. And I’d like to think that I wouldn’t ever put a demand on someone like that if it were real.

But . . . I can’t help the dark streak of jealousy that ziplines through me when I think of him with other women.

Also, every time I even get the barest whisper of that suggestion, my brain helpfully reminds me of the scene I walked in on a few years ago.

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