16. Summer
Chapter 16
Summer
I step back from the bolted door after the footsteps on the stairs stop and the door to outside shuts. My heart still gallops as fast as it did when I first heard the knock at my door.
Kieran was the last person I expected to show up at my door. And with stew?
I move back to the counter, grab my bowl, and take another bite. It’s seriously some of the best food I’ve ever tasted. I’m not unexperienced with fancy cuisine, but this dish could rival some of the finest caviar.
The stew is hearty and savory, the lamb tender, and the potatoes softened to perfection. I want to cry. I’ve been living on canned SpaghettiOs and Oreos for the past couple of days. This homemade dish, made soul reviving because of who brought it, is warm and replenishing in my belly. Now, I want a nap.
Scooting to the bed, I pick up Deuce and dump him into the rumpled sheets. My face heats as I remember Kieran’s words.
Ye want me in yer bed?
He was picking on me. Making fun of the fact I scrambled to clean up the tissue mess I’d been hoarding while watching House Hunters .
I smile. Thinking of him in his refined suit bringing stew to my door. I let out a nasally laugh that turns into a high-pitched honk, which scares Deuce right off the bed.
Jeez. I’m a mess. To think he saw me in this disastrous state.
I shake my head, crawling into bed and clicking the TV back on.
It doesn’t matter. A man like him would never be interested in someone like me. I’m sure he thinks I’m immature, flighty—all things someone with his experience wouldn’t want. All things I used to be.
But I’m not that anymore.
I snuggle down under my duvet, socks sticking to the flannel sheets, and wonder what type of woman would make Kieran happy?
* * *
The next week back at school is exhausting, so I’m grateful for the half-day Friday today. Granted, I have some planning to do, which is why they’ve scheduled this, but because I’m a preschool teacher, I’m finished in about two hours.
Having skipped lunch, and with most of the snow melted off the sidewalks, I decide a walk to grab some food might do me good. There’s a decent number of family-owned shops and cafes not too far from the school. Oddly enough, I have a hankering for stew.
I grab my coat, thinking about the O’Brien’s food. I can’t walk there, so it’s no use mulling over it, but I do think about Kieran. About how I haven’t seen him since he showed up at my apartment while I was death warmed over. About how he stood in my tiny apartment like a giant, looking exceptional in his black suit and worming his way into my lonely heart.
A block or so into my walk, I shuck off my coat. Between the shining sun and less frigid weather, I’m beginning to work up a sweat.
Puddles and wet patches riddle the sidewalk despite the still chilly air. Warmth seeps in with the promise of milder winter days that’ll eventually turn into first flowers and buds on trees. I can’t wait for summer.
As I round the block, I’m reminded of the little Italian bakery that sits on the corner. Dolce Amore . Such a cliché name, but their pastries are to die for. And … they bring back memories.
It seems today I have a hankering to dive down the rabbit hole of emotion, so I chuck out my previous plan of a healthy salad and opt for a cannoli instead.
The little bakery has a brick exterior that clashes with the quaint cobblestone street. The green awning has Dolce Amore written across it, and winter has left the tiny flower boxes empty, but the smell of fresh bread and pastries already trickles from the shop.
A miniature sign hanging on the door says open, and I’m so focused on the delicate crisp shell stuffed with velvety ricotta cream that I bump right into a man also reaching for the door.
“Oh gosh! I’m so sorry. I?—”
I glance up at the tall man and want to shoot myself in the foot.
“Mr. O’Donnell,” I say. What the heck? “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
Except now I am. With his eyebrows raised above those intense emerald-like eyes, a silent shudder pulses through me. I swear this man is more attractive each time I see him.
He’s dressed fairly casually, a sturdy wool sweater under a tweed sport coat complemented with dark wash jeans and leather boots.
I internally cringe at the indigo wide-legged romper I wore today with black flats that are crispy with salt spots.
I shuffle my coat in front of my body and the corner of his mouth twitches. “I see calling me Kieran is for only when ye’re sick.”
My cheeks heat. I reach for the door handle again, at the same time he does, again . We bump shoulders and he grunts.
“Are ye really not going to let me open the door for ya.”
“Or maybe you should just say ladies first,” I say, fisting the handle but struggling to pull the door open. It’s then I realize the palm of his hand is planted on the door. Is he pushing?
“Thought all the lasses wanted treated equal these days?”
I narrow my eyes at him, and he lets his hand fall from the door. But before I can move to open it, he does. With the door now ajar, he gestures for me to go inside.
Soft music plays, and the warm lighting blended with the rich wood highlights some of the most decadent Italian treats. Makes me want to curl up into a cozy ball and stuff my face.
I walk to the counter where two other people are ahead of me. Glancing over my shoulder, Kieran strolls behind me, hands tucked into his pockets. He catches me looking at him and gives me a smirk. His tightly shaved beard looks like it would be rough, and the thought caresses something low in my belly.
Annoyed at myself, I ask, “Buying something sweet to try and balance out that personality of yours?”
He stares at me, and I swallow. “Ye always this pleasant, or is it just for me?”
“Oh, I save it all for you.” I let a grin spread across my lips, because I can’t help it.
He smiles back at me, and suddenly it’s too hot in here.
“—can I get you, ma’am?”
I jump at the women behind the counter who’s waiting for me to order, and I spin, ordering my cannoli with one to-go because life’s too short to only have one.
“And for you, sir?”
“Oh, no we aren’t?—”
“I’ll have the tiramisu and a cannoli to-go,” he says, standing right next to me. “And a bottle of water. Make that two.”
I open my mouth then close it before I reach down into my teacher tote for my wallet, but Kieran’s already handing the lady a black card before I can find the thing.
“I—let me get you cash,” I say, slightly frazzled. Why did he do that? I step to the side, one arm still blindly searching for my buried wallet. Where is it?
A strong hand dwarfs my bicep, and Kieran leans into me, mouth hovering near my ear. My breath catches in my throat, and my heart erupts with how close he is. I do everything to avert my eyes, but ultimately, they search him out.
“I don’t want yer cash, Summer,” he whispers.
Mouth dry, I lick my lips and watch his nostrils flare in response as he steps back, releasing my arm.
The room is suddenly brighter and louder. I scramble for something to break this spiraling feeling. “So, how does an Irish man, who owns too many restaurants to count, end up at an Italian bakery?”
He lets out a gravelly chuckle, rough and unrefined. It twists up my stomach. Jeez .
“Lizzy, my sister. She gave me the tip. I’ve never had better tiramisu.”
Our order is ready and at the customer pickup, but I linger not wanting this conversation with Kieran to end. What he does next surprises me.
He tilts his head over toward an empty two-person table and I nod, unable to help the swooping dip in my belly at his gesture. As I follow him to the table, the idea that he may want to spend time with me festers somewhere deep inside of me.
We sit in the flimsy iron chairs, and I tuck my cannoli to-go off to the side to focus on the one in front of me. Kieran digs into his dessert while I take a bite of mine. I must suck in a breath when the powdered sugar hits my tongue because I cough up a lung into my sleeve.
“Here. Drink this.” Kieran breaks the top of one of the bottled waters and places it in my hand. I drink it—guzzle it, really.
“Thank you. Sorry,” I say, grimacing.
Lifting the cannoli back to my mouth I take a bite, and my eyelids nearly flutter closed. Kieran turns away to look out the window.
“I used to get one of these after every tennis match,” I say.
That seems to pique his interest. “Ye play tennis?”
“I did. Not anymore.”
He takes a bite, chewing while he studies me. “Why don’t ye anymore?”
“I moved and lost interest.” It’s strange how the lie slips past my lips so easily. “Have you ever played?”
“Only when Finn makes me.”
I grin. I’m enjoying this, the subtle conversation. Wanting more of it, I fight the urge to ask him all the questions: How did you get into the restaurant business? What do you and Aoife do for fun? Are you seeing someone?
Actually … scratch that last one. I’m not sure I want to know.
I trace the reddish-brown tussles that float along his forehead, finding a scar above his right eyebrow that disappears into his hair.
A vibrating sound comes from his coat pocket, and when he answers it, he goes quiet.
“Aye,” he says, hanging up after a few seconds.
I nibble at my lip.
“Unfortunately, I’ve been called in for a meeting.”
I half shake, half nod my head like a crazy person. “Oh, uh, yeah. No, totally get it.”
He stands to return his plate to the counter, then comes back to the table to pick up his boxed cannoli.
“Thank you for the cannolis,” I say. “They’re my favorite.”
“Aoife’s, too,” he says. “She’ll go mad over this tonight.”
I laugh until Kieran places a hand on my shoulder, offering a light squeeze. “Have a good night, Summer.”
Then leaves. And I’m burning. I lean forward and drag my hand over my face. Smooth, Summer. Smooth.
I gather my things, determined not to wait too late to get home or miss the earlier train when my phone dings. I take it out, seeing a new message from an unknown number.
You can’t hide anymore.
I freeze, staring at my phone, then blinking I quickly scan around looking for someone. There’s an older woman in the corner working on her laptop and sipping coffee, seemingly unfazed by me. A man reads the newspaper in the corner.
Someone is watching me, someone?—
Another ding.
I wipe my clammy hands over my linen jumper and turn the phone over to look.
We know who you are.
Pure terror overwhelms me along with the immediate desire to flee, run .
I delete the messages, unable to stand them taunting me, and jam my phone back into my bag. Rushing to leave the shop, I force the door open, inhaling a deep breath of cold air.
Think, Summer. Think.
An Uber. That’s the first leg. Continue on the green train to the final stop. Then I’ll transfer to the red line and loop back to the school. After that, I’ll have to fork out the money for another Uber to a hotel.
I go over the plan in my head while pulling a silk scarf from my bag and covering my head with it. It’s not sunny, but I grab my sunglasses anyway and walk the four blocks to meet my ride. It’s going to be a long night.