4. Summer
Chapter 4
Summer
H e’s not buying it.
Jeez . His contemplation pierces like daggers. They’ve sliced right through my words.
What does he expect? He emailed my boss about his dissatisfaction with my voicemail. My Monday morning became a whole lot more complicated when Principal Green poked his head into my classroom telling me he wanted a meeting. Getting dragged to the principal’s office, no matter my age, still knots my stomach.
He’s clearly wealthy from the shine of his shoes and open suit jacket with an expensive tie. Despite my teacher’s salary, I know brand names. I’m not a stranger to the swagger of these businessmen who think they walk on water.
But there’s a ruggedness to this man. Most likely in his late thirties—he looks good. Really good. He has a striking and sharply defined jaw, paired with seductive deep green eyes and tufts of reddish-brown hair. The stubble along his chin mimics the color of his hair, adding a rough edge to his clean-cut features.
The man towers over my five feet three inches, but I don’t back down. His lips quirk with the slightest smile, and my erratic heartbeats flutter all the way down into my stomach.
Jeez .
Holding his gaze is almost painful, but I rack my arms across my chest again and his gaze dips before it snaps back up at me.
“I see,” he finally says. His jaw flexes, and his muscled frame tenses as he continues, “I accept yer apology .”
I blink. That’s it? From the frantic conversation I had with Principal Green before Mr. O’Donnell arrived—ten minutes late—I was sure this man was going to try to have me fired. He accepts my?—
“Well,” Principal Green interjects. “I’m glad that’s settled.”
I open my mouth but close it quickly when I realize Mr. O’Donnell’s focus is still on me. They narrow farther, roaming over my face.
“Do I know ya?”
“No,” I respond too quickly. “I mean … I’m your daughter’s teacher.” Surely, I met him at the open house. However, that night I was pulled in twenty different directions. I would’ve remembered meeting him. His presence sucks the air out of the room. Even now I can’t breathe.
“Have I met ye before, though? Ye look familiar.”
I swallow the knot stuck in my throat. He couldn’t know?—
I’d recognize him from those circles, wouldn’t I? I left at seventeen, lost in my world. I never cared about much except that next high or limelight party. I shudder at my past self.
What did Principal Green say Mr. O’Donnell did? Oh, that’s right, restaurants. “I may have been to one of your places of business. It’s my understanding you own quite a few.” I offer him a smile, but it doesn’t seem to faze him.
“Aye.” He purses his lips.
“Mr. O’Donnell has some of the best Irish pubs in Boston.” Principal Green speaks up before checking the clock on the wall. “Well, I think it would be best if Miss Smith returned to her class for the day.”
“Yes,” I say.
Mr. O’Donnell opens his mouth like he wants to say more but closes it, sighing. “Thank ye for the meeting, Green. Good luck on the golf course.”
He strides to the door, only to pause, his hand hovering over the brass knob. He reaches into his suit pocket, pulling out a sheet of paper. Turning, he says, “I almost forgot. Aoife’s permission slip.”
I nod, but he doesn’t move toward me, so I take a few steps to him and hold out my hand. He extends the paper and when I grasp it, he doesn’t let go. I snap my gaze to his.
He smirks, those forest-green irises swirling with gobs of different shades making me feel like I’m lost in them. After several seconds of my wild heart nearly thumping out of my chest, he releases the paper with his perfectly straight signature.
He opens the door, standing there waiting for me to walk through. I do.
Seductive my A-S-S.
* * *
The days following my uncomfortable meeting with Principal Green and Mr. O’Donnell progress slowly. This week must be dragging for more than just me because Shelly pops her head into my classroom after lunch on Wednesday, frantic.
“Please tell me you’ll come out tonight. I’m in desperate need of several shots of the strongest stuff they’ve got.”
I chuckle, glancing over at my students building their Play-Doh shapes. They’ve been great this week. It’s Mr. O’Donnell’s stare and comments saying I look familiar that make me want to drown in a vat of hard liquor. Too bad I don’t drink anymore.
“What about Mark?”
“He’s in. Larry’s going to join us as well. Please, Summer. I need you.” Shelly pulls her simple black frames down her nose and waggles her eyebrows at me.
“Okay, okay. Where are we going?”
“Would you hate me if I said O’Brien’s?”
Yes. Yes, I would. I told her about the meeting with Mr. O’Donnell, and after she pouted about not getting to see, and I quote, “his sexy ass” she laughed at me for my reprimand. If you can call it that. Pretty sure Principal Green just wanted to appease Mr. O’Donnell since he’s a man of influence and on the board. Which further irritates me, but whatever.
“Listen, he probably won’t even be there for you to awkwardly run into.”
I sigh. “Fine. Sounds good. I’ll meet you in the lobby after we wrap up the day. You’re going to feed me, right?”
“O’Brien’s has some of the best food in Beacon Hill. Of course I’d never deprive you of food.”
Shelly ducks out, and I stand from my desk to walk over and observe each of the student’s shapes they were asked to put together. I pause at Aoife, looking down at this little girl, who, come to think of it, looks nothing like her father. Different eyes, different hair. Her face is rounder and soft. Add to that her charming and inclusive personality—the exact opposite of Mr. O’Donnell.
She turns to glance up at me, lifting her Play-Doh square. “Is this right, Miss Summer?”
“Yes. Looks great!” I smile.
Her blue eyes sparkle, and it makes my meeting with her father and the principal worth it. She’s excited about our field trip next week. While I never want to judge the parents of my students—I know fathers like Mr. O’Donnell, and I’m glad I said something.
She jumped up and down, then tossed herself in my arms when I mentioned her dad had brought the permission slip in. Her tiny frame clinging so tight to me melted my heart.
I step back from their tables, glancing at the clock to signal the start of our learning station rotation: art, dramatic play, and technology. I spent two weeks building a lemonade stand out of kitchen appliance cardboard boxes I fished out of the trash. It’s painted in yellows and pinks, plus a teal-blue plastic picnic table. It’s part of the dramatic play station and I’m pretty sure it’s the one all the kids look forward to. iPads aren’t even a contender anymore.
The rest of the afternoon hurries by, and though my feet are killing me, I pull on my coat and boots to meet Shelly in the lobby.
“Nice boots,” she deadpans when she sees me coming.
I shake my head. Shelly isn’t wearing boots, despite a couple of inches of snow on the ground. Nope. Instead, she’s swapped into taller heels than before and traded her dress pants for a short black dress that hugs her curves.
“You look nice.”
She grins. Then wrinkles her nose at my puffy coat and faux fur boots. “Gotta look the part if you want to get the guy.”
I stiffen. “What guy?”
“Relax. I only meant a guy,” Shelly says while stepping backward toward the exit. “Come on. We’ll take my car.”
Smirking, I follow her and chuckle at the way she says car. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to the full-on Boston accent. Shelly grew up here, in the heart of downtown. She’s been my personal tour guide to this city.
Shelly’s white Subaru is one of the few vehicles left in the Academy’s parking lot. She leaps between slushy puddles, trying to avoid drenching her heels. I, however, plow right through them. There may have once been a time when I wore only stilettos and steered clear of messing up name-brand outfits, but now …
“H-E-L-L. I’m ready for some warmer weather,” she says, unlocking the car.
I nod while opening the door and sliding inside. Shelly starts the car, then fiddles with the knobs to crank up the heat; even my butt starts to warm. It makes me want to sit back and take a nap.
The drive to Beacon Hill isn’t too far and during every other season, other than winter, it’s a joy to walk. It’s not long before we’re on the narrow hilly streets that make up most of the community.
I’d love to live here. Something about the old carriage houses turned into car ports. Or the treelined roads creating a scene like a town from a storybook. Unfortunately, you have to have money to live here, and I do not.
We pull off to a side street and pay for the metered parking. Shelly hooks her arm through mine, and we walk down the sloppy sidewalk. A bunch of chatter rings out from a few other establishments along the way, but the loudest is the slurring of voices and Irish music pouring out of none other than O’Brien’s.
Shelly stops abruptly, inhaling the air. Nothing like sucking in sweet sweat and stale beer. I roll my eyes and she elbows me.
“Someday you might appreciate this smell.” She giggles and drags me inside.
Everything gets louder and louder with each step into the bar. But despite the noise, the bar is surprisingly warm and inviting.
It’s all wood tones and low lighting. Vintage signs, old photographs, and Irish memorabilia hang all over the walls. Reminds me of my past oddly enough. But where that’s muddled with fear and detestable events, this feels tight-knit—family focused and almost enjoyable.
“Booth or bar?” Shelly asks. “Personally, I prefer the bar. Lizzy always keeps the drinks coming.”
I motion forward. “Lead the way.”
We weave through the full tables, and I shoulder off my coat when we finally reach two barstools. Shelly hops onto the seat closer to the door while I slide onto one beside her. Both her hands rub her thighs over her dress, and I fiddle with my hair, causally scanning the clusters of people inside the bar.
Five young men sit on the far end underneath an Irish flag hanging on the wall. They’re rowdy, clinking glasses full of beer, and laughing while ogling some women seated next to them.
“What’ll you have?” A raspy female voice from behind the bar interrupts my staring.
“Oh! Hi, Lizzy. I’ll have a dirty martini,” Shelly says. She slaps her hand on the bar and lets out a teensy whoop when the bartender, apparently named Lizzy, gives her a nod and a wink.
“And for you?” Lizzy sets a napkin down in front of me.
“Club soda, please.”
Shelly side eyes me. “One drink won’t kill you.”
I offer her a thin, tight-lipped smile.
That’s not my experience.
Shelly shrugs off her wool coat, draping it over the barstool next to her. I drum the bar, relishing the slick wood top under the pads of my fingertips. I can’t help but scan the crowd every so often, looking for him .
“—so then I told him I’d only have sex with him if he gave me pizza.”
I blink.
My gaze snaps to Shelly who’s leveling me with a hello, aren’t you listening expression, then she raises her eyebrows into a of course not, which is why I made up something ridiculous to get your attention.
“Sorry. I was just looking to make sure he wasn’t here.”
“Or maybe you’re secretly hoping he is here.” Shelly tips her head forward and grins.
I most certainly am not. “He almost got me fired,” I deadpan, trying to convey how irritable I am. I’m not nervous to see him other than the fact that I’m not convinced I won’t march up to him and punch him in the face. I don’t trust myself.
Mr. O’Donnell being absurdly handsome … that’s just … my luck.
“All right. One dirty martini for you”—Lizzy returns, placing Shelly’s drink in front of her, then she flips her long braid behind her—“and a club soda for you.” She smiles at me. “Going hard tonight, huh?”
Shelly snorts, almost asphyxiating on her drink as she brings it to her mouth. “Believe me. If there was ever a time for stick-up-her-butt Summer to drink it’d be the week your brother complained about her.”
My mouth falls open. “Brother?” I say as Lizzy chuckles.
Shelly takes another gulp of her drink and nods her head up and down. “Yep. Lizzy here is Kieran O’Donnell’s, or as I like to call him Mr. McHotty’s, sister.”
“Half-sister,” Lizzy corrects. “So what’d he do to you?”
“Oh, uh, nothing?—”
“Summer here called your big bro to chew his ass out over not submitting Aoife’s field trip permission slip. He didn’t take too kindly to that and called a meeting with the principal.” Shelly shivers as she forces the last of her drink back.
Lizzy slaps her leg over her black skinny jeans and tilts her head back to laugh. “I’d give anything to have seen his face when you called him out.” She acknowledges an older man sitting at the bar, raising his hand for another. “I’ll be back.” She winks and slides down the long bar to crack open another beer for him.
“Thanks. Thanks a lot,” I say. Leave it to Shelly to avoid telling me Lizzy, Mr. O’Donnell’s sister, works here. He’s annoying, but his sister doesn’t seem that bad, and she’s working at a bar, which means she isn’t a rich snob like him. Still, I find myself watching her and scanning the pub for him.
Shelly shrugs. “No problem.”
I take a sip of my club soda, and the bubbles tickle my tongue while Shelly tells me all about her online dating life. She goes into detail about all her recent matches and then shares the pro and con lists for two of the guys she’s been on dates with. There’s something about watching Shelly’s mouth move a mile a minute, never letting me get a word in edgewise that makes me smile.
No doubt I appreciate her friendship.
Two more drinks in and Shelly is now chatting up the guy who sat down next to her. He almost sat on her coat, but she flung her hand out and he sat on that instead. Cheeks redder than brick, he apologized, and Shelly took that as an invitation to flirt shamelessly with him for the next twenty minutes.
I twirl the red stir stick in my drink back and forth between my thumb and pointer finger trying not to eavesdrop on the conversation taking place next to me. Honestly, the guy seems a bit reserved for Shelly. She dominates the conversation, but he smiles at her, and the way his face lights up makes me believe it’s a genuine one.
With my club soda almost empty, I glance down the bar to gesture Lizzy for a refill when a group of three men enter from the back of the restaurant. They’re standing in an archway I assume leads back to the employees only area, or maybe the restrooms.
There, head tilted back with a smile wider than I’ve seen before, is Mr. O’Donnell.
I try.
Oh man, I try so hard to look away. To go back to my search for Lizzy, but I’m captured—maybe more like ensnared by his mannerisms. His smile feels effortless, like he’s used to laughing with these men. Like he trusts them enough to open up.
I glance down, studying his dark blue jeans and dark green button up covered by a caramel-colored jacket. A bracelet peeks through his sleeve, but I can’t quite make out what it is.
I wonder if he’s leaving for the night. Who does Aoife stay with when he’s here? Immediately, I think of her nanny, because of course it would be the nanny.
Shaking my head, I lift my gaze one last time to glimpse another one of his wide smiles—only I’m met with pursed lips and narrowed eyes that burn right through me.
I whip my head back around to stare at the twenty bottles of whiskey on the shelves in front of me. My heart thumps wildly in my chest at the notion I was just caught ogling the man. I don’t know why I was. I can’t stand him.
Keeping my head trained ahead, I wait, turning just enough to see he’s no longer there. With that, I let out a sigh, ditch the thin straw and take a satisfying swig of my drink, or what’s left of it.
“Ah, ye’re drinking on a school night, Miss Smith?”
I freeze, glass still tipped back, and I part my lips letting the rest of the ice flood my mouth. Jeez, it’s cold.
There, to my right, is Mr. O’Donnell standing with a smug smirk on his chiseled face. Like he’s just caught me doing something I’m not supposed to. Except there aren’t any rules about teachers going out for a drink on a school night.
Sure, it may look bad to the parent of my student who happens to own the bar, but it’s not like I’m drinking.
Right?
Oh jeez.
Finally, the glob of ice in my mouth melts. “I’m not drinking,” I say flatly.
I mean, he’s making money off of Shelly and I. Plus, if Mark and Larry ever show up, I’m sure they’ll purchase drinks, too. We’re giving him business; he shouldn’t give me grief.
Mr. O’Donnell pulls out the barstool next to me, and I discreetly fumble with my left hand, trying to grab at Shelly. Unfortunately, I’m hitting empty air.
“Mr. O’Donnell?—”
“Kieran,” he corrects, and I wince.
“Um, Kieran,” I start, and I watch his jaw tick and his nostrils flare. “I can assure you I’m not drinking tonight. Just out for a bit with my coworker.”
As if on cue, Shelly cackles to my left still oblivious to Mr. O’D—Kieran having plopped down next to me. Traitor.
“Relax. Just having a bit of fun with ye.” He smiles, and I think I’ve lost my ability to blink because all I can do is stare. But then I register what he said.
“Relax?” I huff. “Sure you don’t want to try to get me fired over coming to a bar on a school night?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “Aren’t ye a feisty wee thing.”
I shake my head, turn away from him, and trace the rim of my empty glass with my finger. Jeez.
It’s strange. A club or bar used to be where I felt most myself all those years ago. But now … I couldn’t feel less comfortable.
Lizzy approaches, and I grab for my glass to lift it in offering for another, but a hand grazes mine, and I realize Kieran has also reached for my glass. I pull my hand away. His fingertips seared onto my skin with the simple touch. It feels like I’ve been zapped.
Actually, that’s exactly it. He must’ve shocked me.
Except, when I glance at him, he’s staring down at where his hand grips my glass, wide-eyed.
Well, it wasn’t my fault.
“Another one?” Lizzy asks.
“She’ll have another. On the house,” Kieran answers for me.
Lizzy winks. “Coming right up, Boss.”
I suck in a breath at the word.
Boss.
Pressure builds on my chest, and I grimace. Not now. Not now , I chide myself.
The sounds around me fade in and out, and I swear the room gets smaller.
“Summer,” Kieran says. A warm hand splays on my lower back and I turn to see he’s leaned in closer to my ear. “Ye all right?”
No. I’m not. I’m teetering on the verge of a panic attack, and I hate how tiny words can be such large triggers. I can’t let him know this. The last thing I need is for Mr. O’Donnell to take issue with me over something and get it in his head that I’m unfit to teach my students.
So I roll my shoulders and look dead into his penetrating eyes. “What is it you say?” I muster my most convincing accent. “I’ll be grand.”